Give All to Love (13 page)

“By Jove, but it is! We must have a celebration!” Devenish ushered his friend to a chair and asked a hovering footman to request that Miss Storm join them as soon as she came downstairs. The afternoon was cold, with leaden skies and a hint of rain in the air. A fire had been lit on the oversized hearth and roared merrily up the chimney, brightening the enormous drawing room. It was necessary, however, that one sit quite close to the hearth if any benefit was to be gained from the blazing logs, and Guy held his frail hands to the warmth.

There had been three Sanguinet brothers. Claude, the elder, had been obsessed with power and had commanded the wealth to augment his dreams with a plot to seize control of the throne of England. His person had not been impressive, for his height was not remarkable and, although he had always been elegant, his looks were nothing out of the way, save for a pair of light brown eyes that had seemed when he was angered to take on a red glow. His colouring had been sallow, and his hair the same jet black as that of his favourite brother, Parnell. The second born, Parnell had early earned the sobriquet Monsieur Diabolique. His looks had been as striking as Claude's were ordinary, his thick hair slightly curling, the clear skin seeming almost stretched over finely chiselled features, the mouth full-lipped and sensual, and the strange, pale eyes excessively brilliant. His preference to wear black tended to impart a Satanic look that accorded well with a disposition of such unrestrained lust and cruelty that several times Claude had been obliged to intervene lest he be clapped up in Bedlam.

Guy, the youngest, bore little resemblance to his brothers, save that he, too, was not above average height. More sturdily built and fair complected than either Claude or Parnell, his hair was a rich brown, his eyes a friendly hazel, and his features regular. The product of his father's second marriage, he had soon been informed by Claude that the wedding ceremony had been a fraud, and that he was permitted to exist as one of the mighty Sanguinets only out of his sire's charity. His young life had been a nightmare, but he had endured it until Claude had launched his ruthless thrust for power. Mitchell Redmond and Charity Strand had been trapped in his brother's Hebridean fortress, and Guy had risked his own life to get them away. All three had managed to escape, but later, when Claude had been about to shoot down Tristram Leith, Guy had leapt between them. Claude, enraged, had not diverted his shot, and for months Guy had been paralyzed. Gradually, he had regained the use of one arm and, almost a year later, the other. He never complained and no one knew how much it cost him, but he had doggedly persisted in having his useless limbs exercised until, two years after he was wounded, he had at last managed to stand. He had begun to drag himself about on crutches, and if his friends saw the exhaustion in the shadowed eyes and ached with sympathy for his wasted life, Guy was elated and would urge them to mark his progress. “Keep you on at your sparring and riding and the foils,” he would say gaily. “For very soon now, this wicked Frenchman he will challenge you all!”

At thirty-nine, he was far less the invalid than he had been, although he was still too thin, but he was the only survivor of the brothers. Parnell had been shot by an unknown assailant while attempting a brutal murder, and Claude had succumbed to the poison he had intended for the Prince Regent. Had it not been for Guy, his brother's ruthless schemes might very well have succeeded—a prospect Devenish did not care to even think about, but because it had been judged necessary to suppress the story of Claude's plotting, Guy's valour had never been made public. Despite all efforts, rumours had spread, and his name now brought him contempt and loathing. ‘And the Lord only knows,' thought Devenish apprehensively, ‘what the end will be.'

Guy glanced at him curiously. “You are very quiet,
mon cher.
Where is our ray of sunshine? She have not again go away, I trust?”

“Josie's upstairs. Lord, but I wish Lyon
had
come with you.”

“
Tiens!
She is not ill?”

“Heaven forbid! But we've a sick man in the house. The Squire.”

“Little? Here? This indeed is a strange thing!”

“Yes, a most wretched train of events. I chanced to be of some small service to his sister, a charming widow lady, and Little came charging over here to thank me.”

Perplexed, Guy murmured, “I do not see how…?”

“He fell over Lady Godiva. Thought he'd broke his back. It turned out he hadn't, but he gave it a severe sprain and we've been told he mustn't be moved for a week or two. The old grimphiz is beside himself with rage, which ain't helping him recover.”

“If he decide to fall over Josie's pet pig, I fail to understand that for this he can hold you to blame.”

Devenish stood and went over to kick at the logs. “To tell the truth,” he admitted with a guilty grin, “I'd been rather baiting the old cawker. Well—not baiting, exactly. I'd thrown a rug over Lady Godiva because she was cold. Completely forgot about her, and when Little spotted her, I was so dashed embarrassed, I said she was a dog. I'd convinced him she was a Tasmanian Devil, and he was standing on a chair when—”

“Guy!” cried Josie, her joyful greeting cutting through the Frenchman's laughter.

Guy slipped his crutch under one arm, struggled to his feet, and swept her into a hug. “Let me look at you,” he said fondly, scanning her bright face and all the glowing vibrant youth of her. She pirouetted for him, the wide skirts of her peach silk gown swirling. The low neckline was trimmed with tiny rosettes of cream satin, a peach velvet ribbon held back her glossy curls, and about her throat was the pearl pendant Devenish had presented to her when she'd completed her studies.
“Délicieuse,”
he said admiringly. “Truth it is that you are lovelier each time I see you,
mon petit chou.
”

She kissed his cheek and danced across to Devenish.

“Hello, little one,” he said, his eyes holding the tender light that shone only for her. “Glad you could join the old crocks.”

It was the term by which he and Guy styled themselves, but it had never won favour in her eyes. She said pertly, “
You
may be an old crock, my poor Dev, but only look at our Guy! Isn't he splendid?”

Guy threw her an elaborate bow, lost his equilibrium, and had to grab for the chair. He lowered himself into it, laughing up at them.

“Never mind about turning his head,” said Devenish, his heart easing down from his throat as Guy leaned back in the chair. “We've a celebration, Josie m'dear. You tell her, Guy. He's your son.”

“And would like to be yours, also,” said Guy, with a mischievous glance at the blushing girl. “But of this I must not speak. Well,
Mademoiselle,
what do you think? Our Lyon has go to London. To
perform
the surgery
trés difficile!
”

“Old Belmont asked for him especially,” put in Devenish.

Josie gave a squeal of excitement and jumped up and down, clapping her hands. “I knew it! I always knew it! He is so clever, and has done so
well!
Oh, Guy—how
proud
you must be!”

Devenish poured two glasses of wine and one of ratafia, and they toasted the absent Lyon, and then sat together around the blazing fire while Guy told Josie all over again how it had come about. “He has the
hands,
Belmont say,” he finished. “Is a God-given gift.”

“It is, indeed,” she agreed. “Such a talented pair of hands to serve those in need!” And after a brief, comfortable pause, she said dreamily, “Do you remember when I used to tell Dev he had the Rat Paws, because he has such an amazing power with animals?”

They all chuckled, recalling that childish designation. Devenish said, “And it was you, Guy, who finally realized she was speaking French, and that the expression she had not perfectly recollected was not Rat Paws, but
rapport!
”

“As well as if it were yesterday,” said Guy. “Indeed this, it sometime seem like yesterday. And is long ago. Yet we are no closer to discovering who really is our
très belle jeune fille.
”

The door opened abruptly. Cornish entered, looking glum and dishevelled. “You best come, guv,” he said baldly.

Devenish stood, frowning. “Little?”

“And loud,” said his unorthodox footman with a wry nod. “Miss Fletcher was feeding 'is nibs 'is soup too 'ot like, and 'e yowled at 'er like wot 'e does and scared 'er so she knocked over the bowl. All over 'is stummick. Lor'—to 'ear 'im yell, you'd think 'e was bein' boiled!”

“Oh dear!” Josie jumped up. “I must go. I am sorry, but I'll come back as soon as I can—no, please don't get up, Guy.”

She went out with the footman, Devenish watching them worriedly.

Guy said gently, “You should perhaps go also, Alain. This Sir William he is not the most
pacifique
of men.”

“By God, but he's not. I wish his sister would come, but apparently she went off to visit an aunt for a day or so. Guy, you'll think us very shabby mannered, but—I don't want Little screaming at the Elf, so if you'll forgive me…”

Guy said with mock indignation that he hoped he was sufficient of a friend to be “at home,
parfaitment,
” and Devenish hurried out. For a moment Guy gazed after him, pondering the chat he'd had with Leith concerning their unpredictable friend, then he retrieved his crutch and hobbled across the room. It was a pleasant chamber, the furnishings gracefully unostentatious, the rug an excellent example of Persian craftsmanship, and the colour scheme of warm beiges and browns, with splashes of orange here and there, brightening a cold autumn afternoon. At the rear, three pairs of French doors opened onto the broad terrace, matching those of the ballroom in the west wing. Outside, the rain was now coming down steadily, and he wandered over to look out at the gardens. He was intrigued, a moment later, to see a grey horse dash up the drivepath and a woman dismount, toss the reins to a running stableboy, and hasten towards the steps.

It was ridiculous, of course, but he was seized by the longing just once to meet someone without appearing a cripple. He retreated with reckless haste to the long table that backed the sofa, perched against it, and whipped the crutch underneath and out of sight. Luckily, a book lay open on the table, and he snatched it up a second before the door burst open.

As though taken by surprise, he glanced to the young woman who trod quickly into the room.

“Pray excuse my informal arrival, sir.” Obviously much agitated, she came to hold out her hand. “I am Mrs. Bliss. I believe my brother is here?”

Her habit was soaked and her red hair straggled damply, but he thought her quite lovely with her intelligent grey eyes, her beautiful English skin, and her lack of affectation. Clasping her cold hand, he said, “How do you do,
Madame?
I am a guest, which is of
peu d'importance.
Your brother lies up the stairs and is, I assure you, the best of care receiving.”

She was as intrigued by his thin, sensitive face and French accent as she was affronted by the fact that he had not stood up when she offered her hand. She was long past her schooldays, of course, and must look a fright, but one would think he could at least observe the simple courtesies. She thought with a flood of impatience, ‘And what nonsense to be worrying about so stupid a thing!' She was the youngest of six children, and fifteen years Sir William's junior, but he was her only surviving brother, and despite his rather irascible disposition, she was deeply attached to him. All she had been told upon returning to Oak Manor was that he had suffered a bad accident and she was urgently needed at Devencourt. Now, hesitating, she asked, “Do you know what happened? How badly is he hurt?”

Unable to escort her, and miserably caught in this trap of his own making, Guy was aware that she must judge his manners execrable. Embarrassed, he blundered, “Devenish said they thought his back it was broken—”

Before he could finish the sentence Mrs. Bliss whitened and with a little shocked cry started for the door. He grasped her arm. “Wait,
s'il vous plaît!
This, it is—”

But, frantic, she tore free and ran towards the door.

Guy, having leaned too far, was thrown off balance and fell heavily.

Mrs. Bliss heard the crash. Glancing over her shoulder, she checked, amazed to see the Frenchman sprawled on the floor. She started to stammer apologies, while waiting for him to get up, a process that appeared to cause him a surprising degree of difficulty. Bewildered, she saw him twist around and reach under the table. He kept his face turned away, but as he retrieved the crutch, he slanted a glance at her. His face was crimson and he looked utterly humiliated. Her heart fluttered oddly. She flew back to kneel beside him, and said with her warm smile, “I am so glad this is why you did not stand when I came in. I thought you fancied me so horrid a sight I did not warrant your courtesy.”

It was the last thing he had expected her to say. And she was neither making frantic efforts to help him stand, nor babbling her remorse for having caused him to fall. His agony of embarrassment faded. He said, indicating his crutch, “I am a little the disabled one, you see.”

“Yes. Was it from birth? Or the war?”

Amused by her frankness, he hesitated, picturing her horror was he equally frank. “It was,” he replied, “a—sort of war. And the thing important, Madame Bliss, is that your brother has not the broken back. A bad sprain, merely. Devenish and Miss Storm, they are with him now.”

“Oh, thank heaven!” She gave a deep sigh of relief. “Sir William can be tiresome, you know, but I am rather short of brothers, and should purely hate to lose him.” She stood, smoothing her habit. “I fancy,” she added with a twinkle, “that poor Devenish and Miss Storm will be not at all reluctant to lose him, however! I must go up.” Hesitating, she ventured tentatively, “I expect you would prefer I not offer to help. People who have to endure such a nuisance are usually so very proud.”