Give All to Love (36 page)

With a toss of her curls and a defiant glance at the girl who stood in stunned silence, Isabella snatched up her gown and flounced into the adjoining room, slamming the door behind her.

Fontaine strode to the bed and frowned down at Devenish, who was still propped on one elbow and peering blearily about. “Well, sir?” demanded his lordship. “Has my sister the straight of it? Or are you too far in your cups to know whether you offered or not?”

With difficulty, Devenish managed a slurred, “Wouldn' dream 'f … contra—dict'n … lady.”

The appalled Drummond plucked at Josie's pelisse. “Come, m'dear ma'am. No business here. Best get out of this.” He took her resistless hand and led her to the door, where he paused to direct an aghast look at the Viscount. “Very sorry, Fontaine.”

Fontaine came to drop a gentle hand on Josie's shoulder. “I am sorry, too,” he said, and opened the door.

Speechless, grief-stricken, Josie allowed John Drummond to lead her down the stairs, and away.

Fontaine closed the door, and paced to stare down at the man now lying motionless on the bed. “Sot,” he muttered, and then, touching his jaw and the bruises that cosmetics barely managed to cover, he chuckled. “Let that be a lesson to you, future brother-in-law. Never twist the tail of a tiger until you're sure the tiger is dead! And this tiger, my fool, is—”

“Have they gone?”

He glanced to the connecting door. “All gone, Madame Sid-dons.”

His sister laughed delightedly. “Was I not superb?” She danced over to the bed and scanned Devenish's unconscious figure with some anxiety. “My poor love! He
is
all right, Taine?”

“I'll not say he will awaken feeling full of
joie de vivre,
but—he will awaken. Now”—he perched on the side of the bed—“tell your dear brother all about it. You were in the parlour when the man I had waiting outside brought him up to Redmond's supposed death bed, correct?”

Isabella did a pirouette, holding out her skirts and looking very lovely. “Yes,” she trilled. “And I said just as you instructed, dearest and best of brothers.”

“That you had been passing through Cirencester, heard of the attack on Redmond, and came here at once. That they had said the doctor was still working on him, but that you could wait in the parlour.”

“Yes. Oh, but he was suspicious at first, love, I could tell. Only, your man was superb and by the time he left—to call in more constables, he said!—I almost believed it myself. I played my part so well! You would have been proud of me.”

He grinned and said not without some truth, “I am usually proud of you, Bella. Now—
you
did not suggest the wine, I hope.”

“No. I merely sat and shivered and said I was feeling so nervous I was quite faint, and then I fell back and closed my eyes, and he fairly ran to bring me a glass of sherry. He was so white!”

“And so he decided to join you in a restoring glass!
Naturellement!
Well done, Bellissima!”

She curtseyed, but then ran to bend over Devenish again. “You are quite sure I didn't use too much of that dreadful stuff? He became helpless so soon, your man could scarce get him in here, and I was afraid he would be unconscious by the time they arrived.”

He shrugged. “Even had he been, you would have contrived, I make no doubt.” He eyed her musingly. “He'll not love you for this, you realize?”

“What matter?” she said airily. “Once I have him, I shall make him love me, sooner or later.” And then, with swift anxiety, “He cannot escape, can he?”

“You know better. A gentleman does not draw back from a betrothal—especially so notoriously conducted a betrothal as this. Devenish is a pest, but as I said before, he is a gentleman. Oh, no, he is properly trapped.” He grinned up at her. “I trust you are sufficiently grateful. I kept my promise.”

“You did, you did! Dearest Taine.” She swooped to kiss him on both cheeks and, drawing back, said curiously, “Why? Not just because you hate him, I think. Is it because it will give you a logical closeness to the girl?”

“Shrewd, aren't you? I mean to have the chit. Though not in the manner I had originally thought.”

Isabella gasped and sat beside him. “Marriage? My heavens, can I believe my ears? Have you come to care for her, then?”

“I have come,” he said with a slow smile, “into the possession of a secret. But you must keep a still tongue in your head, for I am not supposed to know.” She swore to be discreet, and he went on, “Mistress Josie Storm is, it seems, actually Mademoiselle Josephine de Galin, niece to the Chevalier Émile de Galin, and a … considerable heiress. So you see, Bella, in wedding her I kill two birds with one stone. I get the girl I want, and I gain access to her fortune.” He turned, to shake Devenish's arm roughly. “Do you hear, Sir Arrogance? You'll not dare name me an unfit suitor when I am the brother of your wife. Your ward will amuse me for a while, and long before I grow bored with her, I'll have control of her fortune! Sleep well, dear Dev!”

He looked at Isabella, grinning his triumph. She smiled also, but at the back of her smile dwelt a shadow of unease.

*   *   *

She had been so sure, thought Josie dully, that he would come home and tell them it had all been a trap. That the wretched Isabella had made him drunk and had then sent word to the house about the duel, knowing she would come and that Dev would be unable to escape the betrothal. But here he was, smiling at her across the fireplace, and telling her in that easy, pleasant way of his, that he apologized for his conduct, but that he was sure she would not have intruded had she realized he and Bella were betrothed.

The clock struck three, and she stared at it blankly. It had been three this morning when they had brought him home. Uproarious. Cornish and Hutchinson had had to carry him up the stairs. The intervening period was a blank. She could not remember what she had done, save to wander about and try to understand it all and keep praying it was some horrible mistake.

He was watching her. She thought, ‘He looks so ill!' and she said, “Dev—are you sure you are all right? You look—”

He snatched out his handkerchief in time to muffle an explosive sneeze, then groaned, and clutched his head. With a wan smile, he replied, “Too much riotous living, I fear.”

“We were told,” said Pandora Grenfell austerely, “that you were gone to fight Elliot Fontaine. We would not term that—riotous living.”

“Lord, no. Some idiot playing a practical joke on that fool Finlayson.”

“We see no humour in the—joke,” said Mrs. Grenfell, eyeing him with a cold, dispassionate stare.

“No,” said Devenish, lifting a trembling hand to his head. “Well, there you are. Thing is—I was—er, celebrating on two counts, y'see.” He took a sheet of paper from the table beside him. “I've some very wonderful news for you, little one.”

Josie stared at him blankly. What could be wonderful now?

“There's nothing to stop your marriage to young Drummond,” he said heartily. “This letter is from the Chevalier de Galin.” He put it down again and looked fixedly at the toe of her slipper. “I did not tell you, for fear of—of a later disappointment. When the Chevalier collapsed on the night of your ball, it was because he had seen
you,
Josie, and you—reminded him of someone he had loved very dearly.”

Intrigued, despite her unhappiness, she leaned forward. “Is that why he came back that day?”

“Yes, dear. He told me a very sad tale, but briefly, he believes you are his long-lost niece, the child of his dead brother.”

Her heart began to pound madly. The Chevalier? Her
uncle?
Was it possible? She put a hand to her throat, scarcely able to breathe.

Mrs. Grenfell, shocked out of her imperturbability, cried, “Why—this is stupendous news! Are you
sure?
Is there any proof?”

His eyes fixed on Josie's flushed, incredulous little face, he said, “The Chevalier writes that there is no longer any room for doubt. He says he must go to his mama's chateau at Orleans and will then come here. He is—quite overjoyed, I need not tell you.”

Josie was on her feet, her hands clasped, her eyes like stars. “Is it true? Oh, is it really true? I
belong
somewhere? I have a
family?
”

Pandora slanted a quick look at Devenish, but his face still bore that fond smile. She stood and embraced the ecstatic girl. “If it is true, my dear child, you have a very proud old family, a great name, and—”

“And are a considerable heiress,” Devenish put in, coming to his feet but keeping a steadying hand on the back of his chair.

Josie stilled, the joy fading from her eyes. She watched him for a moment, a little frown coming to pull at her brows. “I see,” she said thoughtfully. But joy would not be banished. She danced over to him and gripped his arm. “Dev, dearest Dev! Are you not happy for my sake? Say you are happy!”

“Of course, my Elf,” he said, and swept her into a hug.

“And—say my name,” she demanded, as he groped rather blindly for his chair again.

“You are Mademoiselle Josephine de Galin,” he said, bowing unsteadily.

She gave a scream of excitement.

Devenish groaned, and clutched his head.

*   *   *

“It is a calamity!” Mrs. Grenfell leaned back in the chair to which Guy had ushered her. She accepted the glass of sherry he brought her, and waited while he supplied himself with some Madeira and made his slow way across the quiet drawing room of his charming house to settle himself on an adjacent sofa. Sipping her wine, she regarded him solemnly. “You know of the betrothal?”

“
Oui, Madame.
My valet—how is this saying?—the servants' semaphore? I confess myself
étonné!
”

“We
all
are amazed,” she agreed dryly. “Firstly, that Devenish—who was always wild, you understand, but who my brother Alastair Tyndale made sure was properly bred up—would be so—crudely vulgar. Secondly, that he has confirmed his depravity and appears well satisfied with his choice.”

Guy frowned at the amber glow projected through his wine by a ray of sunlight. “Josie—she was present to hear this announcement?”

She inclined her head regally. “And quite obviously shattered.”

“And Alain? He have seem—er, quite himself?”

Her lip curled. She said with distaste, “He was suffering the effects of over-indulgence. Besides which he has managed to catch a bad cold and looked quite ill, in point of fact. But he was—jubilant is the word that comes to mind.”

“Because of this so unexpected betrothal?”

“Unexpected? Hmmnn. Perhaps not that, my dear Guy. The creature has pursued him with singleminded determination this year and more. However—I have not told you the second development. When Devenish at last was sufficiently recovered to make an appearance, he read us a letter from Monsieur le Chevalier de Galin. It appears that the Chevalier believes Josie to be the long-lost daughter of his late brother.”

“Tiens!”
he gasped, jerking upright. “And Mitchell, he think de Galin came to ask for her hand! He is her—
uncle?
This, it is proven of the certain?”

“So we are told. Also, that she is a considerable heiress.”

“What a thing
merveilleux!
She is much excited?”

“Very much. Devenish feels she will wed our nephew Drummond.”

His heart sank. So poor Lyon still was not the favoured one. But that, it would not have been the case in any event. “Things they have happen very fast,
Madame.
Sir Martin will approve the match now that Josie is the heiress.”

She said with some hauteur, “We cannot think Sir Martin would be influenced by such a vulgar consideration.”

“
Mais non!
Forgive this clumsy fellow—I should not have speak these things!”

She relented, smiling into his flushed face. “The situation has changed admittedly, in that her birth is now impeccable, and her lineage such as to make her an eligible wife for any—” It was her turn to redden as Guy looked fixedly at the fireplace. “Ah…! But how thoughtless! We crave your pardon. In view of your own situation…!” She took up her reticule. “We should not have come.”

He leaned forward. “Please,
Madame,
do not go. There is not the need. I have accept that my own—situation, as you call it, is quite hopeless.”

“We do not see that.” She put down her reticule and took up her empty glass with a faint glinting smile.

Returning the smile, Guy hobbled over to refill her glass and his own. “Do you say you see some hope for us,
Madame?
” he asked ruefully, replacing the decanter. “I wish I might do so.”

“You will excuse if we are gauche. This is a modern age,
Monsieur.
Does a gentleman know his way about, there is not the need for a continuance of the Sanguinet name.”

Despite himself, his jaw dropped. Mrs. Grenfell regarded him calmly, and as he eased himself onto the sofa once more, she said, for once dropping the royal “we,” “I am a large and intimidating old woman. When I was a large young woman I was also considered a beauty. But I think I have never been held to be a widgeon.” She gave him a slow and deliberate wink, and beamed as he was briefly convulsed with laughter. “Well?” she said.

He recovered himself somewhat, and said unsteadily, “I think that you are a rascal,
Madame.
” He reached across to take her hand and added gravely, “But the rascal
très déliceux.
”

She smiled at him, her eyes very fond. He clung very tightly to the arm of the sofa and contrived to press a kiss on her fingers, then leaned back. “You will think me also gauche, I fear, for this aspect of—er,
l'amour,
we have discuss, my sweet Faith and me. And it will not do.” Her brows twitched together, as he continued, “I will say to you, my dear friend, what I have say to no other lady, save one. I have not the happy childhood. I am not the—the dashing man about the town. I have a few ladyfriends.” He gave a small and very French gesture. “I am a man, you comprehend. But always I dream of the one lady. The one…” he flushed shyly, “love. After my brother shoot me and I can no more walk, I know this dream it never will be. Now”—again, his hand went out in that so expressive gesture—“when I have give up hope, my dream it come within the reach. Almost. And still I think it cannot be, for so beautiful a lady will not want—should not be bound to … the cripple.”