Give All to Love (44 page)

She wept openly, and Devenish, his own eyes blurred, swept her to him and held her close, kissing her hair, his heart so full he could find no words.

“I perceive,” said Émile de Galin with a slow smile, “that my little niece, she have found the very finest kind of gentleman. The very greatest gift of love.”

Josie rummaged in Devenish's pocket, dragged out his handkerchief, and dried her eyes. “Uncle Émile…? You mean…?”

“That you have my blessings, my dears.” But he shook his head to quiet Devenish's ecstatic thanks, and halt Josie's impetuous dart at him. “Provided,” he said gravely, “you agree to abide by my terms.”

“Of course, sir,” said Devenish. “Whatever you ask.”

“After my dearest love sits down, if you please, Uncle Émile,” interposed Josie determinedly.

And when they all were seated once more, and Devenish quite boldly holding his lady's hand before all their fond and amused eyes, the Chevalier outlined his plans.

“I am very sure,” he began, “that Devenish, loving you so much,
ma chérie,
will not wish any breath of ugliness, any soupçon of scandal, to touch you. Monsieur Guy has told me of the burning of your home, Alain. You have, I imagine, put in train the plans to rebuild—no?”

“Er—well,” said Devenish haltingly.

Surprised, Bolster put in, “You have not, Dev? I'd thought—” He checked. “Oh. Didn't think you'd be n-needing it, eh?”

“But I will certainly do so now,” said Devenish, scarcely able to tear his gaze from Josie's face.

“Bon,”
said the Chevalier. “It is good that you should be busy,
mon cher,
for I am going to take your sweet lady away. She will be feted and adored, I do not in the least doubt it. Ah—that frightens you, Alain? It is perhaps that you fear she will be snatched from you?”

Terror had indeed seized Devenish at his words. Émile meant to take her to Paris, of course. Natural enough. But these blasted Frenchmen were so skilled in the art of love, and he so dashed awkward. What if she found someone ardent and closer to her own age? What if—

“It will be the fine test of love and constancy, for both of you,” de Galin went on softly. “Besides which, it will silence all tongues,
assurément.
In May I will bring your lady to London, and your marriage announcement, it can be made, if your minds are the same then.” He paused, eyes twinkling as he saw the adoring exchange of glances; the tightened clasp of hands. “And in June, when all the world it sings and your house it will be ready to receive her, you can be wed with no smallest fear of scandal. This—I think it will serve,
mes amis
?”

“It seems…” Josie said in a very small voice, “a terribly long time. Over four months. Could not Dev come to France in—in March, Uncle Émile?”

“No, dearest,” said Devenish. “The Chevalier is right. We will do the thing properly. Besides, I must not be selfish. Your uncle Émile and your family have been denied the joy of watching you grow up—the happiness I have known these seven years. Now—it's their turn.”

Her heart full of terror at the thought of parting, Josie sensed the grief behind his lightly uttered words, and in an effort to match his courage said, “Yes, of course. I must be grateful to have found my own family, and”—she touched his chin very gently—“to have you safe and well … Speaking of which, my love, you are looking very tired.” She glanced at Yolande, and caught that tender-hearted lady covertly wiping away a tear.

“Very true,” said Yolande, blinking, and turning to her husband. “Craig, will you do the honours?”

Tyndale had already come to his feet and offered a helping hand to his cousin. “Bed for you, old lad. We'll have a tray of hot chocolate brought to your room. Help you sleep.” And he thought of the dawn, and wondered whether any of the rest of them would get one wink of sleep this night.

Sanguinet struggled up, and went out with them. “I have forget that I fetch correspondence for you, my dear Alain. Your people, you know, have all go home for their holidays, but Wolfe and the faithful Mrs. Robinson, now are back in Devencourt, and remain.”

Devenish thanked him, and at the door turned for one last look. Josie smiled, her heart in her eyes. He thought, ‘Nigh five months … my God!'

He was still shrinking from the prospect of that terrible separation after Hutchinson had settled him into bed and, with the firm reminder that his hot chocolate was on the table within easy reach, made his stately way from the room. Devencourt—without that bright presence, that merry laugh, the twinkling mischief in her eyes that always warned she was contemplating something outrageous. Five months almost, without her …

He caught himself up in disgust. He had been approved by her noble uncle, when, for a short while it had seemed he was to be sternly rejected. Besides, it would be good for Josie to see something of the world. De Galin, elegant, sophisticated, would show her Paris at its most enchanting. Likely he'd take her to Vienna also. Perhaps even to Italy, that warm land of warmhearted people that had always so lured the English from their cold little island. She would be loved and made much of by her family, and wherever she went, for with that glowing personality, that lovely, always cheerful face, how could they help but worship her? God bless her, she would have a lovely time.

But—suppose when she came home, she found Devencourt, however he tried to beautify it for her, dull and lonely after her glittering time with—

“Oh, for heaven's sake!” he muttered, irritated with himself, and reached for the pile of correspondence Guy had brought to Town for him.

He flicked through it idly. A bill from Rundell and Bridge—that would be for Josie's Christmas present—or one of 'em, though he might never summon the nerve to hand her the other. A letter for Josie from Faith Bliss, that he would give her in the morning. Another, directed in the fine flowing hand that indelibly marked it as coming from Val Montclair, and that he would read first unless anything of prime impor— With a sudden tightening of the nerves, he took up the next neatly inscribed letter and peered at the seal. It was not a crest he knew, nor could he decipher the frank, but the sense of peril was strong, and he knew it too well to dismiss it lightly. He spread the page, and read:

Your cronies guard you well, Devenish, and I cannot break through the barriers they erect to keep me from naming you the lying, dishonourable thing you are. A thing that hides and shivers and lets his friends fight for him. Six of the fools—willing to die for you! Bolster is to be first. I doubt that will disturb you, and I do not mean to kill the dolt. I'll teach him a lesson he will never forget, however.

As you enjoy your wassail, I wonder if the idiots who so stoically protect you will even tell you that I blinded him at sunrise on the 22nd, in Laburnum Field above Kensington Village.

Fontaine

“Now … by God!” whispered Alain Jonas Devenish.

Chapter 21

Monday, December 22, dawned bright and cold. The snow had stopped during the night, and the countryside was a fairytale place, blanketed in white, the rising sun drawing sparkles from the pristine purity of the meadows, and gleaming on mantled tree and hedgerow.

The carriage that moved swiftly through the hush of the early morning was occupied by five men with weary, sober faces, each occupied with his own thoughts so that silence prevailed until Guy Sanguinet murmured, “
Tiens,
but I wish our Jeremy he have not drive off by himself!”

“Caught it from Dev,” said Lyon, and after a minute, “You never think Fontaine would dare to—to—”

“Kill him?” Leith smiled ironically. “Even Elliot Fontaine would not dare deplete the population by putting a period to all six of us, I think.”

Mitchell said, frowning, “No. But the fella's got such an ugly temper. Only look at how he served poor young Saticoy.”

“My fear exactly,” said his brother. “Since old Jerry is first, Elliot may do something really dreadful, just to try and put the fear of God into the rest of us.”

Leith, who harboured the same fear, said brightly, “He'll catch cold at that!”

“The one for whom I feel,” murmured Guy after another lull, “is poor Craig. When Devenish, he wake up…”

“The rocket will ‘pop orf,'” said Lyon, faithfully imitating Cornish, and drawing a laugh from his friends.

The carriage jolted to a halt. Leith said, “We're here. Don't see anyone yet.”

They alighted, the snow crunching beneath their boots. “There he is!” Sir Harry pointed to a coach drawn up near some skeletal birches some distance away. “Borrowed Dev's carriage.”

They started off, each heart as heavy as their steps were light.

Mitchell kicked at a clump of snow. “We'll have to clear some of this stuff.”

“It's a helluva surface for a sword fight,” Harry agreed. “They'll likely be sliding all over the shop.”

“Good,” said Leith. “Might lessen Fontaine's advantage, and Lucian said Jeremy's done quite well this week.” He unbuttoned his redingote and took out his watch. “Quarter to eight. You'd think the varmint would be here—he certainly must be aware there's work to be done.”

Mitchell gave a derogatory snort. “
That
arrogant bastard? You jest! Poor old Jerry—he don't seem glad to see us.” And, in sudden vexation, “How in the devil I came to be the
last
I cannot comprehend! I'm the best swordsman of the lot of us!”

He was of course promptly put in his place with much good-humoured mockery, and it was a laughing group who came up to the quiet carriage.

“Hi, Jerry, old sportsman,” called Harry, and swung open the door.

Bolster sat huddled in the far corner, collar up, and hat brim pulled low over his face. He lifted a gloved hand, but said nothing.

His friends eyed one another askance. There could be no question of Jeremy losing his nerve, but …

Leith jerked his head and closed the door, and they withdrew a few steps. “Let him be,” said the Colonel understandingly. “He's likely thinking of little Mandy.”

Gloom fell upon them like a pall, and they stood in silence until a postchaise dashed up.

Harry opened the carriage door again. “He's here, old fellow,” he said quietly. “Lyon's with us, so perhaps you'd—
Yi
!” He sprang back.

Alain Devenish clambered down the steps and clung for a moment to the door, glaring at them one by one. “You
miserable,
conniving—”

“No—now, Dev,” stammered Sir Harry, lifting a restraining hand.

“When I
think,
” snarled Devenish, outraged, “of what you dared—you
dared
run me through because I went to Belmont in secret! And
you
—”

“You'll be run through with a vengeance do you mean to face Fontaine in a sword fight,” Leith interrupted dryly. “You can almost walk.”

“I can stand. And I can shoot!” Devenish reached into the carriage and lifted the long box that contained his deadly Boutet duelling pistols. “Fontaine has been fairly slathering to get at me ever since I popped him on the beak. He'll have to settle for pistols, is all.”

“Which will be no great disadvantage,” said Mitchell, frowning worriedly. “He's a crack shot, Dev. And you—”

“May surprise you, my encouraging friend,” interrupted Devenish. “No! Stay back, Tris! Damned if I'm not so curst disgusted with the lot of you, I'd as lief put a ball in your foot as not!”

Knowing his man, Leith halted, but said coolly, “Use your head for once, you crazy fire-eater. You were barely recovered from trying to box yourself in pine when our dear Fontaine started making ugly noises. You were in no case to—”

“So you generously sacrificed Jeremy in my stead? And just how, gentlemen, just
how
did you think I'd have felt, watching one after another of my former friends cut down by that slimy wart? Do you suppose I could have faced Mandy again? Ever? Why you blasted set of pinheads, Fontaine would have worked through the lot of you and
still
got to me, don't you realize?”

“My thanks for the vote of confidence,” said Mitchell, stung.

Devenish threw him a blistering glance, but accepted his arm and leaned on it as they all made their way in silence towards the Viscount and his seconds, Sir Martin O'Brien and a heavyset middle-aged gentleman named Benjamin Blanchard. Sir Harry, Guy, and Lyon paused some distance from the other group and each man shook Devenish by the hand, their teasing words and bright smiles failing to conceal the anxiety and the deep affection that their eyes could not hide. Mitchell Redmond and Leith were to second Devenish and they walked on with him.

Fontaine, elegant in a leather riding coat and buckskins, but with light pumps on his feet, put up his brows when he saw Devenish approaching. “Well, well,” he purred. “So the daring one has crept from his hole.”

Devenish felt Mitchell tense and answered affably, “I was quite unable to keep away, Fontaine. The last time you wound up inelegantly on your arse, you were propelled by my fist, as I recall.”

Sir Martin and Blanchard glanced at each other uneasily.

Leith muttered, “Dev. If you think—”

“The lady was fairly in stitches looking down on you,” grinned Devenish.

Fontaine, who had become very white, flushed darkly and said in a quivering voice, “I shall get to you,
canaille,
in good time, but—”

“I beg to differ,” said Devenish. “My friends are vexed, and I don't blame 'em, but the right to cleanse the world of your pollution, is mine and—”

He reeled back as Fontaine leapt and his open hand struck like a pistol shot.

“Elliot!” exclaimed Sir Martin, shocked. “The fella's just out of a sickbed! He can scarce challenge—”