Give All to Love (46 page)

“You're absolutely right,” chortled Sir Harry. “He'll kill you.

An hour later, the three carriages had barely drawn to a stop on Portland Place, than the front door burst open and my lord Bolster, his long driving coat unbuttoned, a dark bruise on his jaw, and a wild look in his eyes, rushed down the steps.

Leith alighted quickly. “Now, Jeremy, dear old fellow, it—”

“Is he de-de-de—killed?” shouted Bolster.

Slinking down the steps after his tall friend, Devenish said, “Jerry, I'm dashed—”

Bolster sprang at him. Devenish shrank. Gripping him by the shoulders, Bolster shook him as though expecting him to shatter to pieces. “Hurt?” he barked.

“No. But—”

“Hah!” said Bolster, and galloped into the house again. “Good Lord,” said Mitchell. “You'd best hide, Dev. Likely gone for his pistol.”

Bolster's phaeton came racing along the street and stopped abreast of the other three.

“Ready for a getaway,” said Sir Harry solemnly.

Bolster's valet sprinted from the house, clutching a valise, and made for the phaeton. An instant later, his many-caped coat still not buttoned and his hat tilting at a rakish angle, Bolster leapt down the steps and ran straight at Devenish.

His face one great beam, he cried, “M-m-m—” He slapped Harry on the arm, raced to the phaeton, flung himself inside, and let down the window. As the vehicle began to pick up speed, he leaned out and waved his hat, his yellow hair sticking up at all angles. “It's a b-b—it's a b-b-b—” His voice faded. “I've got a
son!
” he bellowed.

A cheer went up.

The phaeton turned and came charging back again. Half out of the window, Bolster shook his fist. “Dev, you madman,” he shouted, “I'll d-d-deal w-w-w—” And the phaeton was gone again.

*   *   *

“No, really, Milady Elf,” said Leith, smiling understandingly into Josie's reddened eyes, “I think you must forgive him, m'dear. He meant only the best. And it is, after all, Christmastime.”

Clinging desperately to Devenish's hand, even as she refused to turn her head to look at him, Josie was still unnerved from the shock of awakening this morning to the terrible news that her love had rushed headlong into danger once again. “I do not blame him for trying to save dear Jeremy,” she quavered. “But, to go without a word … Just as he did before!”

Upon his return, Devenish had cravenly, but not altogether untruthfully, pleaded exhaustion, and taken refuge in a long nap. They were gathered in the drawing room now, and he tried vainly to turn Josie's little chin with one finger and pleaded, “My heart, I am hopeless. I'll not blame you at all if you never come back to me.”

Her head jerked to him at that. “Oh! How unfair to—”

“I hear a carriage!” Mitchell sprang up eagerly. “That will be Charity and the children!”

Just as eager, Justin, whose beauteous wife had presented him with triplets when he had begun to give up hope of ever becoming a father, cried that it might instead be Lisette and their little trio.

Watching Strand's hopeful face, Lyon said with a grin, “Only look at how brave he is—now!”

“And went down like a fallen tree when Dr. Bellows told him he had three babes, and Lisette was quite well,” laughed Tristram.

“I can see I must find a wife, or I shall be the only bachelor among us,” said Lyon, “and you will be casting me out for—” He broke off abruptly, slanting an embarrassed glance at his adoptive parent. His dark eyes narrowed. Guy was white as death, his eyes fixed in an unblinking stare at the doorway.

The butler announced austerely, “Monsieur Lavisse.”

“Lavisse,” breathed Lyon. He thought, Jupiter, it's the old fellow with the dog. What the deuce does he want?' and he stood, turning to the new arrival.

Devenish glanced over his shoulder and saw a thin, white-haired gentleman, dressed with quiet elegance, advancing to shake Lyon's hand. As he drew nearer, it could be seen that the narrow face was not elderly, and there was that about the carriage of the head, the thin lips, and cold, jet eyes, that brought a vague sense of familiarity.

Rachel Leith, looking from Guy to the newcomer, tensed, and stared.

“Bonjour, Monsieur le docteur,”
murmured the stranger.

Rachel whitened and shrank, a hand lifting to her mouth. Her tall husband, who had moved to stand behind her chair, dropped a hand onto her shoulder.

The sound of that voice brought Devenish to his feet, and he turned awkwardly to face Lavisse, his narrowed eyes deadly.

Leith said a soft “Dev—wait.”

Lyon, sensing the sudden tension in the room, said uneasily, “If you wish to speak to me about your dog,
Monsieur,
we had better step into another room.”

“But, no,” said Lavisse, his rather nasal voice having little trace of an accent. “What I have to say concerns several of the people here this afternoon.”

Tyndale said, “It's all right, Cahill. Do come in, Monsieur Lavisse.”

Not quite understanding what was happening, Josie saw Rachel cringe away as Lavisse passed her chair. Guy looked ready to faint, and Dev's hands were tight-clenched. Praying he was not going to explode again, she watched the newcomer apprehensively.

“I said to you, when you helped my dog, that I would repay in a manner commensurate with your service,” said Lavisse, taking the chair Lyon drew up, and accepting the glass of Madeira Tyndale handed him.

Devenish snatched up his cane and limped over to stand beside Leith, and Mitchell, who had stood as one stunned, made no attempt to sit down, but watched Lavisse with much the same savagely hungry expression as that of Devenish.

“I perceive,” said Lavisse coolly, “that I am recognized.” He leaned forward, having sampled the wine, and put the glass on the table before him. “However, first things first. Dr. Cahill, you relieved the suffering of the one creature in this world for whom I have affection. Tonight, I repay in kind.” He shifted his gaze to Guy. “It surprised me to learn you had survived,
Monsieur.
”

Puzzled, Lyon said, “You know my father, Monsieur Lavisse?”

“Quite well,” Lavisse replied with a small, ironic smile. “Although, his brother I knew better.”

Through his teeth, Devenish gritted, “I wonder you dare admit it, Gerard!”

“The devil!” Harry Redmond leapt to his feet, and Mitchell, his handsome face distorted with rage, started forward.

“If you throw me out, gentlemen,” said Lavisse, his dark brows lifting in a bored fashion, “you will, I do assure you, regret it greatly.”

Mitchell threw a seething glare at Leith, who shook his head in an unmistakable veto of violent action.

Lavisse turned to Devenish. “So the leg it is still a problem.”

“I collect,” snarled Devenish, “you regret having lobbed that damned steel bolt through it!”

“Not in the least. You and Leith walked into Claude Sanguinet's stronghold with the full awareness of what you invited. I did as I was paid to do. No more. No less.”

With a wary eye on Devenish's boiling wrath, Tyndale said, “I would suggest, Lavisse, that you say whatever you have come to say as quickly as possible. I cannot guarantee that either Devenish or the Redmonds will for very long respect your immunity as my guest.”

“
Oui.
This I understand, so I will proceed.” Contradictorily, Lavisse paused for a moment, staring rather blindly at the fire. Then he began. “By what paths I will not elaborate, but in my twenty-ninth year my uncle, who had worked when a youth for your papa, Monsieur Guy, contrived it that I enter the service of Monsieur—or Monseigneur, as it pleased him to be called—Claude Sanguinet. I served him in many roles. Again”—he shrugged—“I shall not elaborate. I am very sure you are aware that this man, he was, as were they all, insane.” Guy winced, but he made no comment, and Lavisse continued. “Not in his own eyes, naturally. He was wont to assert in defence of some of his more savage deeds that he was a powerful and wealthy man, and that lesser people hate both these qualities. The truth was that he had no—soul. No conscience, if you will. In the course of my ten years under his heel, I suffered many indignities, countless humiliations. But I stayed. And the reason I did so was two-fold. Firstly, for the money he paid and the riches he promised. Secondly—but that is another tale.”

The room was very still now. Lavisse took up his glass with perfect poise, and sipped the wine appreciatively. “My Uncle Armand told me much of the Sanguinets,” he went on. “And he spoke often of the late Sanguinet Père. Henri. And of a certain very beautiful lady. Your Papa, Monsieur Guy, liked his women beautiful, as you may recall. He owned this lady's father. Indeed, a word from Henri and the man would have been not only disgraced, but if he escaped the guillotine, it would have been remarkable. Need I detail the obvious? This lovely creature loved another gentleman. A young Englishman of fine birth and some fortune, but not sufficient, needless to say, to buy her freedom from Henri. The lady—her name was Lorraine—became Sanguinet's bride. She was unwise, for she allowed the old man to see her reluctance—her revulsion.” He gave a small gesture. “I will not have to tell you how she was treated. He was an animal. He behaved like an animal.”

Guy gave a small sound and bent his head, and Lyon, frowning darkly, rose and crossed to sit beside him.

Lavisse smiled faintly, and resumed. “Henri was obliged to go to Switzerland, but whether he was there or not, always, there were guests at Chateau Sanguinet. While he was gone, Lorraine's former admirer slipped into the house with a group of Henri's friends. For a little while, my Uncle Armand did not guess what was going forward. Lorraine was at this time in the delicate condition. Her admirer worked desperately to get her away. Armand saw, but he said nothing, because it amused him to think that Henri Sanguinet, this great and terrible man, is being made a fool. Alas, Henri's eyes are everywhere. Young Cahill—”

Lyon started, his dark eyes widening.

Lavisse purred, “Oh, yes, that was his name. Richard Cahill. And suddenly, he is no more seen. Poor Madame Lorraine, she is half crazed with fear. Then, Henri came home. He told her that her expected child will be illegitimate, because the ceremony they went through was a farce. And he told her also, that young Cahill had been found—floating in the sea, with a knife between his shoulders.”

Lyon felt Guy shake. He slid his arm across the back of the sofa, allowing his hand to grip Guy's shoulder. “Easy, sir,” he said gently. “Shall I tell him to stop?”

Guy shook his head distractedly. “My mama lost her mind—poor soul.”

“Not until after you were born,
Monsieur,
” said Gerard, much as though he discussed a shopping list. “And what you did perhaps not know was that the good Henri used to taunt the poor lady with promises of the life her child would have because she had displeased him. That, Monsieur Guy, was what drove her out of her mind, so that she killed herself.”

“Ah, no!” cried Guy, starting up wildly. “
Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!
Never say it is so!”

“Of course it's not!” Devenish limped forward. “You dirty, lying scum! You only came here to—”

“To tell Monsieur Guy,” said Lavisse, his cruel eyes glinting, “that he is indeed a bastard. Just as Claude told him.”

Tears filling her eyes, Josie pressed a hand to her mouth and watched Guy's white-faced anguish helplessly. Lyon gave a growl and sprang to his feet, his powerful hands clenching. Devenish, savage with rage, said, “This may amuse you, Leith. Be damned if I see why you allow it to continue!”

“But you see,” Lavisse went on, impervious to the infuriated men who closed in around him, “it was as I said. Monsieur Guy, poor fellow, is far more of a bastard than his kindly brother told him. He cannot, in fact, claim the
slightest relationship
to the Sanguinets.”

Through the following breathless hush, Guy uttered a strained, shaken,
“Gerard—je vous implore … qu'est-ce que c'est?”

“My Uncle Armand, he also was a wicked man,” said Gerard, cool as ever. “He did much that was bad—even as I. But—some things still disgusted him. He did what he might to help the poor Lorraine, and she was grateful. She thought of him, I think, as a friend. Just before she died, she told him that when she learned she was to be given as Henri's plaything—they were in England then, you understand—she went to her love, and they ran away to the Border together. Her papa found them, alas. The boy was beaten and left lying by the roadside. Lorraine was sent to Henri Sanguinet. But … she had spent four days—and nights—with Cahill.”

Guy sat shivering, but said not a word.

Tightening his grip about the thin shoulders, Lyon asked intently. “Then Guy—is really…?”

“His papa was Richard Cahill. And young Cahill, Monsieur Guy, had every intent to make your mother his legal wife. Only through Henri's viciousness and his own murder was he prevented.”

Josie flew up to kneel before Guy and clasp one cold hand. “Guy—dear Guy, do you see? This means you can marry Faith!”

“By the Lord Harry, but it does!” exclaimed Leith.

His eyes still fixed on Lavisse, Devenish said contemptuously, “You've paid a debt. How does it feel to have done something decent for once in your life?”

Lavisse shrugged and bestowed a faint smile upon Leith, who came to refill his glass. “You are prejudiced because I put a crossbow bolt in you, Monsieur Devenish.” He looked to the Redmond brothers, standing side by side. “Nor do I think you gentlemen have much admiration for me.” He saw Mitchell's lip curl and laughed softly. “They very nearly hanged you for Parnell's murder, did they not, Sir Harry?” Mitchell whitened, and Harry cursed under his breath and took a pace forward. “Such a miscarriage of justice,” Lavisse went on. “When a dear friend of yours once said that to whoever killed him should be awarded the highest honour this country could bestow…” He smiled, and drank his wine.