Give All to Love (48 page)

“It took forever,” he groaned. “And—I kept meaning to just throw away the silly thing—”

She scowled at him and put her hand across his mouth. “It is the most beautiful gift you ever gave me.”

Looking into her worshipful eyes, he mumbled hoarsely, “Josie … beloved…”

Her arms were about his neck, one hand closing in the thick hair. She yielded up her lips to a fiery embrace that left her limp and gasping. And that was, she knew, farewell.

Devenish thrust her from him and stalked to the window. As through a veil he saw Pandora Grenfell crossing to the carriage, Klaus and three manservants carrying luggage. His voice low and harsh, he said, “Go! For the love of heaven—go!”

For one last time she gazed at the dear curly head, the rigidly squared shoulders, the slim but beautifully proportioned shape of him. Then, blindly, she took up the priceless poem he had so laboriously written her, and fled.

Devenish heard the door close, and went and sat at his desk. In a few minutes he heard the carriage door slam, the sounds of hoofs and wheels receding, and he stared unmoving, at nothing, while the silence, the sense of irreparable loss, closed in and crushed him. His eyes focused eventually, on the vase of holly her loving hands had gathered, and a pang went through him that was sharper than the bolt Gerard Lavisse had sent tearing into him. He put up a hand to cover his eyes.

How long he sat there, lost in despair, he never afterwards could quite recall. A shove roused him. Startled, he blinked down at a pink grin. He lifted his head and discovered the white cat outstretched at his elbow; in the middle of the desk, the ginger cat, one leg thrown in the air as it industriously cleaned its nether areas; and curled up in the letter tray, a small black and white ball of fluff. The sense that he was not alone intensified. He looked up in time to see Cornish's anxious countenance whip back from the partly open door.

‘Dear heaven' he thought. ‘Shall I ever cease to be such a sorry fool?' And having caressed each of his friends, he called, “Come in here, you great galumph! We've a deal to get done before May!”

Brightening, Cornish went inside. “Right y'are, mate,” he grinned. “Er—Sir Guv, I mean.”

Chapter 22

Breathtaking in his ball dress, Tristram Leith grinned and said to a solemn Jeremy Bolster, “Bet you a pony he faints before he says one word.”

Scanning their pallid, shivering friend, Bolster shook his yellow head. “D-don't fancy the odds, Tris.”

“Buck up, Dev.” Mitchell Redmond fetched the coward a slap on the back that made him stagger. “This is your night, old lad!”

“She's
home,
” said Justin Strand, his blue eyes full of sympathetic laughter.

“And is the Toast of Paris, the darling of Vienna, and they say will conquer London in one night,” said Sir Harry, crossing to force up Devenish's chin and adjust his cravat.

“What…” croaked Devenish, “is she—wearing?”

They eyed one another. “Something … pink…” Mitchell said uncertainly.

“Pink!” Leith scoffed. “She has on a glorious gown of pale yellow, Dev.”

“I mean—is she…” His throat seemed to close. “Is she wearing—a gold locket?”

Sir Harry tore his hair. “What in God's name does it—”

Bolster said, “I know! I know! A d-diamond pendant. B-beautiful thing!”

Devenish felt very cold.

With a slow grin, Craig Tyndale balanced his glass on the arm of his chair and crossed the elegant bedchamber of Lord Kingston Leith's great house on Grosvenor Square that his lordship had thrown open tonight for the ball that was to reintroduce the enchanting Mademoiselle de Galin to the
ton.
Taking Devenish by the shoulders, he looked into the white, sweating face. His cousin wore evening clothes so well that Craig wondered if the silly block could possibly be unaware of how dashing he was tonight. “You do not look too bad,” he observed.

Mordecai Langridge came in, followed by a spectacular figure wearing black leather tunic and trousers, his pantherish grace and proud, dark countenance a startling contrast to the elegant Englishmen. Moving soundlessly to peer into Devenish's face in turn, Montelongo looked at his employer.

“You want me carry small white man?”

Craig Tyndale grinned.

Devenish managed, “You … damned fraud. Get away!”

The Iroquois permitted himself a faint smile. “As you wish, sir,” he rumbled in faultless English.

Mordecai urged, “Dev, she is besieged!”

Lyon opened the door and joined them, laughing. “Lord, what a blancmanger! Come on, Dev. The reception line's been done this ten minutes and more. You have not a prayer of winning a dance with Josie, you looby.”

“Unless she have save him one,
mon cher,
” said Mr. Guy Cahill, limping in, leaning heavily on the elaborate cane his wife had had carved for him.

Leith flung up a hand. “Light Cavalry! By threes—
forward!
”

Montelongo swept the door open. Leith grabbed one arm and Mitchell the other, and the craven was propelled into the hall and to the stairs.

Somehow, Devenish was at the ground floor. Somehow, he was managing to walk steadily, longing to see her; dreading to see her; vaguely aware that friends called to him, and that he more or less responded. And then he was in the ballroom, and he did see her, and halted, stunned.

She was dancing with Ivor St. Alaban, the dashing young baronet laughing at some remark she had made. Josie—who had never been much of a hand at dancing—drifted, light as thistledown in Sir Ivor's arms. Her luxuriant hair was piled in glossy coils on her proud little head, and a jewelled comb fashioned in the shape of a butterfly sparkled among the dark tresses. She was clad in a décolleté gown of billowing gold-spangled gauze over a cream satin underdress cut in very sharply at the waist and extending into a great, swirling skirt. And she was radiant, so at ease and confident of her loveliness and her desirability. And as Bolster had said, around her white throat was a delicate and exquisite diamond necklace.

She glanced up and saw him, and smiled and waved her fan happily, as she might have done to any dear friend.

His hands were so cold. He waited, his friends hovering about him.

St. Alaban led Josie from the floor to where the Chevalier de Galin stood beside Mrs. Pandora Grenfell.

And whose eyes could hold more pride than those of the handsome Chevalier as his lovely niece was restored to him? Whose head could tilt more gracefully as he bent to murmur something in her ear than that of the beautiful Mademoiselle Josephine?

The gentlemen were crowding around her, clamouring for her dance card, and she was lost to sight.

Leith gave Devenish a little push. “Go
on,
you fiddlefoot!”

But Devenish, his jaw setting, did not move.

The music struck up, then faded. The crush around the Chevalier and his niece fell back.

Josie stepped onto the dance floor. The eager young gentlemen who rushed to solicit her hand, sighed and retreated. All alone, she walked with pretty grace across that wide, empty floor, her great skirts swaying provocatively, her fan gently fluttering, her eyes fixed upon the man who stood so straight, so still, at the edge of the dance floor, the rest of the Nine scattered about nearby.

A complete silence had fallen. Halting before him, Josie said softly, “Hello, Dev,” and extended her gloved hand.

He bowed over it. “Mademoiselle,” he said quietly, his heart thundering.

She was very aware of the emptiness in the eyes that were an even deeper blue than she had remembered. She said with a flicker of dimples, “And what do you think of your wandering ward?”

“That she is—the loveliest thing I ever saw.”

The fan swept up to hide the dimples, but her eyes laughed at him, the flecks in them purest amber. “The other gentlemen seem to agree,” she said.

A little pulse was beating below his temple. “Of course.”

“And…” she pursued, “are you proud of me, Mr. Devenish?”

He searched her face. “Very, very proud. Only—”

Her brows lifted. He saw a poise that was new, and he thought, ‘She is all grown-up.' “Only,” he said, “I had hoped—you would wear a gold locket.”

“Oh.” She touched the sparkling diamonds that rested above the curve of her beautiful breasts. “But Uncle Émile gave me these, you see.”

“Yes. I see.”

She allowed the loop of the fan to slip down her wrist. Her face was grave suddenly as she held up that hand.

On the palm of the white glove lay a thing that glittered with the brilliance of diamonds and the deeper gleam of a fine emerald.

For an instant, Devenish felt dizzied, and afraid to look up at her.

She said, her voice very soft, “I have worn the locket every day, my dearest darling, but I didn't wear it tonight because—you would have known at once, and—I wanted to … to let you know that … I am not—quite on the shelf, or so … plain that no one else wants me.”

He tried to speak, and his voice failed him. He reached out, and she loved him the more because when he took the ring and put it in the pocket of his elegant waistcoat, his hand trembled. His second effort was more successful, but scarcely profound. “Josie…” he croaked.

Blinking away tears, she murmured, “Oh, Dev. How terribly I have missed you. I have come home. If you—still want me…”

The music struck up. Somehow, he remembered to extend his arm, and she swayed to put her hand on it.

The crowd parted. Jeremy Bolster, his own eyes suspiciously bright, whispered, “Good show!”

With an ecstatic pride, Alain Devenish led his love away and, in a small, secluded alcove, proved how much he wanted her.

*   *   *

Charles Cornish leaned in the window of the bookroom and watched Mrs. Robinson adjust three volumes whose spines dared to project a fraction of an inch beyond those of their companions, run a finger along the gleaming shelf in search of nonexistent dust, and peer suspiciously at the unmarred surface of a glass door. He sniffed disparagingly. “Cor, but you're in a proper state. Anyone'd think as the guv'nor and 'is missus was comin' up the drive this very minute.”

“I hope not,” she said with a glum shake of the head. “I want everything to be as nice as possible.”

He stared at her, baffled, then glanced to the window and the light dawned. “Oh, y'mean on account o' the drizzle? Never fear, mate, that wouldn't bother Sir Guv, nor his lady.” He winked, and grinned his broad, gappy grin.

“I'd hoped it would be a lovely summer's day,” sighed the housekeeper, and added heavily, “But I wasn't thinking about the weather, so much as what … what might lie ahead.”

Exasperated, he groaned, “If that ain't just like a woman! Arter all they been through, 'ere they is, comin' back ter wedded bliss at last, and wotcha go and do? Moan and groan and carry on like a perishin' funeral!”

“Don't say that! Oh,
never
say it!” Mrs. Robinson wrung at her apron and turned to face him.

There was real worry in her eyes, and he said curiously, “Something's addling yer brainbox, Mrs. R. Spit it out, mate. If you're frettin' bout Sir Guv's leg—”

She bit her lip. “I'm worrying about that evil,
evil
man. I know his kind and they don't never forget when they think they've been hardly done by. They brood, and plot, and—and, oh, Charlie, our dear Mr. Dev has had so much misery—I do so
pray
they'll have a bit of happiness, poor things!” She pressed a hand to her mouth and regarded him tearfully.

“Wot—you mean that there nasty little Fontaine fella?” He gave a derisive snort. “He's took his nobby knees orf somewhere, ain't he? Fergit the perisher!”

“It don't do to forget a snake, Charlie. You can't never tell when they'll strike again. He's a murdering, cruel, vindictive man, and when he comes back, he's sure to—”

Cornish, who had turned and was directing a slyly amused gaze at the rainy gardens, murmured, “But s'posing 'e don't come back 'tall? Or 'e might come 'ome a reformed man. The sea air might've done 'im a bit o' good…”

Mrs. Robinson's eyes had grown very wide during this little speech. “Charles Cornish,” she whispered with breathless incredulity, “what you been and gone and done?”

“Me?”
he protested, injured. “Now, wot could the likes of a poor perishin' footman do agin the likes o' a rich lordship? Lookit all them animals out there. Where they orf to, I wonder?”

Not about to be diverted, the housekeeper crossed to peer up at him. “You said ‘sea air,'” she pointed out. “How d'you know he went to sea? No one's seen the horrid gent since he dishonoured himself at that duel.”

“Stands to reason,” he replied with bland innocence. “Man with all that pride goes and disgraces hisself. Everybody sneerin'. 'E can't stand it. You mark me words, Mrs. R. 'E's em-barked, 'e 'as. On a long sea voyage.” Mischief sparkled in his eyes. “With luck, he'll get right seasick.” He chuckled softly. “Take 'im dahn a peg or two, I 'spect. Might even make a man of 'im. Perisher oughta thank me, if—Whoops!” He leered at her conspiratorially.

Mrs. Robinson took a deep breath. “You wicked devil,” she accused with a brilliant smile. “Oh—you conniver, you!”

He winked. “Look 'ere, Mrs. R. I—”

“Not another word!” She threw up one hand. “I don't want to know nothing about the wicked business.” But in an abrupt departure from so pious an attitude, she asked, “You're quite sure, Charlie? The Viscount won't come back—not for a good long time, anyway?”

“A very good long time,” declared Cornish, much amused. “You c'n take me perishin' word fer it, Mrs. R.”