Give All to Love (9 page)

“Brought yer hot water, miss,” said Fletcher, hurrying into the room with a large copper jug. The gaunt, middle-aged woman looked as though she would be more at home in a Billingsgate fish market than wearing the neat uniform of an abigail. Her husband had been killed in the Peterloo riots; her child had died of influenza and, driven to desperation, she had turned to prostitution until she had lost one eye in a tavern brawl. That disaster had ended her unhappy career and she had been arrested for stealing bread when Josie, one of the customers in the bakery, had interceded for her. Devenish had come nigh to fainting when he discovered that his ward intended to make the battered wreck of a woman her abigail, and had, in a rare display of anger, put his foot down and said a flat No! Josie had looked up at him, her schoolgirl face unwontedly grave. “But do you see, dearest Dev,” she had said, “she is what I might have become, but for you.” He had been appalled, but even so it had been one of their longer tussles before he had thrown up his hands and agreed to Maisie Fletcher being added to what he privately referred to as his
ménage bizarre.

Fletcher, who would cheerfully have done bloody murder for her young mistress, was quite aware of the reservations of the head of the house and kept well out of his way until the time that Josie had been stricken with diphtheria. Fletcher's devotion had won the terror-stricken man's heart, and when he had attempted to thank her, the weary voice whispering, “I'm dirt under her pretty feet, but—I do so love her, Mr. Devenish,” had compelled him to say, “It is the best thing any of us can give her, m'dear. She had precious little of it in her childhood, Lord knows,” and there had been no more suggestions that Fletcher obtain employment elsewhere.

The following half-hour was devoted to ensuring that Mr. Devenish would be pleased by his daughter's appearance when he returned. When their efforts were completed, Josie surveyed her reflection in the standing mirror. She had chosen a gown of light blue taffeta, the bell-shaped skirts scalloped at the hem that was in the daring new ankle length. White embroidery lent elegance to the skirt and was repeated around the low neckline. Fletcher had pulled the corset laces very tight, with the result that Josie's waist was tiny, enhancing the rich curve of her ample bosom. Her gaze lifted to include her features. Care and love and good food had changed her immeasurably from the half-starved waif Devenish had rescued, but she knew she would never be a beauty, no matter what kind gentlemen like Lyon and Guy and John Drummond and Fontaine said to the contrary. Still—Dev had no cause to be ashamed of presenting her as his ward.

Fletcher added a small spray of white silken flowers to her curls, and draped a crocheted wool shawl about her shoulders. “It's a sight late in the season to wear such a light frock, miss,” she scolded.

“I know, but I do so want to look my best tonight.”

Josie hurried downstairs, her heart singing because she was home. When he came, she would make him laugh by telling him of the wrangling that had gone on between John and Lord Elliot, and he would tell her about all that had happened at Devencourt, and they would have such a lovely evening. She must go to the kitchen and see— She checked, hearing horses outside.

A lackey hastened across the Great Hall, his elegant self reflecting in the polished parquet floors that had been laid over the original flags. He swung the door open, the resultant inrush of cold air causing Josie to gather her shawl closer. Perhaps it was Dev. She ran lightly down two more steps, then stopped.

It was indeed her guardian. And, once again, he held a lovely woman in his arms, the lady protesting in a rich, amused voice that she was perfectly able to walk.

“Nonsense,” said Devenish, smiling down at her. “You shall be sent home in a carriage, ma'am, and—” The grey eyes of the lady he carried shifted past him, their expression such that he turned to follow her gaze. “Josie!” he gasped, and set Mrs. Bliss on her feet, but kept his arm about her.

Having taken in the shocked disbelief of the girl who watched them, Mrs. Bliss glanced at her escort. Almost at once, his face reflected no more than a deep affection, but she had seen a brief, transforming glow, and her fine brows arched a trifle higher. She disengaged herself gently.

Scarcely noticing she had done so, Devenish strode to reach up and take his ward's outstretched hands. “You're home!” he said delightedly. “And—let me look at you—how lovely you are!”

Josie said nothing, but launched herself into his arms. He laughed and whirled her around, and she laughed up at him. Seething.

“You little rascal,” said Devenish, eyes alight as he drank her in. “You should have let me know you were coming.”

“So I see,” she said, with a glance to the quiet bystander.

“Oh! Good Lord!” He turned about. “My deepest apologies, ma'am.” He led Josie forward. “Mrs. Bliss, may I present my ward—Josephine Storm. Josie, this lady had an accident, so I—”

“Brought her home,” Josie interpolated sweetly, as she dropped a small curtsy. “But of course. As usual.”

An appreciative twinkle lit the stranger's quite horridly lovely eyes. Josie looked to Don Juan Devenish. His lips were compressed, his eyes empty, his brows slightly raised in the austere hauteur that meant she would hear about this later.

He said with cool aplomb, “Yes. For she is Sir William's sister. Perhaps you will be so good as to help her. She was hurt.”

Horrified, Josie noted the cut over the white brow, and the creased and torn condition of the expensive riding habit. She felt her face flame, and ran to put her arm about their unexpected guest. “How dreadful for you, poor soul! You shall come up to my bedchamber and rest while we prepare the carriage. Dev—please have hot water sent up, and some lint and basillicum powder and—oh, Mrs. Robinson will know. Can you walk, ma'am?”

Assuring her that she could walk, Mrs. Bliss was nonetheless glad of the strong young arm about her. Nor did she demur when she was led into the pretty bedchamber and required to lie down. Later, when Josie had sent her abigail running for some hot tea and a little brandy, and the housekeeper had brought the required medical supplies and been sent off, Mrs. Bliss expressed her apologies for “being such a great nuisance.”

“As if you are,” said Josie, carefully bathing the small cut.

Faith Bliss watched the rapt young face, and smiled because of the tip of the tongue that hovered upon her nurse's upper lip.

“To think you are sister to Sir William,” murmured Josie, concentrating. “Have you been for very long at the Manor?”

“You are thinking I should have called on you. Well—I did start to do so. Only…” Her words trailed off.

Josie glanced at her, curious. “Only I was away?”

“Your—er, guardian has a certain … reputation,” Mrs. Bliss evaded.

At once Josie stiffened. “Indeed, ma'am?”

“For being pursued,” went on Mrs. Bliss demurely. “I can readily see why. And—I am a widow.” She saw the fierce jut of the little chin, and the flash in the dark eyes, and could appreciate why her brother had told her that Miss Storm was a most taking little lass. She sighed, and appended with a mournful air, “Were I but ten years younger…”

Both relieved and obliquely ruffled, Josie said, “My guardian is older than he looks, ma'am!” And, realizing what she had implied, dropped the cloth, her hands flying to her mouth in a way her guest thought most endearing. “Oh! I am so sorry! I—I only meant—Dev is three and thirty, not—”

“Is he so?” said Mrs. Bliss with a giggle. “I'd not have set him a day over twenty-seven, despite that fascinating grey band in his hair. But—my dear, you waste your embarrassment. I am four and thirty, and have pinned my hopes on finding a gentleman at least five years my senior, as was my dear late husband.”

A wistful sadness had touched her eyes. Responding to it with all her tender nature, Josie touched her hand consolingly. “How awful it must be to suddenly be widowed.”

“It is very bad. But Percy's death was not really sudden. I had, in fact, expected it for some time.” She realized that the great brown eyes were very wide, and went on in a lighter fashion, “I have—occasionally—an unfortunate gift of prescience. My husband was a born soldier and I felt … almost from the start, that we had very little time. But, he died as he would have wished, and with great valour, leading his men in a charge against impossible odds to cover the retreat of a gun carriage.”

Josie felt chilled, and shivered. “Leaving you alone.” She completed her first aid, and said, “I was rude when you arrived. I do apologize. I have a wretched tongue.”

“Do you? How lovely. So do I.”

They exchanged smiles, then Fletcher hurried back in with the tea and put the tray on a nearby table. Watching Josie measure a small amount of brandy into a teacup, Mrs. Bliss asked, “Will you be my friend? In spite of my ferocious brother?”

“Oh, yes, if you please! Is Sir William ferocious with
you,
ma'am?”

“You must call me Faith. And William is seldom really cross with me. And if he is, I can manage him. But—he is difficult. All men are, do not you think?”

“Yes, indeed. Dev is hopeless. If you
knew
the trouble I am put to only to keep him from making a disastrous match.”

“I quite understand. I heard he had only barely eluded Bella Scott-Matthias.”

They looked at each other, then laughed.

“Are you acquainted, Faith? She is lovely, but—”

“But horrid,” said Mrs. Bliss, entering willingly into this character assassination. “Just a little milk and two spoons of sugar, if you please.”

“She always manages to make me feel a child of the gutter,” said Josie, complying, and handing over the cup. “I am, you know. I was stolen by gypsies when I was still in leading strings. Dev thinks, though he is quite mistaken, that I was about eight when he found me in 1816. He rescued me from them.” Her eyes became dreamily remote. Stirring her tea, she murmured absently, “And brought me here, although he really didn't want to. At first. But he has been so good to me. So generous and kind.”

“Oh—you poor girl,” cried Mrs. Bliss, genuinely horrified. “Have you no idea who your parents were? Your family?”

“Dev is my family. And—I have many adopted aunts and uncles and cousins, who spoil me dreadfully.”

“Well, that's good. You must be very grateful to him. Even if he is—difficult.”

“He's not—really. Just hopeless about … some things.”

“Such as—finding the right lady. Have you—er, anyone in mind?”

Josie glanced at her sharply. Mrs. Bliss had lowered her teacup, and the wise grey eyes were very grave. She felt her cheeks burn, took a rather reckless gulp of her tea, and coughed. “Well—no. Not yet. But she will have to be gentle and—and understand his moods, and turn his temper when he flies into the boughs over some trifling thing. It is really very easy, you know; you just have to make him laugh. And to take care of him, for he will never admit he is ill or has done too much. Just—make him happy.” She stared rather fixedly at the tray and was silent.

Mrs. Bliss watched her, then murmured, “And—is he happy now? At Devencourt?”

Paling, Josie's gaze flew to her face. “It is—his home. His birthright. Only—he fears it. He always has. Years ago, when I was just a little girl, I heard him talking with Tris Leith—they've been bosom bows forever. He said, “Desolation, despair, Devencourt!” I'll never forget the way he said it. He sounded so bitter, and that's not Dev's way. But his uncle, his mama's twin, was like that, they say. In touch with forces other people do not know about. Oh, ma'am! What is it? Can you also sense something here? Tell me, I beg you!”

Faith Bliss found that her hands had become icy cold. She set aside her cup, remembering her first sight of this fine old house, and the dreadful premonition that had overtaken her. She'd felt the power of it, and she had run away, returning home to lie to her unimaginative brother that she had decided to respect his wishes and not leave a card at Devencourt. She had managed to frighten the girl; those great eyes were searching her face. Somehow, she managed a smile. “I do sense something, I'll not deny. But I could not tell you what it is. Perhaps it will come to me if I visit you again. I am allowed to do so, I hope?”

“Of course, oh, of course! I am so glad you have come, for most of my friends live some distance off. Dare I come and see you? Oh dear, I suppose not. They quarrelled again today. Did you know it?”

“Yes. That was why I rid out without a groom. I was so angry with my brother. But now I really must go, for the silly man will be quite frantic. You'd not guess it, but he dotes on me.”

With a naiveté that caused Faith to chuckle, Josie said, “Does he? Then he cannot be all bad! Now, if you do not feel well enough to walk, you shall be carried. But you must meet Lady Godiva, and the cats—we have several, for a friend of ours has a dear cat named Little Patches, and we were given one of her kittens. And now, since she was a girl kitten, we have several more. But they are all nice—not at all catty like—” She twinkled conspiratorially as Fletcher came back in and held the door for them. “Like a certain femme fatale. Would you please help Mrs. Bliss on that side, Fletcher? Is it not the strangest thing, Faith, that brothers and sisters can be so different? I mean—Lady Isabella so unpleasant, and her brother such a jolly and dear person?”

Faith tensed, slightly frowning, but did not interrupt the ingenuous discourse.

*   *   *

Having said her goodbyes to her new friend, Josie repaired to the kitchens, where she had a discussion with Signor della Casa regarding desserts for dinner, Devenish being almost as partial to sweets as was Jeremy Bolster. Returning to the Great Hall, she wandered down the east wing, looking into the bookroom and two saloons without success. Her heart sank. He had either gone out, up to his bedchamber, or into his study. Of the three, she most feared the study, for that was, he often asserted, male territory and inviolate, and it was, besides, where he always retreated when he meant to scold. She eased the door open and peeped inside. He was there, sure enough, one elbow resting on the desk, chin in fist, as he stared at a vase of flowers put there by Mrs. Robinson, since there were far too many blooms for the vase.