Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 11] - Give All To Love

by Patricia Veryan

  The Great Hall looked much more livable and welcoming these last years since Josie had badgered him into having the whole central block redecorated and refurnished. He crossed its handsome new floor, his limping steps echoing through the vast-ness, and made his way to the west hall and the newer part of the great house, passing the main dining room, the morning room, three saloons, and the music room, before he came at last to the ballroom.

  A footman who had followed unobtrusively now sprang to fling open the doors, then step aside, maintaining a cool and disinterested attitude that was a relief to his bedevilled employer.

  Devenish murmured his thanks, strolled into the ballroom, and recoiled. He had quite forgotten how enormous was this formal chamber. It stretched before him in chill and daunting grandeur, its furnishings shrouded in Holland covers, its four chandeliers looking like so many huge laundry bags hanging from the ornately plastered ceiling. Devenish, who had vaguely remembered two chandeliers, was stunned, and hoped fervently that not all the lustres would need washing, which would surely constitute a tremendous task.

  The floor was dusty, but its parquetry still retained an element of shine and it looked solid enough. The pale cream walls were sadly cracked and a touch mildewed here and there, but a coat of paint would fix that, and when the tapestries that once had hung here and were now packed away somewhere for safe keeping were restored, the place might not look too dreadful. Wandering about, Devenish felt like an interloper in his own house, and the eerie sensation that sad and long-dead eyes watched him took possession of his mind as it sometimes did when he was alone in some part of the mansion. He had known the same feeling in his cousin's Scottish castle. He remembered Craig saying comfortingly that some men were more in touch with the occult than were others…

  A sudden gust of wind slammed against the west wall, making him start. The room seemed to sway. Staring, aghast, Devenish realized that it was not the walls that swayed. He investigated and found that the "cracks" were cobwebs, blown about by intrusive draughts. "Good God!" he muttered, but he did not keep an enormous staff of servants as was the custom on many great estates, and could scarcely blame his retainers for failing to keep up a room that had not been used for several decades.

  The floor creaked as he crossed the room, but all wood floors creaked, surely? He stamped a few times. The creaks were louder, as though the floor were shocked by this unaccustomed usage, and he stamped about in several areas, finding nothing ominous. After all, although some dancers would be considerably more weighty than himself, they would scarcely stand in one spot and jump up and down. He grinned to himself. Josie might. Most, however, would be dancing quite circumspectly. At least, one would hope so. He began to twirl about the floor, defying the sensation of being intimidated by the size of it. Solid enough, but just to be on the safe side, he gave a couple of strong leaps, taking care to land on his left foot.

  "By… Jehosophat!"

  With a gasp, he spun around. Sir William Little peered at him uneasily from the distant doorway. He gave an inward groan of embarrassment and wished his maligned ballroom floor might open and allow him to sink through. Of all people to discover him leaping about like a looby! "Just—er, testing the floor," he gulped, knowing his face was scarlet, and advancing to extend a courteous hand to his unexpected guest.

  "Oh," said Sir William, looking relieved. "You give me a nasty turn, Devenish, damme if you didn't! Your butler said you'd come here, and I told him I'd announce m'self. Knew it would've taken him a month of Sundays to bring me! Then, when I saw you hopping about like a curst kangaroo, I don't mind admitting, I thought—"

  "Yes. I do not doubt it, Squire. Let's adjourn to a warmer part of the house, shall we?"

  When they reached the study, Devenish offered his guest a comfortable chair and a glass of Madeira. "Thinking about giving a come-out ball, you see," he explained. "For my ward."

  "Delightful little gel," said Sir William, nodding in his ponderous way. He sipped his wine, acknowledged that it was "damned good," and added, "Don't imagine you expected to see me again, Devenish. Didn't expect to be here, I don't mind telling you."

  "I'll admit you seemed annoyed when you left, sir," said Devenish.

  "Annoyed, is it?" Little scanned him suspiciously, met an amused twinkle, scowled, grinned reluctantly, and repeated, "Annoyed? Man—I was enraged! Went out of here fully intending to write to my solicitor and have the access road closed to you!''

  Devenish's good humor evaporated. "You can't do that," he declared, bristling. "It's a deeded right-of-way."

  "Yes, but it ain't irrevocable! You cross my preserves at two points on that road, and— But, no matter. I did not come to select fleas. M'sister tells me you were very kind when she took her spill yesterday.''

  "What did you expect? Lord sakes, any fellow would have been! I'm very sure you would do the same for Miss Storm."

  Gratified, Sir William relaxed his stiff manner. "Aye, I would." He took another pull at his wine, and settled himself more comfortably in his chair, saying expansively, "Don't usually care much for the fair sex, but m'sister's a rara avis, if I say so m'self. Dashed fine woman."

  "She's certainly a handsome creature. I wonder she hasn't married again."

  "Well, it ain't from want of offers, let me tell you, sir!"

  "I didn't say it was! Lord, but you're hot at hand!"

  "I am?" shouted Little, slamming down his glass. "I come here out of the goodness of my heart, and be damned if y'don't turn around and insult m'sister!"

  "I did nothing of the kind," said Devenish angrily, slamming down his own glass. "Devil take you, Little, you've the disposition of a—" He checked. "What's the matter now?"

  Staring at the hearth, the Squire asked in a voice of mystification, "What the deuce is that?"

  Following his gaze, Devenish gave a gasp. Lady Godiva was stirring. If the Squire knew a pig ran tame at Devencourt, he'd be laughing forever! Happily, she dozed off again, whereupon he said airily, "You mean the dog?"

  "Dog… ?" Sir William stepped closer. "Don't look like no dog I ever—Where's its face?"

  "He's a—er, rare type," said Devenish, adding hurriedly, "I'd not get too close, were I you. If I'd known you were coming, I'd have put—ah, Hercules out."

  "Vicious, is he?" said the Squire, halting. "I'm quite a dog man m'self, y'know. What breed did you say?"

  "Eh? Oh—a… Tasmanian Devil."

  "Never heard of it." The Squire, fascinated, took another step, his gaze fixed on the furry brown shape by the hearth. "Where's it hail from?"

  "Van Diemen's Land," said Devenish promptly, blessing the erring Cornish who, having once been transported, had contrived to bribe his way back to England, and had once or twice engaged in converse with his employer regarding the great Australian continent.

  Lady Godiva shifted and emitted a drowsy grunt.

  " 'Pon my soul!" the Squire exclaimed, and again stole forward.

  The rug shifted agitatedly. Devenish cried, "I say, I wish you wouldn't venture so close," adding a desperate, "He's er, a tiger when roused!"

  "Is he, by God! I wonder you allow him in the house at all! Jupiter, but he's an odd-looking chap. Can't wonder at it if he's a bit grumpy, eh?"

  Devenish laughed hollowly.

  "Tasmanian Devil, y'say… I'll have to tell m'sister. She's quite an authority on—" He checked as the "Tasmanian Devil" contorted, reared up, and stood there, the picture of the grotesque. "Lord—what an ugly brute! Which end is— By Beelzebub! He's got a curly tail!"

  Devenish stifled a groan. "Sir—I do apologize, but it really ain't safe! You'd best—"

  The "Tasmanian Devil," hearing a friendly voice, trotted in the direction of it, squealing indignation at being unable to see. With a little yelp of alarm, the Squire hopped onto his chair. Lady Godiva, eager to come at the source of the friendly sound, gave a great shake. Even as Devenish, fighting hilarity, made a dart for her, the rug flew off.

  "It's a triple-damned pig!
" howled Sir William, springing down and turning a purpling face on Devenish's mirth. "Playing a curst May game with me, was you? Tasmanian Devil?" He brandished his fist. "I'll Tasmanian Devil you!"

  Laughing helplessly, Devenish gasped, "No, but—sir, I—I really-"

  "Think it's damned funny to make me hop up on chairs, eh? Having a good joke? Damn and blast your eyes and limbs, we'll see who laughs longest!'' Livid with fury, Sir William stamped towards the doors, bellowing about the goodness of his heart and the gibbering damned idiots hereabouts. He wrenched the doors open and strode onto the terrace. "Pigs running loose in the damned house! I'll Tasmanian the damned—" At this point, recalling his hat, he turned about.

  It was an unfortunate move. Clinging to the desk, sobbing and wiping his eyes, Devenish looked up in time to see Lady Godiva trotting after the Squire, doubtless having mistaken him for her owner. Sir William's sudden about-face took her—and him—by surprise. He uttered a shocked yell. Equally shocked, she darted for safety. Between his legs. A crash, a howl, and Devenish was sprinting for the terrace. For the third time in two days, he bent above the prone victim of a bad fall. Between roars, Sir William glared at him and waved his arms about.

  "I say, sir," said Devenish, genuinely repentant. "I'm most devilish sorry. Here—let me help—"

  "Do not touch me!" bellowed the Squire apoplectically. "Don't put one… damned finger… on me!"

  "Come now, sir. You know I did not mean it. Oh, very well. Can you stand alone, then?"

  "Stand? Damn your ears! I cannot move! My back! Oh, hell and damnation! My back's broke!"

  Chapter 6

  "Je vous assure, this was the case most special," said Guy Sanguinet, leaning heavily on his crutch as he accompanied Devenish along the east corridor.

  "I can believe that," said Devenish with a smile. "From what he told me, Lyon is fairly beside himself with eagerness to offer for Josie. I know he would be here if it was at all possible. When old Belmont decides the boy has had time to recover, it is on the instant, isn't it!"

  "Oui. My Lord Belmont, his communique it say that this is a case très bien for Lyon. It seem this unfortunate former Naval officer have carry the musket ball in his leg since the war. It is high above the knee, and when they try to remove it, the success it not come, and he say—never again!"

  "Don't blame him a bit," said Devenish, slowing his pace to accommodate his struggling friend, but knowing Sanguinet too well to offer his arm. "Lots of poor fellows died under the knife. Still do. The shock, I'm told." He shuddered. "Once was enough for me, I don't mind telling you!"

  "Ah, but you had no choice, mon cher Alain. You could not for all of your life walk about transfixed by the crossbow bolt my brother tell Gerard to put in you."

  Devenish grinned. "Dashed hard on my tailor, I grant you Am I to deduce, then, that our brilliant lad has been summoned to town to watch Belmont remove the musket ball after all this time?"

  "No." Guy paused. "Pardon, Alain. This new way of progressing—I have not yet quite master it. And your house—it go on everlasting, no? Our situation now is this—my son does not go to watch. Nor is the bullet to be removed. The leg it must come off, and Lyon, mon ami, have what Belmont call 'the hands,' so—"

  "Jupiter! D'you mean that Lyon is to perform the surgery?"

  Guy nodded, his hazel eyes alight with pride. "Almost this it is so. He goes to assist Lord Belmont. As you would say— famous!"

  "By Jove, but it is! We must have a celebration!" Devenish ushered his friend to a chair and asked a hovering footman to request that Miss Storm join them as soon as she came downstairs. The afternoon was cold, with leaden skies and a hint of rain in the air. A fire had been lit on the oversized hearth and roared merrily up the chimney, brightening the enormous drawing room. It was necessary, however, that one sit quite close to the hearth if any benefit was to be gained from the blazing logs, and Guy held his frail hands to the warmth.

  There had been three Sanguinet brothers. Claude, the elder, had been obsessed with power and had commanded the wealth to augment his dreams with a plot to seize control of the throne of England. His person had not been impressive, for his height was not remarkable and, although he had always been elegant, his looks were nothing out of the way, save for a pair of light brown eyes that had seemed when he was angered to take on a red glow. His colouring had been sallow, and his hair the same jet black as that of his favourite brother, Parnell. The second born, Parnell had early earned the sobriquet Monsieur Diabolique. His looks had been as striking as Claude's were ordinary, his thick hair slightly curling, the clear skin seeming almost stretched over finely chiselled features, the mouth full-lipped and sensual, and the strange, pale eyes excessively brilliant. His preference to wear black tended to impart a Satanic look that accorded well with a disposition of such unrestrained lust and cruelty that several times Claude had been obliged to intervene lest he be clapped up in Bedlam.

  Guy, the youngest, bore little resemblance to his brothers, save that he, too, was not above average height. More sturdily built and fair complected than either Claude or Parnell, his hair was a rich brown, his eyes a friendly hazel, and his features regular. The product of his father's second marriage, he had soon been informed by Claude that the wedding ceremony had been a fraud, and that he was permitted to exist as one of the mighty Sanguinets only out of his sire's charity. His young life had been a nightmare, but he had endured it until Claude had launched his ruthless thrust for power. Mitchell Redmond and Charity Strand had been trapped in his brother's Hebridean fortress, and Guy had risked his own life to get them away. All three had managed to escape, but later, when Claude had been about to shoot down Tristram Leith, Guy had leapt between them. Claude, enraged, had not diverted his shot, and for months Guy had been paralyzed. Gradually, he had regained the use of one arm and, almost a year later, the other. He never complained and no one knew how much it cost him, but he had doggedly persisted in having his useless limbs exercised until, two years after he was wounded, he had at last managed to stand. He had begun to drag himself about on crutches, and if his friends saw the exhaustion in the shadowed eyes and ached with sympathy for his wasted life, Guy was elated and would urge them to mark his progress. "Keep you on at your sparring and riding and the foils," he would say gaily. "For very soon now, this wicked Frenchman he will challenge you all!"

  At thirty-nine, he was far less the invalid than he had been, although he was still too thin, but he was the only survivor of the brothers. Parnell had been shot by an unknown assailant while attempting a brutal murder, and Claude had succumbed to the poison he had intended for the Prince Regent. Had it not been for Guy, his brother's ruthless schemes might very well have succeeded—a prospect Devenish did not care to even think about, but because it had been judged necessary to suppress the story of Claude's plotting, Guy's valour had never been made public. Despite all efforts, rumours had spread, and his name now brought him contempt and loathing. 'And the Lord only knows,' thought Devenish apprehensively, 'what the end will be.'

  Guy glanced at him curiously. "You are very quiet, mon cher. Where is our ray of sunshine? She have not again go away, I trust?"

  "Josie's upstairs. Lord, but I wish Lyon had come with you."

  "Tiens! She is not ill?"

  "Heaven forbid! But we've a sick man in the house. The Squire."

  "Little? Here? This indeed is a strange thing!"

  "Yes, a most wretched train of events. I chanced to be of some small service to his sister, a charming widow lady, and Little came charging over here to thank me."

  Perplexed, Guy murmured, "I do not see how… ?"

  "He fell over Lady Godiva. Thought he'd broke his back. It turned out he hadn't, but he gave it a severe sprain and we've been told he mustn't be moved for a week or two. The old grim-phiz is beside himself with rage, which ain't helping him recover."

  "If he decide to fall over Josie's pet pig, I fail to understand that for this he can hold you to blame."

&n
bsp; Devenish stood and went over to kick at the logs. "To tell the truth," he admitted with a guilty grin, "I'd been rather baiting the old cawker. Well—not baiting, exactly. I'd thrown a rug over Lady Godiva because she was cold. Completely forgot about her, and when Little spotted her, I was so dashed embarrassed, I said she was a dog. I'd convinced him she was a Tasmanian Devil, and he was standing on a chair when—"

  "Guy!" cried Josie, her joyful greeting cutting through the Frenchman's laughter.

  Guy slipped his crutch under one arm, struggled to his feet, and swept her into a hug. "Let me look at you," he said fondly, scanning her bright face and all the glowing vibrant youth of her. She pirouetted for him, the wide skirts of her peach silk gown swirling. The low neckline was trimmed with tiny rosettes of cream satin, a peach velvet ribbon held back her glossy curls, and about her throat was the pearl pendant Devenish had presented to her when she'd completed her studies. "Délicieuse," he said admiringly. ''Truth it is that you are lovelier each time I see you, mon petit chou."

  She kissed his cheek and danced across to Devenish.

  "Hello, little one," he said, his eyes holding the tender light that shone only for her. "Glad you could join the old crocks."

  It was the term by which he and Guy styled themselves, but it had never won favour in her eyes. She said pertly, "You may be an old crock, my poor Dev, but only look at our Guy! Isn't he splendid?"

  Guy threw her an elaborate bow, lost his equilibrium, and had to grab for the chair. He lowered himself into it, laughing up at them.

  "Never mind about turning his head," said Devenish, his heart easing down from his throat as Guy leaned back in the chair. "We've a celebration, Josie m'dear. You tell her, Guy. He's your son."

  "And would like to be yours, also," said Guy, with a mischievous glance at the blushing girl. "But of this I must not speak. Well, Mademoiselle, what do you think? Our Lyon has go to London. To perform the surgery très difficile!"

  "Old Belmont asked for him especially," put in Devenish.