Give All to Love

by Patricia Veryan

  For a long moment, Guy was silent. He had no need to glance at Devenish, who would, he knew, repeat the invitation. He wanted very much to accept—not only for the pleasure of being in this merry madhouse with these dear friends, but for another reason as foolish as it was unwise. He said slowly, “Merci bien, Milady Elf. I will stay.”

  * * *

  “Bedlamites, I tell you!” declared Sir William vehemently, restoring his fork to a well-cleaned plate. “With the possible exception of poor little Miss Storm! How she has managed to retain her sanity in a house full of pigs and servants who either cannot see or cannot walk about properly, or have not the remotest notion of proper conduct, is beyond me!” He shook an admonitory finger at his sister’s amused face and added, “I’ll tell you what I think, Faith—I’ll be lucky do I get out of here alive!”

  “Oh, come now, dear,” said Mrs. Bliss, taking the tray and setting it on the chest of drawers. “It’s not that bad, surely? Mr. Devenish was perfectly charming to me when—”

  “Charming, is it? I wish I may have had you with me when I found him hopping all over his ballroom like a dashed rabbit!” Sir William cast a quick glance to the door and, lowering his voice, hissed, “I swear it! And when he wasn’t hopping—he was dancing!”

  “Dancing? With whom?”

  “A home question! With himself my lass! All—alone! Mad, I tell you! And then there was all that gammon about the pig being a Turkish Dervish or some such balderdash! Aye—smile! I wonder you don’t laugh out loud because I’m lying here with my back almost broke!”

  Whereupon, of course, she fussed over and cherished him and assured him she meant to do everything in her power to make him comfortable.

  “Well, so you can,” he said. “Get me gone from this madhouse!”

  “Yes, dear. In a few days, perhaps—”

  “Few days, my black hen! At once! Today!”

  “Now, William, be reasonable. The doctor says you must not be moved for at least a week.”

  “The doctor’s an ass, to give him the benefit of the doubt!”

  “Very likely. But I do not mean to argue the point with him and perhaps cause you to suffer irreparable damage. Mrs. Robinson is preparing a room for me, and—”

  “And she may cease wasting her time! You will not overnight in this den! Have you lost your wits, ma’am? This is a bachelor establishment!”

  Her patience beginning to wear thin, she said, “William, how can you be so Gothic? Mr. Devenish’s daughter is here, and—”

  “Daughter my eyebrow! The chit ain’t but a few years younger than he!”

  “Her companion is a most formidable dowager, and there is the housekeeper, who—”

  “Who tipples.”

  “No—does she? How very odd that— Oh, what matter? The point is that I am a respectable, middle-aged widow, and you must be aware that Devenish would scarce seek to compromise me in front of his family and friends.”

  “What friends?” he demanded, fixing her with a suspicious stare. “I heard a coach drive up. Who arrived? Three blind mice, I suppose!”

  She laughed. “No, no. The gentleman seems quite sane, and besides, is an—er, invalid. Scarce a menace, you see.”

  “Perhaps not.” Shifting painfully, he grunted, and moaned, “What’s the fella’s name?”

  “Oh—I paid no heed,” lied Mrs. Bliss, straightening his pillows. “A Frenchman, I believe, but most mannerly.”

  “If that ain’t just like Devenish! Well, that settles it, m’dear! I’ll not have you sleeping under the same roof with a Frog! Never met one yet who could leave the women alone! Ring that blasted bell, and we’ll have one of the loobies in here. No—it ain’t no manner of use arguing, Faith. You can come back in the morning. And bring Wright with you. Should’ve sent for him before this. I’ll give you a list of what he’s to pack…”

  Nothing would move him. Sighing resignedly, Mrs. Bliss crossed to the bell pull, wondering what her fiery brother would say when he discovered the identity of the Frenchman.

  * * *

  Three days later, Faith Bliss settled herself against the squabs of the luxurious chaise and turned to her radiant companion. “How very kind of Mrs. Grenfell to have volunteered to play chess with my poor brother so that I might accompany you to Cirencester today. William is quite an enthusiast, but will never admit that he cheats. I dare swear he has told me fifty times how the game is played, but whenever he makes a move I do not understand, he tells me it is a rule he’d forgot to explain.”

  The two young women laughed merrily. “It is the very same with Dev,” said Josie, her face framed by the sable of her hood. “He tries and tries to tell me about some facet of the law that Mitchell Redmond is fighting to change, and I declare each time he tells me, it becomes more ridiculous. Either I am very wooden-headed about politics, or our laws are completely stupid. What with the Corn Laws and the Enclosure Acts, one might think we were governed by a set of ogres!”

  Mrs. Bliss arched her brows. “Mitchell Redmond…? Good heavens! You never mean Lord Redmond? Why, I am not even allowed to speak his name at the Manor. The very thought of him is anathema to my brother!”

  “And to many others, I’m afraid. Mitch will fight to the last drop of his blood for the rights of the poor, which makes him exceeding unpopular—especially among the mine and factory owners. But he is the dearest man you could wish to meet. And”—she put a hand on Faith’s arm, adding with a twinkle—“extreme handsome!”

  “He is? I’d fancied him to be old and shrivelled up, and so evil he had four horns on his head and cloven hoofs!”

  Josie laughed delightedly. “But, no! Mitch is—now, let me see—I fancy he is no older than Dev, and married to the very dearest lady. They have two sturdy little boys, and a darling baby girl.”

  “Bless my soul! And you say he is handsome. As handsome as your guardian?”

  “Oh, no. But then, who is?” Josie sighed, her eyes becoming troubled. “We worry about Mitch, for he takes such dreadful chances. There are those, Dev believes, who would stop at nothing to silence him.”

  “Surely not! In England?”

  “I pray not. But only look at poor Mr. Perceval. Murdered by a madman in the House of Commons, in front of everyone!”

  “Yes. Dreadful! But that was eleven years ago. I cannot think such things would chance today.”

  “They do, though. Only last week, Mitchell was attacked. Dev had a letter from Jeremy Bolster telling him of it. He could not read it—very few people can read Jeremy’s hand. But when I deciphered it, we learned that Mitchell was confined to his bed by reason of a brick heaved at his head by some rabid hooligan.”

  “How awful! I expect it must have been in the newspapers, but what with my driving to and fro each day, I’ve been remiss in my reading of late. Is—er, that where Monsieur Sanguinet went driving off to in such a hurry the other day?”

  The sparkle was reborn in Josie’s dark eyes. Suppressing a smile, she replied, “Yes. They are the very best of friends. I fancy Jeremy and Harry will be en route to Sussex also, and should it transpire that Mitch is badly hurt—which Jeremy thought was not the case—why, then they all will go. All the Nine Knights, as the King calls them.” Her eyes dreaming, she murmured, “There were really twelve, you know, only one was a lady and Prinny does not include poor Diccon, because they said it was his duty since he was an Intelligence Officer, and Craig refuses to be included, because he said he did nothing save join in the battle for a few minutes and get himself shot. But—” She broke off with a gasp. “Oh! I am not supposed to speak of it!”

  Mrs. Bliss, who had listened to this incomprehensible rambling with breathless interest, said, “Well, I didn’t understand any of it, so you need not worry, my dear. Only—one thing I admit, puzzles me.” She paused, then went on hesitantly, “I am sure you will have heard the rumours that are abroad. It is probably nonsense, but my brother believes it all.”

  “About Guy Sanguinet?”

  �
�Yes. And—and some sort of plot that nearly succeeded. The—er, one you referred to, I think?”

  “Oh. What do they say of it?”

  “That it was an attempt to murder the King—when he was Regent, of course. And the Prime Minister, Wellington, and most of the Cabinet.”

  Josie frowned. “How? Do they say?”

  “William says he was told that Claude Sanguinet invited them all to his estate in Chatham, and there fed them veal and mushroom pie. Only they were not mushrooms but toadstools. And that they all were stricken, but … but—” Mrs. Bliss checked. “Josie! How can you laugh at so dreadful a thing?”

  “My apologies,” moaned Josie, drying her eyes. “But—pray do go on. How … how did they survive this unkind menu?”

  “I do not know, but ’tis said that Claude Sanguinet made the mistake of eating some of the pie himself, and that his brother was shot when the guards ran in and—”

  “And found the Regent and all his ministers prostrate!” gasped Josie. “Oh, dear me! I should not laugh, but—how wicked a thing is rumour, to take something, and—”

  “Then—there was something?” asked Mrs. Biss shrewdly. “But—if it is truth, how can Mr. Devenish allow Guy Sanguinet to visit you? And how is it that Monsieur Sanguinet is not in the Tower—or long dead? Oh dear, I do not understand at all. And—he does seem such a nice gentleman.”

  Josie dabbed her handkerchief at her eyes and said, “I cannot tell you all that really happened, Faith.” Her expression was very serious all at once. “And I must have your word of honour that you will not repeat any of our conversation to a soul.”

  Awed, Mrs. Bliss gave her word. “Were you involved in it, then? You must have been only a child! Are you sworn to secrecy?”

  “Not really. Nor was I involved. But over the years I have often crept downstairs to listen to the gentlemen chatting in the evenings, long after they fancied me asleep. And gradually, I was able to piece it all together. Most of what you have heard is untrue. There was”—she dimpled irrepressibly—“no veal and mushroom pie. Neither the Regent nor any of his cabinet was poisoned.”

  Her smooth forehead puckering, Faith muttered, “Then—the rumours lie?”

  Josie shook her head. “Not entirely. It was a terrible plot, engineered by Claude to break the financial structure of the nation and to murder the Regent. That it did not succeed is due only to the Nine, for no one would believe them and they were forced to fight Claude and his followers alone, until each one of them was hurt or made ill. At the finish only a handful were able to go on, and they struggled so gallantly that they were able to prevent tragedy. Even so, had it not been for Guy’s help, the end may have been very different. He is one of the bravest gentlemen I ever met, and took his wound most valiantly, in saving Tristram Leith’s life.”

  Gripping her hands tightly, the widow said, “Then—Monsieur Guy Sanguinet was not, in any way, involved in his brother’s schemes?”

  “No,” replied Josie simply. “Guy is one of the Nine, do you see?”

  Chapter 7

  The grey morning had become a greyer afternoon, the leaden skies donating a steady drizzle to the sodden West of England, and a chill wind sending red and brown leaves scattering like flocks of tiny sparrows.

  James Neblett drew the scarf tighter around his throat and pulled up the collar of his frieze riding coat. Noting the gesture, Devenish, seldom affected by cold weather, said, “Sorry to drag you all this way on such a day, James, but I couldn’t get away sooner.”

  The steward nodded his head. “Your hands is full, sir. And now, with Squire and all—cripes! I’d not be in your shoes, I’m thinking. I’d not reckoned you’d be able to get out today at all.”

  “Well, the ladies are off to shop for their ball finery, and Monsieur Sanguinet”— Devenish paused, frowning,—“went into Sussex for a day or so.”

  “How long do you reckon Squire will stay at Devencourt, sir?”

  “Another week, likely. But since Mrs. Bliss brought his man, he has seemed less irritated by us.”

  Neblett, who had spent many more years on the estate than had his young employer, grinned, and said with the privilege of the long-time retainer, “Pinching at you, is he? Well, Squire’s a hard man, Mr. Devenish. A hard man.”

  “But an honest one,” said Devenish good-humouredly. “Even so, as things stand, I rather doubt he’d agree to repairing the road, and with Miss Storm’s ball less than three weeks away, something must be done. I cannot have our guests axle-deep in mud and unable to get to the house.”

  Neblett ducked as a sudden gust blew icy drops into his face. Devenish pulled his collar higher and, glancing up, gave a startled exclamation. “Jove! Looks as though I’m slow and sorry! Somebody’s already mired down!”

  An elegant barouche leaned at a precarious angle on the slope of the hill ahead. The vehicle was considerably low on the right side, and the guard and a footman were wandering about, gathering shrubs to stick under the wheel that was deeply mired in a large pothole.

  Devenish touched his spurs to Miss Farthing’s sides and cantered forward. “Hello there!” He left Neblett talking with the groom and rode up to the window of the coach. “Good day, ma’am,” he began, lifting his hat as the window slid down. “You seem to have come to … grief!”

  “Alain! Dearest boy, you have rid to my rescue! I might have known!” A lady appeared at the window, a lady whose ermine-trimmed hood framed a face of dark, exotic beauty. Her ringlets were glossy and almost black, her slumbrous heavy-lidded eyes of a dusky brown, yet her complexion fair and at the moment daintily flushed. Full red lips curved to a tender smile, and one white hand stretched out to him.

  Bowing over it automatically, Devenish stammered, “Isabella! How—ah, delightful.” And he thought, ‘Oh, my God!’

  Fate had an even less welcome shock in store for him. From the deeper shadows, another occupant of the carriage leaned forward. Lord Elliot Fontaine drawled, “Devenish! Hail fellow … and all that sort of drivel. We come to see the fallen Caesar. Understand our cousin is recuperating at your place.”

  The perfunctory smile Devenish had dragged up for Lady Isabella now vanished, leaving his blue eyes as chill as the wind that buffeted the group. “I had quite forgot you are distantly related to Sir William,” he said coolly. “I am happy to tell you that he goes along very well, but you will wish to see for yourself. Neblett—a couple of branches from the fallen elm down by the stream will serve better than those shrubs, I fancy.”

  Watching him ride off with his steward in search of the branches, Isabella Scott-Matthias leaned back against the pink cushions, smiling.

  “Lord help the poor fella,” murmured her brother, hurriedly closing the window. “I know that Giaconda grin.”

  “Wretch!” She clasped his hand as he sat down again. “Lord, but he’s in my blood! The very sight of him sets my heart beating like a kettle drum!”

  “A call to arms—as it were,” he sneered. “I vow the fellow must consign his looks to perdition, the way you women swoon at his feet.”

  “It is more than looks,” she argued dreamily. “He is fearless and kind, and gentle. And yet there is a flame in him, and he—”

  “Goes with a most unattractive limp!”

  “Which does but make him the more intriguing. And see how he sits his horse—he rides like a centaur.”

  His lordship yawned. “Desist, desist! Such drooling adulation bores me.”

  She turned to look at him squarely. “I want him, Taine.”

  “It seems doubtful that your desire is returned. No, seriously, Bella—would you not become soon bored watching him hobble about? Gad—’twould revolt me!”

  Her eyes sparked with anger. “Any affliction revolts you! Devenish was wounded by a crossbow bolt, I heard. If that can be called an affliction, it is a noble one.” She leaned to grip his arm and shake it. “Taine—I want him! Only him! Help me.”

  He turned his head, to watch her from under his drooping ey
elids. “Or is it that you want him only because he don’t adore you like the rest of London and Paris? How typically contrary you women are. Even so, I’d help if I could, m’dear. Perhaps,” he amended, with a slow and not quite pleasant smile, “I should say—I will if I can. One must try to be positive. However, I fancy it a forlorn hope. For some inexplicable reason, your beau ideal does not seem to—er, admire me.”

  “Then make him like you! For my sake!”

  Fontaine had a suspicion of the reason behind Devenish’s obvious dislike, and doubted the emotion could be reversed. He had interests of his own at Devencourt, however, and thus said musingly, “How odd, that we should both be drawn to the same household. Very well, Bella. I shall try.”

  With a squeak of gratitude she swooped to kiss him. He chuckled, for in his way he was fond of his beautiful sister. “For a—consideration,” he amended. She drew back, eyeing him guardedly. “If I succeed,” he went on, his light eyes glinting at her, “you must repay in kind, my love.”

  Isabella’s lovely mouth tightened. “The Storm chit?”

  He nodded. “She intrigues me. She is so fresh and—unspoiled. Now never frown, Bellissima—it makes you look hard.” He laughed as her eyes narrowed. “Now you look positively fiendish! Come now—you desire Devenish, I desire the chit. Fair exchange.”

  “Devenish has looks, charm, poise, a fine old name, a beautiful estate, and a fortune. What has his waif? No background, no fortune, and certainly she is not beautiful. I’d not even call her pretty.”

  “We differ. She has an inner light. A warmth and interest in others glows from her like a beacon. In her way, she is as sought-after as her … guardian.”

  She scanned him suspiciously. “Why do you say it like that?”

  “If you did but use those glorious eyes of yours, m’dear, you would see that do I take Mistress Storm away, I do you a large favour.”