Guy was first to leave his room. Cornish, having arranged his tasks with an eye to this moment, was waiting, and rendered assistance downstairs again, tactfully taking himself off as soon as the Great Hall was reached.
In earlier times, when Josie had been a schoolgirl and safely in bed by seven o’clock, Devenish and his friends had been used to gather in the red saloon, which chamber was situated in the west wing between the morning and music rooms. His thoughts elsewhere, Guy instinctively wandered in that direction, and not until he was halfway across the hall did a piping voice halt his erring steps.
He manoeuvred himself about. Wolfe was weaving more or less towards him, waving his arms. “Not that … room, sir,” he puffed. He had worked up to quite a good speed and, unable to stop, came perilously close, took three steps backwards, pitched forward, and grasped Guy’s free arm. “Le’ me … help,” he wheezed, clinging desperately to the swaying Frenchman. Exerting all his strength, Guy managed to remain erect. “Thank you, Wolfe,” he said, convinced they both must go down at any second, but having not the least intention of humiliating the old man by rejecting his “aid.” The ensuing struggle was really exhausting, and he was much relieved when they reached the drawing room door and he was able to insist that he could manage by himself now. The butler conveyed that he had been only too glad to be of assistance, and went off at a pace somewhere between a stagger and a reel.
Guy heard the cracked old voice raised in greeting, and turned about to see Mrs. Bliss coming gracefully into the room. She had undoubtedly seen the fiasco in the hall. His nerves tightened, and his face grew hot, but he bowed as well as he could, thinking how very lovely she looked in the gown of dusty-green tulle, a fine lace shawl of white, trimmed with palest green rosettes, draped around her shoulders. He had been very conscious of her avoidance of him in the two days prior to his departure and, having seen to it that she was comfortably seated, he made his way towards a distant chair, not wishing to embarrass her with unwanted conversation.
“That was very kind, Monsieur Sanguinet,” she said in her musical voice.
He glanced at her in surprise, and hesitated.
“The poor old fellow would have been mortified had you made it clear that you were holding him up rather than t’other way round,” she said, her green eyes twinkling at him in the friendly way they had done on that first afternoon.
Heartened, he said, “He have mean so well, you know, Madame,” and took a tentative step back towards her. “Would you permit that I bring you the glass of wine?”
The light of the flames was echoed in her bright curls as she nodded her head. “Ratafia would be nice, if you please.”
So she thought him capable of carrying the liqueur to her. Further, she had apparently forgiven him for being the scion of such an infamous house. Guy turned eagerly to the sideboard.
* * *
Josie had determined to ride out with her guardian next morning, to inspect the progress, if any, that had been made on the repairs to the access road. Before they left, however, she wanted to look over the ancient and allegedly valuable tapestries that had been packed away for decades, but that Devenish had now ordered restored to the ballroom walls.
She ate breakfast with Mrs. Grenfell in the breakfast parlour. Devenish was off somewhere, and Guy did not put in an appearance. As soon as the light meal was finished, the two ladies repaired to the vast, cold ballroom in which the tapestries were being assembled. Several large rolls already had been deposited on folding tables that were usually employed for al fresco picnics. Two footmen were carrying in another roll, Simeon Wolfe supervising the process. Josie asked, “Is this all of them, Wolfe?”
“All we could find, miss. They hang between each pair of windows.”
Dubious, Josie touched a long, dusty roll with the tip of one finger. “What do you think, Pan? They look awfully dreary.”
“We cannot tell,” rumbled the chaperon. “They are inside out.”
Josie requesting without much enthusiasm that this condition be reversed, the footmen untied the wide strips of cloth that had been used to bind one of the rolls, and the tapestry was spread. It was quite creased. The two men held it up and shook it out helpfully as Josie stepped nearer, and she was at once enveloped in a cloud of dust.
“Oh … dear!” she gasped, and retreated, sneezing.
Clapping a handkerchief over her nostrils, Mrs. Grenfell declared resonantly, “We cannot like dust!” and fled the room.
Josie persisted, however, wiping her eyes, and drawing near again. The workmanship was superb, but the colours were rather faded, as well they might be after several centuries. “What on earth is it supposed to represent?” she murmured, peering.
“Good gracious!” cried Wolfe, and launched his erratic way between Josie and the tapestry. “Do not look, miss!” he implored, spreading wide his arms.
“What’s to do?” enquired Devenish, coming briskly into the room and eyeing his butler with amusement. “Charades, Wolfe?”
“It is—not fitting for the young lady,” declared the butler, agitated.
“I think Wolfe finds your tapestry improper, dear sir,” Josie said with a dimple.
“Is it, begad! Step aside, my Elf, and let me see.” His ward dutifully retreating a few paces, Devenish in turn inspected the tapestry, guided by Wolfe’s whispered comments. Chuckling, he spun about and clapped a hand over Josie’s eyes. “Disgraceful! If that’s the way they behaved in those days, one would think they’d have tried to keep still about it, rather than raise great embroidered monuments to their depravity!”
“Depravity?” she said, trying to remove his hand. “I did not see—”
“Nor shall you, my girl!” He jerked his head, and the footmen, grinning, laid the offending tapestry to one side.
“Let’s see the next,” said Devenish. “Josie, perhaps you’d best go and knit, or something.”
Released, she replied indignantly that she would do no such thing, and they both bent their interest upon the next objet d’art to be held up for inspection. This one, in tones of muted greens, faded blues, and dejected pinks, depicted some extraordinarily well-endowed maidens cavorting in a most abandoned way around a maypole. A bullock of heroic proportions was being roasted over some pallid flames, and various rather distorted cottages wavered beside the village green. “May Day,” read Josie, squinting at the lower edge.
“What d’you suppose these shepherds are up to over here?” muttered Devenish.
Josie joined him, gave a gasp, and put her hand over his eyes.
“The deuce!” he exclaimed, taking her hand away. “Jove, but they were a warm lot! I don’t know about our ancestors, m’dear!”
“Your ancestors,” she corrected him primly. “I’m sure mine, being poor, were figures of propriety”
“Probably,” he agreed absently, frowning at another scene. “Whoever bent her needle on this lot didn’t know her business! Only look at all these legless birds. They’re not flying, and whoever heard of birds just hanging in the air like that? I’ll tell you what, Josie, let’s forget about these mons—”
“Foolish creature! They are ducks,” she said.
“They are? Where’s the pond?”
They both leaned nearer. “I think this must be it,” said Josie, gesturing. “Perhaps, if we stood farther back…”
“Now, this is rather well done,” he said, interested. “See how the wolf is killing that sheep.” He pointed, and Josie gave a shriek as “the wolf” scampered off, leaving the placid sheep untouched.
“It’s only a spider, silly chit,” said Devenish, laughing as she threw her arms around him.
“I don’t l-like spiders,” she said, shivering.
“Then I shall murder it for you.” He raised his boot.
“No!” she shrieked, clinging to him and pulling him back.
She caught him off balance, and his game leg gave out. Trying to restore him, Josie fell also. They both toppled into the tapestry, the footmen
staggered, the ancient fabric split, and Devenish and his ward fell through the middle, the tapestry, wrenched from the footmen’s hands, folding in upon them.
Hilarious, Devenish pulled the equally amused Josie to him, and the footmen, chuckling, lifted the tapestry.
“What … a tragedy,” spluttered Devenish, waving away dust, and, turning Josie’s laughing face, asked fondly, “All right, my Elf?”
Her eyes very tender suddenly, she said, “Yes. Are you?”
“This is the jolly hide-and-seek game, oui?”
Guy stood watching, balanced on his crutch. He was smiling, but there was a gravity in his eyes that brought a deep flush to Devenish’s face.
“A fine pair of wits-to-let you must think us,” he said, scrambling up and assisting Josie to her feet.
“Speak for yourself, my Gaffer.” She danced over to the Frenchman. “Wait till you see these prize possessions, dear Guy. They are the very naughtiest things!”
“But so sly that I doubt anyone will notice,” added Devenish.
She glanced quickly at him, wondering at the vexation on the handsome features. “Dev—you never mean to hang them?”
“But—these, they are splendid,” said Guy, coming closer and viewing the maligned works of art with an experienced eye.
“Splendid?” exclaimed Josie. “They’re dusty and faded, and all droopily out of shape! They would look awful! Surely, we can use something else?”
Guy pursed his lips. “Do you know,” he said thoughtfully, “if they were with care cleaned and repaired, and the fine frame put around them, they might do much better.”
“You do not frame a tapestry,” said Devenish, aghast. “Ain’t done!”
“But we cannot hang them as they are, dearest,” Josie argued.
He shook his head, then said a breezy, “Oh, all right. You are in charge of tapestry restoration, Monsieur Guy!”
“But—can it be done in time?” Josie threw an appealing glance at Devenish. “I do so want everything to be perfect.”
He smiled at her. “Of course you do. And it shall be, I promise.”
“We shall help,” called Mrs. Grenfell from the doorway, “if they first remove the dust.”
Sanguinet had hoped to enlist the aid of another seamstress, but he said without a hint of inner disappointment that he was sure between the two of them, they would complete the task in time for the ball.
Thanking him, Devenish invited that both he and Mrs. Grenfell accompany them on the road inspection, but the new partners declined, Guy saying he meant to inspect the rest of the tapestries, after which it would be necessary to take measurements so that frames might be constructed. They left him busily occupied, with the footmen helping, Mrs. Grenfell calling advice, and Wolfe watching anxiously lest he might be obliged to support the Frenchman again.
Chapter 8
“You are very quiet this morning, Dev,” said Josie, as they rode through the cold, grey morning.
He brightened at once. “I was just thinking about—er, those dashed tapestries. Do you suppose Guy’s idea will help the stupid things?”
“It might. It was most kind in him to offer to help. Although, you rather foisted the task upon him, now that I come to think of it.”
“Give him something to do. He’s likely been bored to death since he came, poor fellow.”
“Oh, no.”
“Well, at all events, with your dragon’s assistance, it shouldn’t take too much of his time. And, they seem to get along well enough.”
“True. I doubt she will help him, though.” He stared at her, and she went on with a mischievous smile. “Did you not notice Faith’s carriage driving up as we left?”
“Well, of course I did. Waved to the lady, didn’t we? What has that to do with Mrs. G. not helping?”
“It has everything to do with it, blind one.”
He gave a shocked gasp. “You cannot— My Lord! You never mean—Pandora Grenfell and—and Sir James…?”
Her mirth over that remark resulted in her having to request his handkerchief, to dry her tears. Handing over the article, he said rather wistfully, “Gad, but I love to hear you laugh, Josie.”
She turned her merry face to him. Her habit of rich brown wool fitted snugly about her shapely figure, and the matching fur-trimmed cap framed her glowing cheeks, the big dark eyes seeming illumined by her laughter.
After a lost interval, Devenish wrenched his eyes away. “What did you mean, then?” he asked hurriedly.
“Foolish one, Faith Bliss has been coming to visit her brother every day for over a week, and you’ve not noticed?”
He frowned. “Mrs. Bliss? Oh, come now, Elf. Not Guy?”
At once her amusement vanished. “Why not? I believe she was drawn to him from the moment they met.”
“And purely fascinated when he fell at her feet,” he said scornfully.
“What a perfectly miserable thing to say!”
“And what a true one! Romancing is all well and good to a point, my girl, but you must face reality. Guy is scarcely a desirable parti.”
“For shame, Dev! He is a gentle, gallant, wonderful—”
“Cripple.”
She levelled a pale-faced, furious glare at him, lifted her reins, and kicked home her heels. The mare was off in a flash, but Devenish was after her like the wind. He came up fast, leaned to seize Josie’s reins, and drew the mare to a halt.
His ward made no attempt to resist, but sat with her face turned away and her little chin high.
“My apologies if I upset you,” he said firmly. “But—truth is truth, however unpleasant.”
“The only unpleasant thing is you,” she said.
“Josie—look at me.”
“No!” And then, perversely, she jerked her head around, revealing eyes ablaze with anger. “I hate you when you are like this. I hate you!”
His gaze fell for an instant. He said quietly, “As well, perhaps. All children hate their parents at one time or another.”
“I am not your child,” she said through her teeth. “And you are not my parent!”
“I’ll own I’ve not been a proper one. The point is, Mrs. Bliss is a lovely, healthy young woman. I cannot feature Guy being so selfish as—”
“Selfish!”
“As to saddle her with—”
Very white now, she said, “Dev—stop. I vow I’ll hit you if you do not! Stop, or let me go.”
He met her gaze levelly. Infuriated, she swung her whip high. Devenish lifted his head slightly, but did not slacken his grip on her reins.
“Good gracious me,” cried a mocking voice. “‘The quarrel is a very pretty quarrel as it stands; we should only spoil it by trying to explain it.’”
Devenish swore softly, intensely, and audibly.
Josie’s face lit up. “Lord Elliot!” She lowered her arm. “A quotation, I think. Byron?”
“Sheridan.” Fontaine removed his hat and bowed gracefully in the saddle. “I hope we do not—er, interrupt anything?”
“I would say we arrived at a most opportune moment,” said his sister, her magnificent eyes flashing wrath as they rested upon Josie.
“I would have to agree, ma’am,” Devenish said, ruefully.
“Bella,” said the Viscount with amused magnanimity, “it is clear that ‘our task is not to negotiate, but to deflect.’ Come then, do you divert poor Dev, and I shall endeavor to lighten the mood of the fair Josephine.”
Devenish’s grim look at Fontaine was countered by a guileless grin. The Viscount waved an expansive invitation, Lady Isabella guided her dainty white mare to join Devenish, and off they went, two and two.
And who could have been more carefree than Mistress Storm, her little peal of laughter so frequently enchanting her adoring escort? Who could have been more cheerful and witty and entertaining than Alain Jonas Devenish, his full attention focused on the beautiful woman at his side, his own deep laugh occasionally countering the musical ripple that drifted from his vivacious wa
rd? Isabella glowed that grey morning, for however barbed her criticism of some member of the ton, however thinly veiled the double entendres that dropped from her ruby lips, not once did the man of her dreams contradict her, or evade the subject. And as for my lord Fontaine, surely the girl was not born who could fail to be flattered by his admiration, or remain glum in the face of his whimsy.
The men labouring on the road looked enviously at the riding group. The foreman hurried over to knuckle his brow and report that despite the weather, the work was well begun and with luck would be completed in time for Miss Storm’s party.
Devenish saw the pit yawning at his feet, and was powerless.
“Party?” murmured the Viscount, as they turned back towards the house. “Have you a birthday approaching, lovely one? And I remiss in observing it? Now, woe is me! I cannot but lose stature in your eyes.”
“’Tis no use your dropping hints, Taine,” his sister called over her shoulder. “I already tried that and was cleverly turned aside.” She gazed soulfully at Devenish. “I believe we are not wanted at the party.”
With a brief and savage mental disposition of Elliot Fontaine, Devenish replied that he was perfectly sure all their friends would be invited.
Josie’s heart seemed to stop. Breaking an instant of taut silence, she trilled, “We are still writing our cards, I’m afraid, but certainly it would be my very great pleasure if you could come, my lord. And your sister, of course.”
Isabella called, “Prettily said, Miss Storm. Can you respond as charmingly, Taine?”
“Assurément,” he declared, flourishing his beaver. “Merci beaucoup, Mademoiselle Josephine. We are enchantés, and shall be most pleased to attend.” He added in a stage whisper, “I should include Devenish, perhaps?” He grimaced in his grotesque parody of a pout. “Although, I do not think he quite approves of me.”
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