“Upset!” Lyon ran a hand through his hair. “I was revolted! I still am! Of all the disgusting—” He closed his lips and resumed his pacing.
Guy thought, ‘Me, I knew that this sooner or later it must come.’ And he asked, “What did he say to you?”
“Some nonsensical bilge about Josie having a nightmare. I pushed him aside and got away from there. By God, but I think I would have struck him had I not done so! If you’d seen it, Guy! The way he looked at her! And her so sweet, so trusting! Never dreaming—Damn his nasty soul! He wants her!”
“She is his daughter, and he loves her as—”
Lyon whirled about to hold the end bedposts, one in each powerful fist, and lean over the foot of the bed, saying through his teeth, “As a father?” He threw back his head and laughed bitterly. “That’s rich! The affection in his eyes was not parental, I can tell you!” He turned away and, Guy remaining silent, muttered, “All these years I’ve admired him as one of the bravest men I ever knew! I looked up to him! And all these years he’s been posing as that dear girl’s father—while he kept her shut away in this lonely place. Gloating over her!” He rammed one fist into his palm and swore savagely, the crude gutter oaths of the slums he was born in.
Guy intervened angrily, “He is the very soul of honour! I am sure—”
“And so am I! When I offered for her, something she said made me suspect that he did not mean her to marry—ever! I have never been more shocked! I fancied he intended to keep her here to wait on him, so he would not be left alone in his old age. But I was wrong!”
“Of course you were. His is too generous the nature for such—”
Eyes blazing, Lyon snarled, “But not too generous to desire that fresh-souled, glowing young girl. At his age!”
“One moment, Lyon! Alain is but three and thirty, and—”
“And has claimed that she is—what? Seventeen, perhaps? Half his age!” He began to pace again, fanning his rage to white heat. “Damn his dirty slyness! How dare he? He warned John Drummond off, I know, for John told me! John is not too old for her! Neither is he crippled! I wonder he does not—” The rush of angry words died in his throat. He swung to stare in horror at his benefactor, and with a groan bowed his face into his hands. “Oh, God! Sir … I am so sorry!”
“There is not the need,” said Guy, but his voice trembled and he was without colour. “It is the reaction naturellement from anyone young and—and undamaged, for someone who is not—”
“No, no! Do not say it! I never meant—I only—”
“You only saw, mon fils, what I have seen—what others have seen these many years.” Lyon’s abased head jerked up. Guy smiled faintly and moved his hand in the way that only the French can do effectively, and that said, “It is useless to fight it; it was inevitable; there is nothing to be done,” all in the one comprehensive gesture. “It was,” he said, “the case of the act charitable, that became, I think, a delight; a child growing up, filling his lonely days with laughter and busy-ness. Stealing away his heart before ever he knew it.”
“He knows it now,” said Lyon in a sibilant hiss that appalled Guy. “If you knew, why did you not warn me?”
“For several of the very fine reasons, mon cher. First—it is not my right to interfere. Second—you mistake emotion for resolution.” Lyon continued to glare at him. He sighed, and went on, “The fact that my dear friend have love his little ward, does not mean he intend to claim her for his own. Indeed, I think this is just what he means not to do.”
“Why?”
“Because, my fierce young gallant, it is in my mind that all of the so-bad things you have say about him have been already said by Alain to his own self. He thinks himself too old for her. That he is not—the whole man. That she is too young her mind to know.” He sighed. “Is sad, this.”
Lyon took a turn about the room. Returning to gaze down at the man who had given him his chance in life, he asked soberly, “And you? What do you think?”
Guy hesitated, then replied slowly, “I think, my Lyon, that no matter what I think, or you think, or Devenish thinks—our Josephine she have the strong little chin. And she will do—exactly as she please.”
* * *
The wind had blown away the weather, or so Cornish cheerfully advised Josie when she went downstairs at half past ten o’clock the next morning. By that hour every servant in the house knew that Miss Storm had suffered a violent nightmare the previous evening, that her guardian had rushed to calm her, and that Dr. Cahill had glared bloody murder when he found Mr. Devenish sitting on Miss Josie’s bed in his night rail, holding her in his arms. The regular servants, knowing the principals in the case, had little to remark, and what they thought was kept among themselves. The new servants sniggered, and one temporary footman was so unwise as to make a coarse jest, in consequence of which he lay on his back in the servants’ hall, with his legs kicking in the air, and the aged butler cackling with glee as he complimented Klaus on a “flush hit!” The new servants ceased to snigger and no further reference was made to the incident. At least, not between the two factions.
“It’s a bit nippy outside, miss,” Cornish added, thinking that the young lady looked a trifle heavy-eyed. “Be nice and clear though, fer Oliver.”
“Oliver…?”
He jerked a thumb upwards. “The moon, miss. Be ’andy ternight!”
Despite the chilly weather, Devenish led those of his guests who fancied a ride on a tour of the estate, leaving Josie to welcome any early arrivals, although most of those coming on the day of the ball were not expected to appear until dusk. Even so, the number in attendance had swelled considerably by the time luncheon was served. This was an informal meal, with people arriving and leaving as the fancy took them, and servants bustling about, bringing in new platters and bowls as supplies diminished. Signor della Casa, the culinary craftsman below stairs, had arranged a selection of cold fowl, ham, and roast beef, platters of sliced cheeses, bowls of fresh fruit from the succession houses, fragrant hot breads and scones, muffins, nutmeats, cakes and jellies, and delicate pastry baskets filled with lemon curd, strawberry preserves, or caramel creme.
The large dining room, which was very large indeed, had been rearranged to hold five long tables, and rang with merry chatter and laughter. Only in one corner was the atmosphere less convivial. Guy had braved the throng at last, and made his awkward way to the end of an empty section of the last table. It remained empty until Lyon joined him, muttering furiously that he emphasized his guilt by sitting away from everyone else.
“But, you see I have not the wish to embarrass Josie,” said Guy simply. At this point, Tristram Leith arrived with his lovely Rachel on his arm. They were an immediate centre of attraction, the Colonel’s good nature having won over many of those who had censured him for his unorthodox departure from the military, followed by his even more unorthodox marriage to a lady who had become the subject of much unsavoury gossip.
The instant Rachel saw Guy, she tugged at her husband’s arm. Leith glanced over, but astonished Rachel by refusing her suggestion that they at once join the two lonely gentlemen. If ever there was a man who had every reason to champion Guy, it was Leith, but he pointed out softly that since they were known to have had some connection with Claude Sanguinet, it might be better if a gentleman not associated with that notorious individual should first join Guy. Spotting a familiar fair head towering almost as high as his own above the throng, Leith took himself over to greet the gentleman.
“The very person I need,” he said, clapping Viscount Lucian St. Clair on the back. “You’ve not met Guy Sanguinet, I think?”
“Nor have I the least wish to do so,” responded Lord Lucian, who had just glimpsed his wife seated where there was no vacant chair available. “If all I hear of that lot is—”
“It isn’t,” said Leith firmly. “Come on, there’s a good chap.” He seized the reluctant Viscount and shepherded him toward the distant empty table.
“The devil!”
expostulated St. Clair indignantly. “See here, Leith—”
“Colonel Leith.”
St. Clair’s smoky grey eyes, so admired by the ladies, narrowed as he eyed this man he had served with in Spain. “The war’s over, Tris. It’s not a bit of use your throwing your rank at me.”
“No,” Leith admitted whimsically. “I was going to ask it of you as a friend, but it seemed less finagling to order you to help me.”
“You are really serious about this? Never say you are bosom bows with a Sanguinet, for I’ll not believe—”
“I fancy you can see me standing here.”
A grin crept into St. Clair’s eyes as they travelled the broad-shouldered giant beside him. “A great deal of you. Sir.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be had it not been for that particular Sanguinet. Nor would he have been paralyzed for two years and still unable to stand without crutches.”
St. Clair gripped Leith’s arm briefly, then moved over to the corner where Lord Jeremy Bolster was already greeting Guy and Lyon. It would have been difficult to find two more popular men than Bolster and St. Clair, and the gap in the table very soon ceased to exist. Nonetheless, the conversation included Guy only when the Viscount or Bolster so contrived it; the other guests, while chatting easily among themselves, neither addressed a single word to the Frenchman nor appeared to hear his occasional quiet remarks.
Lyon, talking later that afternoon with Mitchell Redmond, told the fiery young baron that it would be better for all concerned if he and his mentor left Devencourt. “I’ve already seen Guy cut dead more times than I can stand,” he growled angrily, “and the ball ain’t even begun!”
“That’s easily remedied,” said Redmond, with the determined set to his jaw that his friends knew well. From that moment on, Guy was never without several of the Nine beside him. Their unobtrusive championship of the pariah was remarked, and puzzled many, but despite their efforts the guests split and eddied around them, and although laughing comments were called to the rest of the tight little group, well-bred eyes drifted past, over, or through Guy, but never rested squarely upon him.
* * *
Standing beside Devenish in the Great Hall, wearing a gown of primrose yellow silk, and with primrose ribbons containing her ringlets, Josie thought it impossible that she could be any happier. Her hand ached from being wrung by the second wave of guests, and her cheeks were even more radiant for all the saucy kisses pressed upon them by arriving gentlemen. And how gay was the banter, how warm the good wishes, how kindly she was exclaimed over, and how many times Devenish, obviously delighted, was told he might well be proud of his charming ward.
General Sir Andrew Drummond, who had journeyed from Ayrshire to Sussex, arrived with the rest of the Drummond contingent. The General had at one time been eager to adopt Josie, and she was a great favourite with him. He presented her with a beautiful shawl in the Drummond tartan, and a great silver and ruby pin to fasten it. “Just tae show ye what ye missed, ma bonnie,” he said, grinning broadly at her joy. Not one to restrain her impulses, she gave him a hug and a smacking kiss, and his ruddy cheeks became bright scarlet, his fine whiskers vibrating with mingled delight and shyness.
Drifting past the receiving line, the General made his way to the bookroom, where he found an old enemy, General Sir Nevin Smollet, engaged in quiet converse with Leith. Entering and closing the door behind him, Drummond was greeted by both gentlemen, and came right to the point. “Is’t truth they’ve a Sanguinet here?” he asked. “If ’tis, there’ll be hell to pay. I’d no’ thought Devenish tae be sic a muckle fool—though he’s never been very sonsy, y’ken—as tae spoil the wee lassie’s party!”
Leith, who had been discussing this same sticky problem with the Intelligence Officer, exchanged a glance with that rugged little man, and drawled, “He’s one of us, sir. And you know I owe him my life. I don’t see what—”
“Well, I see what, blast it all! Fella should have changed his name. Lord knows we all begged him to do so!” Drummond, whose Scots accent came and went with his moods, swept on. “I fancy you know Geoffrey Harland is expected, and West-haven, neither of whom could abide Claude, and who know nothing of the real state of affairs. Why in the devil some explanation couldn’t have been given out by the authorities is beyond me.” He glared at Smollet, who met his gaze with equal ferocity, and silence.
“It is—unfortunate,” Leith agreed carefully, feeling like a man trapped between two barrels of dynamite.
“Unfortunate, is it? Whisht, mon! T’will be a sight more than unfortunate, d’ye find ye’ve a full-scale exodus on y’r hands, and if ye dinna ken the likelihood, ye’re a pair of muckle fools!”
“One presumes you have the solution, Andy,” said Smollet acidly.
“Well, I dinna,” returned Drummond, and reverting to his punctilious English, “Speaking of Sanguinet—why did he choose the name Cahill for that foundling of his?”
Leith frowned. “It seems Guy said something of it years ago, when we all were suggesting possible names for the lad. I believe there was a Cahill in some way related to his mama—Guy’s I mean.”
Smollet gave a short bark of laughter. “Not related, Leith. Her lover.”
“Good God! Are you sure, sir? From what I’ve heard of Sanguinet Père, he was the fiend incarnate and not the type a woman would have dared make into a cuckold.”
“It’s true,” said Smollet. “How did you learn of it, Drummond?”
“Fella named Monteil told me. Swiss chap—munitions. Hand in glove with Claude, I discovered later. We were staying at the same chalet near Domstadt. Got snowed in, and spent a few days huddling around the fire, trying to keep warm. He was friendly as a barracuda till we found some bottles of a pretty fair brandy. Monteil was a proper sot, and when the subject of Claude came up somehow, he starting laughing like a treacle-wit and told me about the old man and his second wife. She was a most beautiful lady from what he said, poor creature.”
“She died,” Smollet said baldly.
“Aye. Of grief, Monteil said, though if his tale of the lover was correct, I’d not have given much for her chances of living.”
Intrigued, Leith asked, “What became of the lover?”
“Just what you’d expect,” Smollet muttered. “Found floating in the sea with a knife in his back.”
“Aye,” said Drummond. “Monteil said the old man taunted his wife with the details of it. She was still weak from her confinement, and she collapsed and was dead within a week. Broken heart, he said. Awful thing.”
Leith nodded. “I wonder if Guy knows all this.”
“Likely not,” said Smollet. “Would you wish to tell him, Leith?”
“Lord—no! Thanks just the same, sir. He’s got enough disasters!”
Devenish was also encountering disasters. Small ones at first, such as Lady Godiva who, misliking the cold wind, strove with zeal and determination to slip into the house each time a door was opened. Several guests were understandably startled to find a pig among them, and the Dowager Duchess of Banbury, who had once suffered an embarrassment with a rat at the country seat of the Earl of Harland, emitted a shriek of fright when she bent to stroke what she presumed to be a household pet who had burrowed under her train, and found herself nose to snout with a pig. Devenish was obliged to tell Cornish to put the little animal in the stables, and Lady Godiva was borne off, complaining raucously.
The next disaster was of greater proportions. The temperamental genius below stairs sent a minion for his vat of cream, only to discover that this indispensable commodity was soured. His wrath knew no bounds. Signor Devenish seldom gave the lavish entertainments, but tonight was the opportunity grand! Tonight Dukes and Duchesses would taste della Casa’s creations! But how may he concoct his famous Creme à la Casa without the fine cream? What of his fabulous Della Snow Trifle? Or the Mocha Della Surprise? Pronouncing himself ruined, his reputation ‘tramped ina the duster,’ he flung his apron from him and deserted the kitchens, weeping,
leaving behind a crowd of witless cravens, and poor Wolfe considering the merits of a nervous breakdown.
The recipient of a desperate summons, Devenish quickly stepped into the breach and sent grooms galloping to Cirencester, the Home Farm, and the villages to procure every last teaspoonful of available cream. Returning to the kitchens, he was faced by a demoralized chef who had, he sobbed, been betrayed by envious assistants. He himself had tested the cream when it arrived, and it had been fresh and of an excellence. “It isa the vicious plot, Signor,” he wailed, tearing at his already sparse hair. “I ama the finest of chefs. I ama of the great ones. So I makea the bad friends. Mya nerves, they are defrayed! I ama all in the fragrants!”
“’E means ‘fragments’ guv,” Cornish translated helpfully.
Devenish set his jaw, banished the other members of the staff, and closed the door. What he said to his devastated employee no one was ever to know. The door remained closed for several minutes. When it opened, della Casa’s brown eyes were very round, his demeanour all but cringing as he bowed to his patron. Wolfe, aware of Devenish’s hot temper, was later to remark in an awed voice that never had he seen so deadly a glint in the master’s eyes, nor so grim a line to his mouth.
Turning to the anxious group waiting in the hall, the chef announced with a grand gesture that he would save the day by returning to his tasks. “For,” said he, “I shall be devoured by dormouses before I willa cause Missa Josie one small grieve!”
The staff returned with much relief to the kitchens. Devenish took himself off, pausing at the foot of the stairs to wipe his brow and thank providence that he was finished with the kitchens.
His gratitude was premature. Half an hour later he was again obliged to descend the stairs when three lackeys became very drunk in the wine cellar. They had found their way to the rear of the stores and, well hidden, had indulged themselves to the point that they were singing uproariously and discordantly, despite all attempts to quiet them. Devenish ordered the celebrants hauled to the stables and tossed into the frigid horse troughs. While in the cellar, however, he was astounded by the quantities of fine champagne that he now possessed. Quite enough, he later informed Leith, to have kept the Light Division happy for a year!
Give All to Love Page 18
