“By Jove, but it can!” cried someone in the crowd. “We want no treacherous assassins numbered among our acquaintances!”
“We have no proof Guy Sanguinet has done anything treacherous,” cried the Duke of Vaille, his clear voice cutting through a rising growl of endorsement.
“All England knows him for a rogue and a villain,” argued Little. “All England knows he and his damnable brother nigh succeeded in murdering the King when he was Regent! And nothing done about it!”
“No time like the present!”
“Throw the dirty swine out!”
The Nine were all about Guy now. Mrs. Bliss, eluding her brother’s outstretched hand, stepped closer to the slight figure of the Frenchman. The hostile crowd surged closer, ladies retreating hurriedly, as the room became Bedlam, everyone seeming to shout at once.
Stepping between Guy and Little, Devenish threw caution aside. “If anyone’s to be thrown out, Little—”
“I’d damned well like to see you try it, sir,” raged the Squire, lifting the heavy horsewhip he carried.
Camille Damon, who had struggled vainly to make himself heard above the uproar, fought his way to the musicians’ dais, and a stirring and familiar melody rang out, a melody so unexpected that the din ceased as if by magic, every head turning in astonishment to the pianoforte Damon played with thunderous pomp.
Her fear turning to bewilderment, Josie thought, ‘“God Save the King”…?’ Turning, she saw Camille standing as he played, and jerking his dark head in desperate warning in the general direction of the hall.
And then, those closest to the doors were moving back respectfully. Astounded, Josie saw gentlemen bowing low; ladies sinking into curtsies the depth of which could mean only one thing.
As in a dream, she heard Devenish gasp, “Good … God…!”
Chapter 13
King George IV now filled the open doorway, on the arm of the gentleman-in-waiting at his side. Devenish, who had not seen the King in some time, was as aghast as he was astonished. He’d heard that George had become enormously fat, but the man he remembered seemed to have doubled in bulk. Recovering his wits, he hurried to bow low before the monarch.
The King extended one chubby hand. “Devenish, m’dear chap,” he said breathlessly, as Devenish bowed over that hand. “You’ll think us a pretty lot to invade your party.”
“We are very much honoured, sir. That you would come all this way—I am overwhelmed!”
“Pish! We do not forget those who serve us as nobly as have you. Ah, there is Redmond! Come here, Mitchell! You wicked rascal, I never dreamed when you saved my life you’d become such a thorn in my flesh.” He ignored the little buzz of excited comment, and went on, “How is that fine head of yours? We heard it lately attracted a rather dense admirer.”
The royal retinue tittered at this witticism. Mitchell, who had hastened to make his bow, thanked His Majesty for his concern and assured him he was fully recovered.
George patted him on the shoulder and waddled on, remarking to a friend, “Jolly fine fellow that, Knighton. Saved my life back in ’seventeen, did you know?” He nodded absently. “Brother’s a good boy, too. Served under me in Spain.”
Those near enough to overhear this entirely fallacious comment exchanged uneasy glances, but if the King’s mind was wandering, it soon recovered itself, and he made his way through the throng, pausing now and then to chat briefly with some distinguished guest or lovely lady. Despite his bulk and the fact that he was obviously tired, he was graciousness itself and, watching him, Josie was reminded of the most recent disagreement between Dev, who had always defended “Prinny,” and Mitchell, who found him exasperating. “His faults are legion, I’ll own it,” Devenish had said. “But he has many good points, which have been deliberately ignored by that flock of vicious satirists who so delight in defaming him.” Lucinda, Countess of Carden, knew the King well, and had once told Josie, “He is like a small boy who is often very silly, but he can be kind and generous and, when he is in a good mood is the best of hosts and great fun to be with. He yearns to be loved by his subjects but, alas, usually sets about it in quite the wrong way.” George was not loved, and he knew it. It seemed to Josie that there was a suggestion of wistfulness in those flabby, sweat-beaded features and, although there was much about him that she deplored, she could only feel sorry for the lonely man before whom the crowd parted and dipped like meadow grasses swaying in the wind.
Devenish led the way to a sturdy sofa and prayed it might accommodate the royal bulk. With an audible groan of relief, King George lowered himself to the cushions. The sofa groaned also, but held firm. Praying again, Devenish expressed the insincere hope that Devencourt was to be honoured by His Majesty choosing to overnight here.
George beamed. “Dashed good of you m’dear fellow. We stay at Berkeley, but took the waters at Cheltenham. Heard of the ball for your young lady, and could not resist stopping to renew old acquaintance.”
Devenish, his smile fixed, his eyes glassy, wondered how they were possibly to find space for the King and his retinue, which appeared to number at least thirty ladies and gentlemen, to say nothing of carriages, horses, grooms, and servants.
Peering about, the King asked, “Which is your gel?”
Bolster took Josie’s hand and led her to Devenish. She was more than a little frightened, but Devenish smiled at her, gave her fingers an encouraging squeeze, and ushered her to the royal presence. “Your Majesty, may I present Miss Josephine Storm?”
She sank into a deep curtsy.
“Stand up, you pretty creature,” said the King, managing to lean sufficiently far as to chuck her under the chin. The protuberant eyes surveyed her fresh young face and generous little figure. “Ah, but you’ve grown into a comely lass,” he said, winking at her. “Were I but a few years younger now…”
Well aware that he preferred the company of more mature ladies, Josie responded audaciously, “Or I a year or two older, sir.”
“A year or two, is it?” A delighted grin overspread George’s face. “You saucy puss! Did you hear that, Francis? A year or two, she says!” He went into a guffaw that set every layer of him jiggling, and brought cautious laughter rippling from his entourage and the crowd. “You must come and see Windsor, you little rascal. Bring her down, Devenish. You’ll not recognize the old place. We’ve not finished, of course, for it was gone to rack and ruin, but we have brought much of it up to style and filled it with treasures.” His lower lip sagged into a pout. “They’re saying we’ve been extravagant, you know. They always do. Perhaps we have, but—by God, when we’re gone, England will have something nice to remember us by.” He sighed dismally.
Josie said, “We have some quite fine tapestries, Your Majesty.”
He brightened. “Where, my pretty? Ah—I see. We shall have a closer look, but they appear splendid. Where’d you find them, Devenish? We’d likely have outbid you, had we known.”
“They were in the basement, sir.” And with a flash of inspiration, he added, “Sanguinet helped us restore them.”
The King stiffened. “Sanguinet?”
Sir William Little said, “Never fear, Your Majesty. We’re watching him.”
“Then we thank you for it. Come here, if you please, Monsieur.”
A few grim chuckles were heard. Guy struggled forward. The Earl of Harland, his face stern, accompanied him each step of the way, ignoring his son’s frantic attempts to catch his eye.
Guy’s bow was not very successful and he lost his balance for a second. Someone sniggered. The King, his face suddenly bleak, scanned the crowd. Silence fell. Returning his attention to the man who waited before him, George said in a very kind voice, “My dear fellow, how pleased we are to see you up and about again.”
The silence was absolute. Guy, who had not dreamed of being publicly addressed by the monarch, was overcome and powerless to respond. For once in his life taken completely by surprise, Geoffrey Harland’s aristocratic jaw dropped ludicrously. Sir
William Little, coming forward and staring as if he could not believe his eyes, quite forgot protocol and stammered, “But-but he’s a traitor, sir. A scheming Frenchy who plotted against your life!”
The King frowned and, turning to Devenish, said testily, “Who is that silly fellow? We do not at all care for his manners!”
Sir William turned red as fire and backed away.
“He is my neighbour, sir,” said Devenish with a grin.
“And he is also the staunch patriot,” Guy put in shyly. “It is natural he should suspect me, Your Majesty. With my name…” He shrugged.
“Nonsense! We have heard something of the ugliness to which you’ve been subjected. Time it was stopped. We shall give you a new name. Should’ve done so long since. Remind me, Francis. Now, listen, all you people—this man is a Sanguinet, which is to be regretted. He is also, however, a very fine gentleman, and owes his disability to a gallant attempt to protect us. We’ll thank you to treat him with kindness.” Here, the royal eye alighting upon a hovering footman with a well-laden tray, he said cheerily, “By Jove, but that looks pleasant! Run along, you people, and enjoy your dance. I say, this is frightfully good of you, Devenish.”
Devenish’s response was lost in the sudden buzz of chatter. Wolfe appeared and led the royal retinue to the dining room. Guy started away, but Harland stepped up to him and bowed. “Monsieur—en effet, I have been under a misapprehension. I am sorry for it, and humbly beg your pardon.”
It was just the beginning. The emotions of the guests had come full circle. From a heady desire to lynch the Frenchman came the need to make amends for their treatment of him. It appeared that everyone present asked nothing more than to speak to him, to shake him by the hand, to tell him they were “jolly glad” to make his acquaintance.
Josie, overjoyed, rushed to hug the tearful Faith, and Sir William, looking miserable, hung back until at last, catching Guy’s eye, he muttered, “It was very sporting of you to—to defend me, Sanguinet.”
His throat choked by emotion, his hazel eyes suspiciously bright, Guy put out his bruising hand. Sir William took it gratefully.
Lyon came up, beaming. “Congratulations, sir! You’re cleared, at last! You’re also looking rather tired and no wonder.”
“No,” Guy managed gruffly. “Merci, but I am very fine.”
“And will be the better for a short rest,” said Faith with an undeniably proprietary air.
Guy flushed, said happily that doubtless Madame was right, and went with her towards the hall.
The King waved a chicken wing and said merrily, “Come along now! On with the dance!”
His heart thudding into his shoes, Devenish smiled, bowed, and hurried off. His faint hopes proved unfounded. The musicians had salted away several bottles of the tainted champagne and, to a man, were prostrated. Tearing his hair with frustration, Devenish sought out Mrs. Robinson and threw that poor lady into a near-fainting condition by telling her all the accommodations must be changed so as to make room for the royal guests. He left her, white and shaking, and went back upstairs.
Crossing the Great Hall, he met Leith, who informed him that Viscount Fontaine had been loaded into his chaise and with his sister in attendance was being driven home. “You’ve made a dangerous enemy, Dev,” the tall man said gravely. “I wish to God you’d not hit the fellow.”
“Oh, pox on the wretched hound! Tris, the damned musicians are all sick as a sea lion! And there sits Prinny, waiting for music!”
“Lord save us all! He’ll go off in a huff!”
“Yes. And I cannot have that…”
Devenish made his way through the crowd, waiting a little impatiently now for the dance to resume. He clambered onto the dais and pounded discordantly on the keys of the pianoforte. The chatter faded. He held up his hands and begged for quiet, and gradually it was achieved. From the corner of his eye he saw Josie watching him anxiously and, off to the side, his monarch, busily applying himself to the contents of the tray, but with his eyes fixed upon the dais.
“My friends,” Devenish called clearly. “I have a disaster to announce! My musicians found their way into my wine cellar…” There was a roar of laughter. The king grinned around a cheese tart. “They are quite unable to play,” he added. At once the grin faded from the fat countenance. The tart was lowered and so was the royal lower lip. Devenish raised his voice to be heard over the clamour of disappointment. “I know we have many fine musicians amongst us. It is unforgivably rude of me to ask it, but”—his brilliant grin swept the sea of upturned faces—“will you help me?”
The response was immediate. Viscount Stephen Whitthurst and several friends picked up Camille Damon bodily and carried him to the pianoforte. “Here’s a volunteer!” yelled Whitthurst. Lady Carlotta Bryce, mother of the famous artist and an excellent harpist, needed little urging to take her place by that beautiful instrument. Lord Edward Ridgley, who played the violin well, said good-naturedly that he’d “give it a try,” and in no time an orchestra was assembled.
With the help of two of his gentlemen, King George regained his feet. “And I shall lead you, ladies and gentlemen,” he proclaimed, beaming. “By Jupiter, but this is a jolly party!”
A sturdy bench was carried forward, His Majesty was lowered onto it and, after a short consultation and some small disagreements among the musicians, Damon called something to the King, and George bellowed, “Take your partners for the waltz!”
Another guest chose that moment to put in an appearance. Lady Godiva trotted through the welter of skirts and pantaloons. Whether she supposed that the one individual seated alone must be her god, it would be difficult to guess. Suffice it to say that she made her way to the bench and sat beside it, facing the dais.
Comparison was inevitable. Scores of dainty fans fluttered up to hide convulsed faces; countless linen handkerchiefs smothered chortles of mirth. Cold with horror as Mitchell Redmond led her to the floor, Josie darted a frenzied glance at Devenish, who was preparing to return to the lower areas and assist his unfortunate housekeeper. He returned her look with some puzzlement, turned in the direction of her nod, and gave a gasp. The royal temperament was uncertain at best. If George decided he was being mocked, he could be merciless—as he’d been in the case of poor Brummell. Devenish started to run. Even as he reached for the pig, King George raised his arms to start the volunteer orchestra, saw Lady Bryce’s horrified expression, and glanced down. He gave a startled yelp, and the baton Damon had passed him fell from his hand.
“S-sir,” stammered Devenish, seeking frantically for a logical explanation, “I cannot tell wh-why, but this animal is a pest and, whenever we have company, seems to delight in seeking out the most distinguished of our guests and attaching herself to him. I pray you will forgive this—er, intrusion.”
Through the following absolute hush, not a soul moved, and Devenish held his breath, waiting for the wrathful explosion.
Lady Godiva wriggled and uttered a tentative snort.
The King’s staring eyes blinked. He looked narrowly at Devenish’s pale, tense face. Suddenly, he chuckled. “No, no. Let her stay,” he said, reaching down to pat the pig’s head. “What’s her name?”
“Lady Godiva, Your Majesty.”
George laughed. The gentlemen-in-waiting laughed. The guests laughed. And Devenish could breathe again.
“You little varmint,” said the King, as Lady Godiva smiled up at him, “damme if you ain’t fatter than I am!”
* * *
Peering at her brother’s face, dimly illumined by the carriage lamps, Lady Isabella asked, “Is it stopped bleeding, love?”
“Yes,” replied the Viscount thickly. “But—by God, if that bastard has broke my nose…!”
“Never say so! Taine, you—you mean to call him out, of course?”
For a long moment there was no answer, the only sounds the plodding of the horses’ hoofs and the rattle and squeak of the chaise as it followed the narrow, moonlit ribbon of the road.
&nb
sp; Fontaine said in a thoughtful drawl, “No. It would interfere with my plans.”
Isabella closed her eyes briefly. Emboldened by this unhoped-for decision, she next asked, “Whatever did you do to cause him to knock you down?”
“I accused him of compromising his ward.” Fontaine chuckled faintly. “To say the least of it.”
She gave a despairing wail. “Then I am quite undone! He’ll never come near me again!”
Unmoved, he continued to dab cautiously at his nose and pronounced it unbroken. Isabella began to weep and he snapped impatiently, “Oh, be still! Why you should want the block is past understanding! Aside from his looks, the fella’s scarce a great matrimonial prize. He’s as hot at hand as he can stare, and will likely be tumbling into disasters for as long as he draws breath. He cannot walk straight, which is enough to turn one’s stomach. His fortune is not large. And as for that disgusting old pile of his— Egad, Bella! It would drive you distracted inside a month! Certainly, you’d have to turn off every single freak he calls a servant! A fine beau you’ve chosen! Take your noble lamebrain and be thankful!”
“My ‘noble lamebrain,’” she retaliated, wiping fiercely at her tearful eyes, “is six and sixty, has no hair, and Waterloo teeth!”
“Ah, but you would be a duchess, m’dear! And such a rich one! Certainement, you could find l’amour elsewhere.”
“Oh, but you are hateful!” she cried fiercely. “I love Dev! Can you not understand? I love him, and I want him!” And in response to his derisive snort, she said in a flame, “Laugh then! But consider, dear brother, you’ve a lust for his wretched foundling, and you may be sure she never will glance your way now. He is sure to tell her what you said.”
Amused, he murmured, “No, do you think so? I doubt it. Whatever his faults, the fool is a gentleman. Besides…” He paused, and in a little while went on with a slow smile, “There is, my beautiful, more than one way to skin a cat.”
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