With a smothered curse, Devenish relaxed his hold and turned away.
Grasping his throat, Lyon said unsteadily, “That leaves little doubt of my hopes … does it not! Good day—to you, sir!” Shaking with fury, he prepared to mount up.
An urgent hand gripped his arm. Whipping back one fist, prepared for battle, he was confronted by a remorseful smile. Devenish said humbly, “My poor fellow. Please accept my apologies. I’d no intent— It was just the thought of Fontaine, daring to— Lyon—forgive. Please! You must know that if she should choose you, I’d never stand in your way.”
The dark face lit up. Lyon gave a whoop. Devenish was seized and whirled around. Laughing, he cried, “Desist, you blasted madman!”
Lyon obliged, and they walked on, side by side, leading the horses. Elated, Lyon cried, “What a day this has been! Dev—when may I speak to her? I know you believe her to be sixteen, though I’ve often thought—”
“Yes. Many others have thought the same. It seems—that I was mistaken.” With an effort, he added, “By—by two years, at least, probably.”
Halting, staring at him, Lyon gasped, “Two … Then—then she would be eighteen? My God! Dev—do you mean it? You know that means—”
“That you had better choose your moment carefully, you great oaf. The fact I allow it does not mean you’ve won her, you—” He was interrupted for another outburst of wild exuberance, so that it was some moments before Lyon was sufficiently calm to be able to ask, “Will you tell me now what you have against Elliot Fontaine?”
Devenish’s face clouded. He said grittily, “Nothing I can speak of, for I’ve no proof. I take it you find him unexceptionable.”
“I’ve met him only a time or two, but he’s always been pleasant. More pleasant than many.”
“Oh, he’s pleasant—damn him!”
Lyon eyed him askance. “This wouldn’t be one of your clairvoyant starts?”
Devenish growled, fumed, but finally said irritably, “To an extent. I cannot abide the man! There’s that about him makes my skin creep.” He knew Lyon was staring at him, and went on impatiently, “Oh, I know it sounds mad, but there it is. As for your being shunned—I’d hoped it would be better when Guy moved here from Sussex. Has it not improved at all?”
“At first it was better. Now it’s worse. I suppose the word is spreading. Lord knows how Wellington ever thought to keep the business quiet. The whispers are becoming louder, but all people seem to know for certain is that Claude plotted against the crown. They don’t know how damnably close he came to murdering the Regent and wrecking the whole country. If that ever becomes public knowledge”—he shook his head, troubled—“they’ll likely take my poor guv’nor out and lynch him!”
“They might, at that. And there’d be precious little use trying to explain to a mindless mob that Guy was crippled because he opposed his brother.”
After another pause during which each man was occupied with inner forebodings, Devenish asked, “How does Guy go on, by the way?”
“What a gudgeon I am!” His face bright again, Lyon said, “He can walk with only one crutch now, Dev! I was never so pleased!”
“I can well imagine! How splendid! Belmont told me you were trying some new treatments, but—”
“Belmont?” Lyon halted to search his face. “Did you see Belmont whilst you were in Town? Dammit—that leg’s troubling you again! I told you last year you should—”
“It shall have to trouble me a deal more before I’ll allow you to hack it off, you ruthless butcher! Do not be sharpening your scimitar on my account!”
Lyon smiled, but his eyes were worried. “It should not distress you so after all this time. What did his lordship say?”
“That you’re the best man he’s ever trained, and you’ve the finest hands he ever saw.”
Flushed with pleasure, Lyon stammered, “He really said that? By my immortal soul! I—I cannot believe it! He always makes me feel such a block! Oh, by Jove! Wait till I tell Josie!”
“She’ll be proud of you, certainly—as we all are! Well, rapscallion, I think I’ll head for home. Do you come with me?”
Since his beloved had not yet returned, Lyon declined this offer, eager to tell his parent Lord Belmont’s opinion of him. They parted, therefore, Devenish sending word to Guy Sanguinet that he and his adopted son would be expected to arrive at Devencourt within a day or two, to stay for a week at least.
En route home, Devenish held Santana to a steady canter. The wind was growing stronger and the big black, still full of energy, chose to be alarmed when leaves fluttered past, and to shy at a rabbit that scuttled across his path. Lost in thought, Devenish paid no heed to these frivolities. Lyon’s declaration had not surprised him. For a long time it had been obvious that the boy was deeply smitten. And there was no doubt that Josie was fond of him. Striving to be objective, Devenish was forced to admit Lyon was not the mate he would have chosen for her. But to cling to the conviction that only a Prince of the blood would be worthy was to be unrealistic. If Lyon was as brilliant as Belmont claimed, and Lord knows that crusty old curmudgeon was not one to praise lightly, Lyon would become a great surgeon. Perhaps, even win himself a title someday. Josie would enjoy the good things of life. Devenish gazed unseeingly at the darkening clouds. If she chose him … He pulled back his sagging shoulders. She must choose someone, after all, and God knows it would be better that she choose Lyon than that bastard Fontaine! The murderous rage returned. By God, but if she’d not written by tomorrow, he’d post off to Sussex and remove her from that satyr’s vicinity!
He touched his spurs to Santana’s sides. The stallion’s ears pricked up, he gave an eager snort, and they were away, racing along beside the curve of the river, but passed unexpectedly by a chestnut mare who shot from a grove of aspens, ears flat against her head and eyes rolling. Santana neighed indignation as Devenish reined him aside barely in time to avoid a collision. Uneasy, Devenish set the black in pursuit of the mare. She was riderless and panicked, but no match for the power of the stallion. Gradually they shortened the distance until they were level with her rump, then had passed the dainty sidesaddle and blowing mane. Devenish leaned perilously to grab at the trailing reins. On the second attempt he caught one and, adjusting Santana’s stride to a nicety, began to pull the mare down, until he had brought her to a standstill.
Dismounting, he tethered the jealous stallion to a bush and approached the mare. She danced away, tossing her head up, her eyes big with fear. He spoke to her gently, stroked the foam-splashed neck, and as usual, his way with animals prevailed. In a few moments she was nuzzling against his shoulder, her shudders quite gone and her breathing normal. “You’re a pretty creature,” he told her. “But my large friend yonder is becoming apoplectic, and besides, we must find the lady who was riding you.”
Accordingly, he mounted again and, leading the mare, turned southwards once more. When he came to the aspen grove, he rode cautiously in amongst the dappled shade of the trees. His calls won no response, but after a short while he was dismayed to discern the prone figure of a lady.
From the moment his broken engagement had become public knowledge seven years ago, he had been an object of considerable interest to the females of the south country. He was far from conceited, but would have been a fool not to know that he had the kind of male beauty that drew women of every age, style, and circumstance. He had also known for some years that fate had once again dealt him a bitter hand, and was resigned to the life of a bachelor. His affaires de coeur had been conducted with discretion and were for the most part of a fleeting nature, although one of his loves had proven constant. He was deeply fond of this lady, who was several years his senior, and they enjoyed a relationship of mutual affection and respect. Despite his elusive tactics with the marriageable ladies, however, and the fact that he chose to spend much of the year in the country, the lures continued to be thrown out. Unfailingly courteous, Devenish knew only scorn for the type of woman who fancied herself in
love with him only because of his looks, while having not the least idea of his nature. On a few unhappy occasions he had been almost trapped by determined ladies, and had once been forced into a duel when a lovelorn creature had invaded his hotel room and been discovered there by her outraged spouse. It was, therefore, with no little apprehension that he dismounted and, tethering the horses, hastened towards the figure huddled face down amongst the ferns.
She was a statuesque female, and for a moment he was appalled by the suspicion that Isabella had once more levelled her guns in his direction. But he saw as he drew nearer that the tumbled curls were red instead of black. Much relieved, he knelt beside her. She did not move, but she was breathing. Her habit was very disordered. He could see a good deal of one shapely leg clad in a knee-length silk stocking, above which were the lacy frills of a pink chemise, and he bent instinctively to pull the rumpled habit over these embarrassments.
“What are you doing?”
He jumped guiltily. “I was—er, restoring your garments. Are you much hurt, ma’am?”
“My—dignity is, certainly.” She had a low, musical voice, and striving to lift her head, said, “Oh, dear. I am so … dizzy.”
He watched her anxiously, sure he should be doing something. Brightening, he told her that he had just parted from a doctor friend, and would ride after him.
“Oh, no!” The titian curls stirred agitatedly. “Pray do not leave me!” One gloved hand was propped against the leafy ground, and she raised her head.
Devenish reached out to aid her, but hesitated. She gave a little sound of pain, and he abandoned timidity and lifted her, turning her carefully until she lay in his arms. She was very white, and a small cut high on her forehead had sent a trickle of blood down to her right eye. He saw with relief that she was no schoolroom miss, and that she seemed more dazed than hurt. She was quite lovely in a serene way, with long grey eyes, flawless skin, and regular if not remarkable features. He was considerably aghast when she blinked at him, and then said a weak but amused, “Oh! It’s … you!”
“My apologies. I—er, cannot seem to recall…”
“I am Mrs. Bliss,” she provided, her voice a little steadier. “I have seen you about your—estate. I had, in fact, planned to—to call upon your daughter.” She blinked again and, scanning the finely chiselled features bent above her, said with a twinkle, “Oh, dear, but—she cannot be your daughter, can she?”
He grinned, warming to this forthright lady. “She is my ward, ma’am. And—alas, I am still bewildered. Which is of no importance. Pray tell me if you are hurt anywhere.”
She moved tentatively, said that everything seemed workable, then added, “Oh, you have found my horse! She is very well mannered, but a quite big branch came down and knocked me from the saddle, and she ran off, I suppose.”
“I wonder you were not killed! Where did it strike you?”
“Luckily, the main branch did not, but the smaller limbs and all the leaves caught me. I think I can stand now, if you would be so kind as to help, Mr. Devenish.”
He did so, handling her with such care that she leaned on him without the least shyness. He supported her briefly until she could regain her sense of balance and, with her head against his neckcloth, she murmured, “You are very good, sir. I should tell you that I am—newly come into Gloucestershire. My husband was Major Percy Bliss, and fell at Waterloo.”
A widow! He tensed and murmured polite regrets.
A low ripple of laughter sounded. Lifting her head, she looked him straight in the eye and said whimsically, “Have I alarmed you? Pray be easy. I have no designs on you. Oh, dear! Now I have shocked you. But you see, I have heard how you are—er, hunted.” He flushed, but she saw the smile creep back into those incredibly blue eyes, and said candidly, “And you are too young for me. Besides which—I really did fall.”
He could not restrain a chuckle, but made her sit on a convenient fallen treetrunk while he dabbed his handkerchief gently at her brow. “One is always supposed to have water available at such a moment,” he said ruefully. “What a clodpole I am to have no least idea where there is any, closer than the river. May I ask where you are staying, Mrs. Bliss?”
“Not far out of your way,” she replied. “I stay with my eldest brother, Sir William Little.”
“Oh—begad!” gasped Devenish.
Chapter 4
“Welcome home, miss,” quavered the butler, beaming at Josie’s radiance.
“Thank you, Wolfe.” Starry-eyed, she looked around the vast chamber of the old wing that was again the Great Hall. “How lovely everything is, is it not, Pan?”
“We are weary,” uttered Mrs. Grenfell austerely, and ascended the stairs, supported by the ever-attentive Klaus.
“Lady Godiva!” exclaimed Josie, bending to stroke the pig who had trotted through the assorted humans gathered around this pleasant girl, and was emitting piercing squeals as she butted her head against Josie’s skirts.
“She’s missed you,” said Mrs. Robinson, her faded eyes bright.
“We all have,” agreed Wolfe. “The master, especially.”
Josie straightened. “Where is he?”
“Out, miss,” put in Cornish, carrying in her dressing case and valise.
“I wanted to surprise him. Oh, never say he’s gone to fetch me?”
“Just out riding, miss,” said Wolfe, fixing the footman with a fierce eye.
“Santana,” said the footman. “Shouldn’t of.”
“You may take Miss Storm’s things upstairs, Cornish,” said Wolfe awfully.
“Right, mate.” Cornish made for the stairs.
Watching him, amused, Josie asked, “Is Santana not in good condition?”
“Fresh as a daisy,” said Wolfe.
“’E’s a ’orrid ’ack,” supplied Cornish from the stairs. “And the guv’s been a bit chin sunk.”
“That—will—do!” decreed Wolfe, so emphatically that he rocked himself off balance and teetered back and forth.
Frightened, Josie said, “Mr. Devenish is not ill?”
“No, no, miss,” soothed the housekeeper, walking to the stairs with her.
“Just a trifle out of temper,” contributed Wolfe, more or less keeping pace on Josie’s other side.
Cornish stuck his head around the corner of the first floor landing. “And ’e ’ad a bloomin’ great row wiv Sir Willyum!”
“Oh, no! About the road, Wolfe?”
“I couldn’t say, miss,” piped the butler, his murderous gaze on the landing.
“I think it was on account of the master wouldn’t have that poacher transported,” said Mrs. Robinson. “Awful hard man is the Squire. Went out of here with his face so red as any lobster. Roaring, he was. And the master laughing at him.”
“Oh dear, oh dear! I knew I should have come home sooner.” Josie hurried up the stairs, but paused to call, “Do we set out extra covers tonight, Wolfe?”
“I think not, miss. Though the master said Colonel Leith might be coming to us very shortly.”
“Oh, lovely.” Josie hummed as she hurried on to the front suite two flights above the Great Hall which Devenish had caused to be remodelled for her birthday last year; a date she had fixed as May 20th, that having been the date in 1816 on which she had first entered his life, and when—to her way of thinking—her own life had begun.
It was a delightful suite, decorated in shades of pink with white and fuchsia accents. The parlour was spacious, there was a well-equipped dressing room, an adjoining bedchamber for her abigail, and a large and luxurious bedchamber. Josie proceeded to the latter room, which was dominated by a graceful canopied bed, its pink and white brocade curtains tied back with fuchsia satin ropes. It was a room of thick rugs, fine satinwood furniture, highly polished random-width plank floors, and tastefully hung small oils and watercolours. Above the marble mantelpiece was an exceptionally fine print of a badger, and the air carried the faint fragrance of Josie’s favourite scent, Essence de Printemps. She closed her
eyes for a second and breathed it in happily, then ran to her bedside table and took up the miniature she had so longed to have with her in Sussex.
Devenish had loathed every moment that he had sat for Coleridge Bryce to paint his portrait. The young peer was in great demand, the Top Ten Thousand having discovered to their delight that the talented artist was one of their own. He was also a wizard of the canvas and, looking down at her guardian’s pictured face and the lurking smile Colley had captured so cleverly, Josie’s eyes blurred. “Dev…” she whispered.
“Brought yer hot water, miss,” said Fletcher, hurrying into the room with a large copper jug. The gaunt, middle-aged woman looked as though she would be more at home in a Billingsgate fish market than wearing the neat uniform of an abigail. Her husband had been killed in the Peterloo riots; her child had died of influenza and, driven to desperation, she had turned to prostitution until she had lost one eye in a tavern brawl. That disaster had ended her unhappy career and she had been arrested for stealing bread when Josie, one of the customers in the bakery, had interceded for her. Devenish had come nigh to fainting when he discovered that his ward intended to make the battered wreck of a woman her abigail, and had, in a rare display of anger, put his foot down and said a flat No! Josie had looked up at him, her schoolgirl face unwontedly grave. “But do you see, dearest Dev,” she had said, “she is what I might have become, but for you.” He had been appalled, but even so it had been one of their longer tussles before he had thrown up his hands and agreed to Maisie Fletcher being added to what he privately referred to as his ménage bizarre.
Fletcher, who would cheerfully have done bloody murder for her young mistress, was quite aware of the reservations of the head of the house and kept well out of his way until the time that Josie had been stricken with diphtheria. Fletcher’s devotion had won the terror-stricken man’s heart, and when he had attempted to thank her, the weary voice whispering, “I’m dirt under her pretty feet, but—I do so love her, Mr. Devenish,” had compelled him to say, “It is the best thing any of us can give her, m’dear. She had precious little of it in her childhood, Lord knows,” and there had been no more suggestions that Fletcher obtain employment elsewhere.
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