“To say nothing,” he went on, slanting a stern look at her, “of a Marquis—”
“Who—Camille Damon? Why, he’s the very dearest thing and not at all stiff-rumped.”
“Good God! Don’t let anyone hear you make such a remark!” he gasped, his scold losing some of its effect as he went on. “Cam can be deuced stiff-rumped when he chooses, I’ll have you know! At least four Earls, a brace of Generals, three Countesses, and a couple of lowly Viscounts! And if your assortment of bizarreries—”
“But only think of all the starched-up new servants we’ve brought in, Dev. I met a footman this morning who was so icy, he scared me to death!”
He chuckled, squeezed her hand, and then was welcoming the elegant Philip, Duke of Vaille, and his lovely Duchess, Charlotte. Scarcely had these august aristocrats been ushered to their rooms than Josie, with a little squeak of joy, had thrown herself into the arms of one of her favourites, Vaille’s only son, the darkly handsome Camille, Marquis of Damon, his Marchioness, Lady Sophia, laughing merrily as she, too, was hugged and exclaimed over.
“Dev,” said Camille, shaking hands with his host, “I see you haven’t beaten all the spontaneity out of your Elf as yet.”
Gingerly separating his whitened fingers, Devenish groaned, “Which is more than I can say for my poor hand! You might remember I’m a frail human being, Cam, and no match for your solid steel grip!”
Damon, a notable musician renowned for his brilliance at the harpsichord, apologized and inspected the remains with such exaggerated concern that Devenish was moved to cuff him, drawing forth his deep laugh.
Lady Sophia, holding Josie back a little as the men walked across the Great Hall together, whispered, “Josie dear, forgive me, but—is it true that you number one of the Sanguinets among your guests?”
Fond of this beautiful lady, Josie caught her breath and admitted it was truth.
“Oh, dear,” murmured Sophia, looking troubled.
“Do you know Guy?” asked Josie, at once irked.
“No. And Camille and I are persuaded you would never have invited him unless he was a fine gentleman. The thing is—well, my papa-in-law is—er, rather set against him. And if Geoffrey Harland should come—good heavens!”
“The Earl has accepted the invitation, as has Lucian.” Josie paused, and turned to scan her guest’s violet eyes. “You do not think they would leave us because of Guy’s presence?” she asked anxiously.
Sophia hesitated. “I fear they will cut him—at the very least. Cam said he knows his father would not have come had he dreamed Sanguinet would be here. Vaille is the dearest man imaginable, Josie, but when he is angered, oh my!”
Josie’s heart sank.
The guests came thick and fast after that; the great house rang with cheerful talk and laughter, for most of these distinguished people moved in the same circles and were well acquainted, if not close personal friends. Josie was beside Devenish to welcome her guests, and warned him of her conversation with Lady Sophia.
Immediately furious, Devenish was also dismayed. He realized belatedly that Guy’s presence might cast a cloud over the ball that was the most important event of his ward’s young life. Nothing must hurt Josie, yet Guy was much too good a friend to be shamed or driven to leaving the festivities. Worried, Devenish managed a word with Jeremy Bolster, as a result of which the two young men cornered Philip, Duke of Vaille, and had a private conversation with him. Nothing was said in violation of their given word, but sufficient was implied as to leave his Grace considerably astonished and promising to do whatever he might to prevent trouble.
That the trouble did not materialize that day was largely due to Guy himself. He slipped away on his usual afternoon drive and, returning rather later than was expected, was drenched to the skin so that Lyon insisted he go at once to his bed. A tray was carried up to his room. Josie, full of concern for her beloved Guy, worried that he was keeping himself out of sight so as to spare her any possible embarrassment, but since it really had been raining hard and Guy had been very wet, she palliated her conscience by sending a lackey to the head gardener with the request that a large bouquet of whatever flowers were still available in the gardens or greenhouses be brought to her. The footman she had found so chilling once before brought the message that the flowers had arrived. He conducted her with grand condescension up the stairs to her sewing room, where lay the blooms and a basket of assorted fern. Several vases, a large pitcher of water, and a pair of shears had been provided. When Josie asked why the flowers had not been left in the scullery, the footman replied that the scullery and potting room were “very full of persons, and the chef full of vexation.”
“Oh, of course.” She smiled at him sunnily. “These are lovely. Please convey my thanks to Addicott.”
He bowed and took himself off, not once having looked directly at her.
“Brrr!” she exclaimed softly, and applied herself to the flowers. The house was bright with the bouquets provided by the florists, but these were for Guy and must be their own blooms. She chose a broad-mouthed vase of Chinese porcelain and was completing her arrangement, when the door opened and her guardian stuck in his fair head. “What’s to do?” he enquired.
“I should be with our guests, I know, but this won’t take long. They’re for Guy.” She stood back, surveying her creation with head on one side.
Devenish came over to slip an arm about her. “Jolly nice. And a kind thought, m’dear.” He smiled down at her. Then, putting one slim finger under her chin, tilted her head up and said, “You can do something for another of our guests, if you will.”
She was fairly sure of what the request would be and at once irritated, returned her attention to the vase, adding a spray of fern to the blooms.
“It’s about Yolande,” Devenish began, eyeing her warily. “What a surprise,” she said with rare sarcasm.
He frowned and turned to the door.
Whirling about, she said, “No, do not go off in a huff. What is it?”
He leaned back against the door, watching her. “Craig and I are perhaps closer than most cousins, since his sire was twin to my mama. Besides which, I owe him my life. I cannot like to see his wife treated unkindly in my home, Josie.”
“I have not been unkind! I avoid her if I can, but I doubt she notices.”
“You are your usual delightful self to every lady except Yolande. She would need to be dense indeed not to notice. And I do assure you the lady is not in the least dense.”
“That is a matter of opinion,” she muttered rebelliously.
He said icily, “It is my opinion. Twice I have seen her go out of her way to be friendly, and you were so polite and so distant, I could scarce believe it of you. You are her hostess. It will not do, Josie.”
Perhaps twice in her life had he addressed her in such a tone and with such a look. She felt as if she had been spanked. Tears flooded her eyes and her heart twisted. Somehow, she managed to say in a strangled voice, “I am very sorry, Dev. I—will try to be … better.” She waited for him to come and hold her tight, as he always did when she wept, but with her head bowed through a brief pause, she heard him say a clipped, “Thank you,” and then the door opened and closed.
With a gasp she flung up her head. He had gone. She took up a chrysanthemum and stared at it blankly. He must be very angry indeed. ‘It is that wretched woman,’ she thought. ‘She has come to my ball to spoil everything! Well, I won’t let her!’ She blinked away tears, added the chrysanthemum to the vase, and, realizing it was too much, took it out only to have half the flowers become disarranged in the process. Replacing them rather savagely, she wondered if the Flash House would have been so very dreadful, after all …
Fletcher found her young mistress unexpectedly subdued while she was being dressed for dinner. Longing to restore the happiness to the wan little face, she was relieved when a scratch sounded at the door.
Josie’s heart began to beat very fast. Dev had come to apologize and be friends again. She looked u
p with a shy smile as Fletcher ushered the visitor into the room, and the smile was replaced by dismay. Dismissing her almost equally disappointed abigail, she stood to greet this very unwanted caller.
Yolande Tyndale said quietly, “I have come to ask if you would prefer that Craig and I slip away before your ball tomorrow.”
“Oh, no!” cried Josie, aghast. “Have I been that rude?”
Yolande smiled and, occupying a chair, replied, “You have not been rude at all. You never are. Only—a woman can sense when another woman dislikes her, do you not think?”
So it was to be the moment of truth between them. Accepting that, Josie sat on the end of her big bed. She seemed very small and vulnerable, framed by the lofty brocade bedcurtains, her pale orange taffeta with its dainty white embroidery and scalloped flounces giving her an ethereal look. She was, thought Yolande, rather endearingly pretty, and she added, “I wish you did not, you know.”
“I wish I did not, either. But I just cannot help myself. When I try to like you for Dev’s sake, I keep remembering how it was, at first. How terribly you hurt him.” Josie put a hand to her lips, knowing she was being outrageous, but then she blurted out, “And you didn’t care! You sent him off, breaking his dear heart for you. And you—you didn’t give a snap!”
With a rustle of draperies, Yolande ran to sit beside her and take one cold, unwilling little hand. “Oh, my dear! Never think that! I cared—very much. And so did Craig.”
“Dev loved you,” Josie said accusingly.
“And I loved him. Very much. That was what made it so hard. I always had loved him, and I would have married him, probably, had I not met Craig.”
“His own cousin,” said Josie with a curl of the lip. “Poor Dev always says in his loyal way that Craig saved his life. He thinks the world of him. In spite of his … treachery.”
Yolande’s back stiffened and she frowned a little.
Noting the change of mood, Josie said, “I’m sorry,” and added forlornly, “There I go again. Dev will be so cross with me.”
For a moment Yolande was quiet. Then she tried again. “Josie—Craig did save Dev’s life.”
“I know. And Dev saved his! I saw it.”
“That is true. There is such a deep bond between them. I used to pray it would be so.” She bent her head, her thick curls of that lovely shade between auburn and brown glowing in the candlelight. And then, looking up from under her arching brows, she said softly, “The problem was, you see—Dev never was in love with me.”
Josie’s mouth fell open a little with shock.
Yolande smiled into her stunned eyes. “We had grown up together, as you know, and it always had been understood we would marry. Dev just … took me for granted.” Her smile was wistful. “You will think it silly perhaps, but—I wanted to be courted.”
“No. No, I quite understand. Oh, I do understand, but—” Her face crumpled. “But—I don’t understand.”
And somehow, they were both laughing and holding hands.
“How could he not court you?” asked Josie. “Didn’t he bring you gifts?”
“Indeed he did. I remember one of his last offerings. It was a fox kit he had found. It was full of fleas, bit one of the maids, and wrecked the kitchen. But—it wasn’t only that, of course. Not the unromantical gifts. It was just—everything.” She sighed nostalgically. “He loved me as—as something he owned. Not as a sister, I mean. But as though I were a requisite part of a picture he had painted. He was in love with the picture, do you see? He was in love with—with love. Not with me.”
Josie sat very still, her eyes wide.
Yolande said gravely, “I asked him once what he most wanted from life. He said he wanted to prove himself. He never fought on the Peninsula, nor felt he had served his country. Then, he said, he wanted to make his uncle proud of him. And, of course, he wanted a complete life: a home, children, and—me.” She smiled wryly. “I came in a rather poor last. And the worst thing was—he didn’t even realize what he had said because loving me—fitting me into his picture—had become a habit. His battles with that dreadful Claude Sanguinet satisfied his first two wishes. When the time is right, he will find the rest of his happiness, and it will be a much deeper joy than ever he could have found with me. He knows that now.”
Josie whispered, “He—knows?”
“He admitted to me quite some years ago that I had been perfectly right.” Yolande gripped the hand she held. “And so—if he has forgiven, do you think—you might…?”
Josie threw herself into the arms of this woman she always had despised. “Oh, yes! Yolande, thank you! Thank you!”
* * *
They sat down forty-two to dinner that evening and, looking down the long line of distinguished gentlemen and lovely ladies, Josie thought with a surge of pride that all these noble aristocrats were come to do her honour. Certainly, they knew of her lack of background; assuredly, they all had received other invitations they might well have accepted for this weekend, most being closer to home than an isolated estate in Gloucestershire. Yet—here they were. And even if they were really here out of respect and affection for Dev, they were pleased with her, or seemed so. Surely, he must be just a little proud of her?
At the far end of the table, she saw his fair head tilt a little, the better to see her around the enormous glitter of the epergne. Even at that distance she could see a trace of anxiety in his face. He lifted his wineglass and inclined his head very slightly. She smiled at him, and a slow smile answered her, and she knew she was forgiven.
The musicians, who had played softly during the meal, later moved into the ballroom, and a small dance party ensued. It was Josie’s weekend, and she was the undisputed centre of attention. Her more youthful swains were cast into the shade by the magnificence of the Duke of Vaille, the fame of Lord Mitchell Redmond, the charm of his dashing brother, Sir Harry, the shy gentleness of Lord Jeremy Bolster, all in good-humoured competition for her hand in the dance.
It was very late when she stood at the foot of the stairs with her guardian to bid goodnight to their guests, and she saw his surprised expression after she hugged Yolande and wished her sweet dreams.
“Thank you, Elf,” he murmured.
“Do not take the credit, sir,” she said airily. “Yolande and I have sorted out our differences. She is the one you should thank, and—Oh, Dev! She is the dearest creature! No wonder you love her!”
There was no time for more, the Duke of Vaille leading up his beautiful Charlotte and telling Devenish he must get a good night’s sleep was he to do full honour to Mistress Storm on the morrow.
Devenish and many of the younger gentlemen stayed up, but Josie soon went to bed in a daze of happiness, knowing that her success tonight was only a prelude to the splendour that was to come.
She was more tired than she knew, and almost fell asleep while Fletcher was brushing out her curls. The night was very cold, and a strong wind had come up that set the shutters to rattling, and sent occasional puffs of smoke down the chimneys. Fletcher had placed a warming pan between the sheets at eleven o’clock, and by midnight Josie’s bed was snugly warm. She curled up under the blankets, but would not allow Fletcher to draw the bedcurtains in spite of the draughts, saying she wanted to awaken with the first ray of light.
She was asleep almost at once, but during the night the wind grew louder, disturbing her slumbers, and the eiderdown slipped so that she shivered and tried, half-waking, to get warmer …
A powerful hand gripped her arm bruisingly. She could smell gin and dirt and sweat. A crude voice snarled, “Thought ye’d get away, did yer, Tabby? By goles, but I’ll whip some sense inter yer!” Evil, narrow eyes glinted. A cruel face, stubbled by whiskers, thrust at her. A muscular hand holding a sapling branch whizzed down. She screamed shrilly and fought to get away. “A nice little shape yer gettin’—all ready fer the Flash House. A good price ye’ll bring, dang yer claws!” She screamed again, frenzied, fighting, but the iron grasp tightened inexorably
…
“Josie! Little one! It’s all right! It’s all right!”
Gasping, terrified, her heart thudding madly, she opened her eyes. The door to her bedchamber stood wide. By the light from the hall lamp she saw that Devenish, a dark blue dressing gown over his nightshirt, sat on the edge of the bed, holding her, trying to calm her. Sobbing and incoherent with fear, she threw herself into his arms. “Dev … it—it was—”
“I know,” he said soothingly. “Akim and Benjo. You dreamed they had you again. But they do not, dearest. You’re safe. You’re quite safe.”
She clung to him, shuddering, sobbingly telling him how ghastly it had been, how real it had seemed that this time, for sure, she’d be sold into—
“Hush, my babe. It’s all gone. Easy now. It was just a dream. Too much excitement for my little girl.”
Her head was comfortably on his shoulder; his strong arms held her safe and close; his deep voice murmured reassurances until her sobs eased to spasmodic little gulps.
Fletcher, who had come running when she woke to that terrible screaming, stepped forward, and Devenish laid his ward back upon her pillows, dried her tears very gently, and bent, smiling, to kiss her forehead.
“Dev…” she pleaded, clinging to his hand as she’d done so often down the years, “you won’t—go away?”
“My room is not so far distant,” he said. “And Maisie will stay with you.”
She smiled a grateful smile, and he patted her hand, then left her.
And closing the door, turned to come face to face with Lyon, his dark eyes holding a fierce accusation, his mouth a down-swooping line of fury.
* * *
Sitting up in bed, his hair tousled, his eyes grave, Guy Sanguinet watched the youth who paced like a caged beast at the foot of the bed. “Truly, it is that I am growing old,” he muttered. “My room she is as far as Dev’s, yet I heard not the sound.”
“No,” snorted Lyon. “And I should not have disturbed you, for you were tired out. I’m a thoughtless dolt.”
“Mais non. You were upset and should come to—”
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