“I do not know, miss. I happened to overhear something he said before he left. I’d not meant to eavesdrop, I do assure you, but I came around the side of the house just as his lordship grasped the master’s arm. He swore at him, and said, ‘Dev—it would be suicide! By God, if I thought you really meant to do so crack-brained a thing—!’ And then he saw me, and he stopped speaking.”
Inwardly frightened, Josie said, “Well, you may be sure I shall— Oh, dear—is there more?”
His pale hands gripped and wrung. He said, “If I alarm you for nothing, Mr. Devenish will be most provoked, I know, but—I was sent into Cirencester early this afternoon, to get the report from the Constable there.”
Surprised, she asked, “About the fire?”
“Why, no, miss. About the champagne.”
“Good gracious! I did not know Mr. Devenish meant to bring an action because the wine was spoiled.”
“But it was not spoiled, miss. It was poisoned.”
Her heart seemed to stop. One hand lifted involuntarily to her throat in the gesture that always betrayed shock. For anyone to have done such a dreadful thing must point to a deepseated hatred for either herself or Dev. She certainly had not won the heart of everyone she’d ever met, but neither had she, to the best of her knowledge, aroused so deep a dislike as to result in this horrid business. Dev, with his hasty temper, his unyielding loyalties, his attraction for women, had made many enemies, but—who hated him? Claude Sanguinet had, but Claude was dead. There was Gerard, of course, Claude’s deadly lieutenant who had disappeared after the abortive attempt to seize power in England, and had never been heard of again. And—Lyon … She was ashamed of the thought even as it dawned. Hot-tempered Lyon might be, but he was an honourable young man, and he would never do anything to hurt her, for she was very sure that he loved her devotedly.
Watching her paling face from under his meekly lowered lashes, Finlayson smiled to himself. “It was on account of that nasty business that what happened today has me a—a bit worried, miss. I didn’t say anything to Mr. Wolfe, lest he think me stepping above my station, but I thought you might want me to … er…”
“Yes, yes,” she said, trying not to panic. “Do please tell me what it is that concerns you.”
“Well, it was whilst I was in Cirencester, miss. I chanced to stop at a little tavern while I waited for the Constable. I’d just gone out to the yard to get my horse, when the master rode in like the devil was at his heels. I went over to him, of course, but he—oh, miss, he behaved in so strange a way. Pushed past me, as if he didn’t even know me, and muttered something about—nothing wouldn’t stop him settling accounts this time.”
Josie’s tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of her mouth. That fierce pride of his again! She asked, “Did you see anyone else at the tavern with whom you were acquainted?”
“No, miss. Well—not to say ‘acquainted.’ I did see a carriage in the yard with the crest of Lord Fontaine on the panel.”
Very pale, Josie started to the door. “You were quite right to come to me about this. I must go there at once. Be so good as to have the horses put to my new barouche and send Klaus to me.”
The footman ran to swing the door open for her, and she saw John Drummond striding along the hall, his fine face aglow with an excitement that faded into alarm as he saw her expression. She stretched out both hands. “Oh, John! Thank heaven you are here!”
* * *
The elegant barouche proceeded at a spanking pace along the Cirencester Road, Alfred Coachman driving, and Klaus sitting beside him, arms folded and eyes worried. Inside, John Drummond held Josie’s cold little hand and tried to ease her fears. Despite his calm words, he was much disturbed. There were rumours Devenish and Fontaine had come to blows at Josie’s ball. If that was so, most certainly a duel was planned. And if Fontaine had also been at that blasted inn, it might already have been conducted!
He patted Josie’s hand and told her again that it was likely a lot of fuss about nothing, but he thought of how quiet Dev had seemed when he’d drunk the toast, and come to think of it, he hadn’t been able to eat the pie, either. Naturally not, knowing he was likely going to his death! Gad, but it was a fine mess. And to think he’d come here hoping to clear the way for his nuptials! There could be no thought of a proposal now. Josie adored her tempestuous guardian, and if Dev had gone off and let Fontaine blow a hole through him … He thought, ‘Poor old Dev’ and stared glumly out of the window.
For Josie, the miles seemed to creep past. No less than Drummond did she dread the outcome of their desperate journey. Her fears were so magnified by the time they reached Cirencester that she could not stop shivering.
The coachman knew the Boar’s Head, and a few minutes later they turned off the main road into a winding lane, and thence to the yard of a small, nicely maintained inn. Ostlers came running to hold the team. Klaus jumped down to open the door and let down the steps, and Drummond alighted and handed Josie into what was again a steady sleet.
The host, a spry little man, obviously pleased by the arrival of so luxurious a vehicle, hurried out with an umbrella. Cutting through his babble of welcome, Drummond said urgently, “Is Mr. Alain Devenish here?”
The man’s jaw dropped, and he stared from one to the other like a bewildered owl. Another individual ran up, collar turned high against the freezing rain. Lifting his hat respectfully, he said, “Are you friends of Mr. Devenish? He is upstairs. This way!”
“Hold hard,” the host objected, shaking out his umbrella as the little party hurried into the warm vestibule, “The young lady shouldn’t go up there!”
He had as well speak to the wind. With a little sob of apprehension, Josie followed the other man to the stairs. Drummond hesitated, calling to Klaus to “wait with the luggage until we know what Miss Storm wishes to do.”
The stranger had paused at the foot of the stairs, staring after Josie with a puzzled frown. Drummond strode to his side. “Is it very bad?”
The man turned to him. “Bad? Lord—perhaps it is! I wish I’d not been so helpful!” And with the words he all but ran for the door and was gone.
Josie had already reached the upstairs hall. There were three doors on each side of a narrow corridor. She knocked softly at the first door on the right and, receiving no response, ran to the door on the left. She thought she heard a woman laugh, low and throatily, but decided it must have come from the next room. She scratched softly at the panel, thought to hear a response, and opened the door. She stepped inside, only to halt, frozen with shock.
Devenish lay on the bed. He wore neither boots nor coat, and his shirt was unbuttoned to the waist, but there were no bloodstained bandages, no doctor hovering in attendance. The person hovering over him was a woman—a beautiful woman who lay beside him in her petticoats, struggling to remove his hand from her bodice. Lady Isabella was in a state of considerable dishevellment, her hair tousled and awry, one strap hanging from her bare shoulder to reveal the soft swell of an ample breast. Squealing, she glanced up and with a gasp of horror sprang from the bed.
Drummond, who had raced up after Josie, looked past the motionless girl and gasped, “By … God…!”
Through numbed lips, Josie whispered, “Dev…?”
“How … how dare you!” cried my lady, striving with belated propriety to restore her bodice.
Hideously embarrassed, Drummond gulped, “We made—we made a mistake! We thought—er,” He grasped Josie’s elbow. “I apologize! Most dreadfully sorry. Good—er, good day!”
Josie pulled free. Her face very white, she demanded, “Dev, are you mad? To be here with this lady is—”
“La!” interrupted Isabella. “I suppose I may be alone with my affianced husband!”
The room seemed to rock. Dimly, Josie knew that Drummond had muttered something and that another man had come in and stood beside her.
Devenish struggled to one elbow and peered at the new arrivals. “Jo … shie?” he uttered. “Whachou … doin’
wi’ him?”
Viscount Fontaine said a savage, “Your pardon, Drummond,” and slammed the door closed. “Bella,” he grated, “I fancy you do not have to be told that this behaviour is beyond the pale! As for you, Devenish—Gad, but your love-nest fairly reeks of brandy! Damme, sir! Attend me! My seconds will—”
With a shriek, Isabella threw herself between her justifiably incensed brother and the sagging Devenish. “We are betrothed, Taine! He offered, and I accepted!”
“And came at once to bed to seal the bargain?” The Viscount’s lip curled. “Pretty behaviour, upon my word! If you want your name bandied about in every coffee house and tavern from here to Land’s End, I may tell you that I do not! Get your things, ma’am!” She glared at him rebelliously, and he snapped, “At once!”
With a toss of her curls and a defiant glance at the girl who stood in stunned silence, Isabella snatched up her gown and flounced into the adjoining room, slamming the door behind her.
Fontaine strode to the bed and frowned down at Devenish, who was still propped on one elbow and peering blearily about. “Well, sir?” demanded his lordship. “Has my sister the straight of it? Or are you too far in your cups to know whether you offered or not?”
With difficulty, Devenish managed a slurred, “Wouldn’ dream ’f … contra—dict’n … lady.”
The appalled Drummond plucked at Josie’s pelisse. “Come, m’dear ma’am. No business here. Best get out of this.” He took her resistless hand and led her to the door, where he paused to direct an aghast look at the Viscount. “Very sorry, Fontaine.”
Fontaine came to drop a gentle hand on Josie’s shoulder. “I am sorry, too,” he said, and opened the door.
Speechless, grief-stricken, Josie allowed John Drummond to lead her down the stairs, and away.
Fontaine closed the door, and paced to stare down at the man now lying motionless on the bed. “Sot,” he muttered, and then, touching his jaw and the bruises that cosmetics barely managed to cover, he chuckled. “Let that be a lesson to you, future brother-in-law. Never twist the tail of a tiger until you’re sure the tiger is dead! And this tiger, my fool, is—”
“Have they gone?”
He glanced to the connecting door. “All gone, Madame Sid-dons.”
His sister laughed delightedly. “Was I not superb?” She danced over to the bed and scanned Devenish’s unconscious figure with some anxiety. “My poor love! He is all right, Taine?”
“I’ll not say he will awaken feeling full of joie de vivre, but—he will awaken. Now”—he perched on the side of the bed—“tell your dear brother all about it. You were in the parlour when the man I had waiting outside brought him up to Redmond’s supposed death bed, correct?”
Isabella did a pirouette, holding out her skirts and looking very lovely. “Yes,” she trilled. “And I said just as you instructed, dearest and best of brothers.”
“That you had been passing through Cirencester, heard of the attack on Redmond, and came here at once. That they had said the doctor was still working on him, but that you could wait in the parlour.”
“Yes. Oh, but he was suspicious at first, love, I could tell. Only, your man was superb and by the time he left—to call in more constables, he said!—I almost believed it myself. I played my part so well! You would have been proud of me.”
He grinned and said not without some truth, “I am usually proud of you, Bella. Now—you did not suggest the wine, I hope.”
“No. I merely sat and shivered and said I was feeling so nervous I was quite faint, and then I fell back and closed my eyes, and he fairly ran to bring me a glass of sherry. He was so white!”
“And so he decided to join you in a restoring glass! Naturellement! Well done, Bellissima!”
She curtseyed, but then ran to bend over Devenish again. “You are quite sure I didn’t use too much of that dreadful stuff? He became helpless so soon, your man could scarce get him in here, and I was afraid he would be unconscious by the time they arrived.”
He shrugged. “Even had he been, you would have contrived, I make no doubt.” He eyed her musingly. “He’ll not love you for this, you realize?”
“What matter?” she said airily. “Once I have him, I shall make him love me, sooner or later.” And then, with swift anxiety, “He cannot escape, can he?”
“You know better. A gentleman does not draw back from a betrothal—especially so notoriously conducted a betrothal as this. Devenish is a pest, but as I said before, he is a gentleman. Oh, no, he is properly trapped.” He grinned up at her. “I trust you are sufficiently grateful. I kept my promise.”
“You did, you did! Dearest Taine.” She swooped to kiss him on both cheeks and, drawing back, said curiously, “Why? Not just because you hate him, I think. Is it because it will give you a logical closeness to the girl?”
“Shrewd, aren’t you? I mean to have the chit. Though not in the manner I had originally thought.”
Isabella gasped and sat beside him. “Marriage? My heavens, can I believe my ears? Have you come to care for her, then?”
“I have come,” he said with a slow smile, “into the possession of a secret. But you must keep a still tongue in your head, for I am not supposed to know.” She swore to be discreet, and he went on, “Mistress Josie Storm is, it seems, actually Mademoiselle Josephine de Galin, niece to the Chevalier Émile de Galin, and a … considerable heiress. So you see, Bella, in wedding her I kill two birds with one stone. I get the girl I want, and I gain access to her fortune.” He turned, to shake Devenish’s arm roughly. “Do you hear, Sir Arrogance? You’ll not dare name me an unfit suitor when I am the brother of your wife. Your ward will amuse me for a while, and long before I grow bored with her, I’ll have control of her fortune! Sleep well, dear Dev!”
He looked at Isabella, grinning his triumph. She smiled also, but at the back of her smile dwelt a shadow of unease.
* * *
She had been so sure, thought Josie dully, that he would come home and tell them it had all been a trap. That the wretched Isabella had made him drunk and had then sent word to the house about the duel, knowing she would come and that Dev would be unable to escape the betrothal. But here he was, smiling at her across the fireplace, and telling her in that easy, pleasant way of his, that he apologized for his conduct, but that he was sure she would not have intruded had she realized he and Bella were betrothed.
The clock struck three, and she stared at it blankly. It had been three this morning when they had brought him home. Uproarious. Cornish and Hutchinson had had to carry him up the stairs. The intervening period was a blank. She could not remember what she had done, save to wander about and try to understand it all and keep praying it was some horrible mistake.
He was watching her. She thought, ‘He looks so ill!’ and she said, “Dev—are you sure you are all right? You look—”
He snatched out his handkerchief in time to muffle an explosive sneeze, then groaned, and clutched his head. With a wan smile, he replied, “Too much riotous living, I fear.”
“We were told,” said Pandora Grenfell austerely, “that you were gone to fight Elliot Fontaine. We would not term that—riotous living.”
“Lord, no. Some idiot playing a practical joke on that fool Finlayson.”
“We see no humour in the—joke,” said Mrs. Grenfell, eyeing him with a cold, dispassionate stare.
“No,” said Devenish, lifting a trembling hand to his head. “Well, there you are. Thing is—I was—er, celebrating on two counts, y’see.” He took a sheet of paper from the table beside him. “I’ve some very wonderful news for you, little one.”
Josie stared at him blankly. What could be wonderful now?
“There’s nothing to stop your marriage to young Drummond,” he said heartily. “This letter is from the Chevalier de Galin.” He put it down again and looked fixedly at the toe of her slipper. “I did not tell you, for fear of—of a later disappointment. When the Chevalier collapsed on the night of your ball, it was because he h
ad seen you, Josie, and you—reminded him of someone he had loved very dearly.”
Intrigued, despite her unhappiness, she leaned forward. “Is that why he came back that day?”
“Yes, dear. He told me a very sad tale, but briefly, he believes you are his long-lost niece, the child of his dead brother.”
Her heart began to pound madly. The Chevalier? Her uncle? Was it possible? She put a hand to her throat, scarcely able to breathe.
Mrs. Grenfell, shocked out of her imperturbability, cried, “Why—this is stupendous news! Are you sure? Is there any proof?”
His eyes fixed on Josie’s flushed, incredulous little face, he said, “The Chevalier writes that there is no longer any room for doubt. He says he must go to his mama’s chateau at Orleans and will then come here. He is—quite overjoyed, I need not tell you.”
Josie was on her feet, her hands clasped, her eyes like stars. “Is it true? Oh, is it really true? I belong somewhere? I have a family?”
Pandora slanted a quick look at Devenish, but his face still bore that fond smile. She stood and embraced the ecstatic girl. “If it is true, my dear child, you have a very proud old family, a great name, and—”
“And are a considerable heiress,” Devenish put in, coming to his feet but keeping a steadying hand on the back of his chair.
Josie stilled, the joy fading from her eyes. She watched him for a moment, a little frown coming to pull at her brows. “I see,” she said thoughtfully. But joy would not be banished. She danced over to him and gripped his arm. “Dev, dearest Dev! Are you not happy for my sake? Say you are happy!”
“Of course, my Elf,” he said, and swept her into a hug.
“And—say my name,” she demanded, as he groped rather blindly for his chair again.
“You are Mademoiselle Josephine de Galin,” he said, bowing unsteadily.
She gave a scream of excitement.
Devenish groaned, and clutched his head.
* * *
“It is a calamity!” Mrs. Grenfell leaned back in the chair to which Guy had ushered her. She accepted the glass of sherry he brought her, and waited while he supplied himself with some Madeira and made his slow way across the quiet drawing room of his charming house to settle himself on an adjacent sofa. Sipping her wine, she regarded him solemnly. “You know of the betrothal?”
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