“Oui, Madame. My valet—how is this saying?—the servants’ semaphore? I confess myself étonné!”
“We all are amazed,” she agreed dryly. “Firstly, that Devenish—who was always wild, you understand, but who my brother Alastair Tyndale made sure was properly bred up—would be so—crudely vulgar. Secondly, that he has confirmed his depravity and appears well satisfied with his choice.”
Guy frowned at the amber glow projected through his wine by a ray of sunlight. “Josie—she was present to hear this announcement?”
She inclined her head regally. “And quite obviously shattered.”
“And Alain? He have seem—er, quite himself?”
Her lip curled. She said with distaste, “He was suffering the effects of over-indulgence. Besides which he has managed to catch a bad cold and looked quite ill, in point of fact. But he was—jubilant is the word that comes to mind.”
“Because of this so unexpected betrothal?”
“Unexpected? Hmmnn. Perhaps not that, my dear Guy. The creature has pursued him with singleminded determination this year and more. However—I have not told you the second development. When Devenish at last was sufficiently recovered to make an appearance, he read us a letter from Monsieur le Chevalier de Galin. It appears that the Chevalier believes Josie to be the long-lost daughter of his late brother.”
“Tiens!” he gasped, jerking upright. “And Mitchell, he think de Galin came to ask for her hand! He is her—uncle? This, it is proven of the certain?”
“So we are told. Also, that she is a considerable heiress.”
“What a thing merveilleux! She is much excited?”
“Very much. Devenish feels she will wed our nephew Drummond.”
His heart sank. So poor Lyon still was not the favoured one. But that, it would not have been the case in any event. “Things they have happen very fast, Madame. Sir Martin will approve the match now that Josie is the heiress.”
She said with some hauteur, “We cannot think Sir Martin would be influenced by such a vulgar consideration.”
“Mais non! Forgive this clumsy fellow—I should not have speak these things!”
She relented, smiling into his flushed face. “The situation has changed admittedly, in that her birth is now impeccable, and her lineage such as to make her an eligible wife for any—” It was her turn to redden as Guy looked fixedly at the fireplace. “Ah…! But how thoughtless! We crave your pardon. In view of your own situation…!” She took up her reticule. “We should not have come.”
He leaned forward. “Please, Madame, do not go. There is not the need. I have accept that my own—situation, as you call it, is quite hopeless.”
“We do not see that.” She put down her reticule and took up her empty glass with a faint glinting smile.
Returning the smile, Guy hobbled over to refill her glass and his own. “Do you say you see some hope for us, Madame?” he asked ruefully, replacing the decanter. “I wish I might do so.”
“You will excuse if we are gauche. This is a modern age, Monsieur. Does a gentleman know his way about, there is not the need for a continuance of the Sanguinet name.”
Despite himself, his jaw dropped. Mrs. Grenfell regarded him calmly, and as he eased himself onto the sofa once more, she said, for once dropping the royal “we,” “I am a large and intimidating old woman. When I was a large young woman I was also considered a beauty. But I think I have never been held to be a widgeon.” She gave him a slow and deliberate wink, and beamed as he was briefly convulsed with laughter. “Well?” she said.
He recovered himself somewhat, and said unsteadily, “I think that you are a rascal, Madame.” He reached across to take her hand and added gravely, “But the rascal très déliceux.”
She smiled at him, her eyes very fond. He clung very tightly to the arm of the sofa and contrived to press a kiss on her fingers, then leaned back. “You will think me also gauche, I fear, for this aspect of—er, l’amour, we have discuss, my sweet Faith and me. And it will not do.” Her brows twitched together, as he continued, “I will say to you, my dear friend, what I have say to no other lady, save one. I have not the happy childhood. I am not the—the dashing man about the town. I have a few ladyfriends.” He gave a small and very French gesture. “I am a man, you comprehend. But always I dream of the one lady. The one…” he flushed shyly, “love. After my brother shoot me and I can no more walk, I know this dream it never will be. Now”—again, his hand went out in that so expressive gesture—“when I have give up hope, my dream it come within the reach. Almost. And still I think it cannot be, for so beautiful a lady will not want—should not be bound to … the cripple.”
He stared at his glass, his eyes very sad and, watching him, Mrs. Grenfell blinked rather rapidly and found herself unable to say a word.
“And then,” Guy murmured, half to himself, “the miracle, she happen. My so beautiful lady she give her heart to this—this unworthy fellow. And so, after the King have be so kind, I dare to hope there may be for us happiness after all. But … always there is one thing to make it not possible.” His hand on the sofa tightened into a fist. His voice lowered. He said bitterly, “My so accursed name. The dark and evil heritage that is in my blood. The—the foulness that was my grandpapa, my papa, my brothers! Ah, Madame—you do not know … you could not know!” He closed his eyes for an instant, but Mrs. Grenfell had seen despair, and the warm heart that lurked behind her formidable exterior was wrung.
“My dear,” she said gently. “Oh, my dear—I am so sorry.”
He sat straighter and said with a quivering smile, “You are most kind. But you see, it would not do. I—I care for the lady most … greatly. If I should cause her to—to give birth to such as Parnell … Or Claude!” He put a hand over his eyes and turned away. And in a moment, very pale, and his voice thready, he went on. “Besides this, my dear F-Faith, she was made for—for motherhood. And she so love the little children. It would be—wickedly wrong. Unfair. Someday—she will meet the man who—” His brave words failed. He struggled from the sofa, took his crutch, and hobbled to the window.
Mrs. Grenfell made a snatch for her handkerchief and wiped furiously at her eyes, then she took a large gulp of sherry and gasped. But after a second, she said in her customarily dignified tones, “What are we to do, Guy? Josie must not wed John Drummond.”
He pulled himself together and returned to stand looking down at her, pale but composed. “You think she does not love him?”
“Do you?”
A faint twinkle brightened the wistful eyes. “I have, I admit, an admiration for the fine young fellow, but—”
She laughed. “Wretch! You know what we mean.”
“Oui. But—Madame, the announcement it is in The Gazette.” He shook his head. “C’est tragique, but—alas, the die it is cast.”
Mrs. Grenfell glared at him. “Men!” she snarled. “What a mess you make of things!”
* * *
Watching Devenish saunter along the hall, humming blithely, if not very tunefully, Mrs. Robinson paused en route to the stairs, wherefore her two neat and pretty maids, laden with newly washed and ironed linens, paused also. “How happy he seems,” said the housekeeper.
“What gentleman wouldn’t be happy with that beautiful Lady Isabella going to marry him?” said the taller of the maids, with a yearning glance after Devenish’s slim figure.
Mrs. Robinson pursed her lips and looked worried.
“Proper beauty she is,” said the other maid, sniffing in a derogatory fashion. “Me cousin useter be a kitchen maid in their London house. Cor! Wot she said about—” She interrupted herself with a sudden squeal, then exclaimed with outrage and a dimple, “Oh, you wicked man, you!”
Cornish grinned at the housekeeper and went on past.
Mrs. Robinson would never forget that this was the man who had run up the steps into that inferno when Mr. Dev had been glimpsed staggering through the Great Hall, supporting Lord Redmond. Thus, it was less a reprimand than
a reminder when she said, “We don’t permit no carryings-on in this house, Cornish. In future, keep your hands to yourself.”
“Wotever you say, missus,” he said.
“Mrs. Robinson!” She shepherded her maids up the stairs.
Devenish, meanwhile, had entered the haven of his study. He closed the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard. ‘One more day,’ he thought. ‘Only one more day…’ The walk from the stables had been interminable. Even now, the desk looked miles away. He couldn’t take another step. But he must. He thought, ‘Don’t mess up the damn thing now, old sport…’ And started off. Reaching the chair at last, he half-fell into it, then sagged forward across the desk, his hands clawing at the papers that littered it. “Oh, Lord!” he whispered. “Oh, my Lord…!”
A hand was on his shoulder. Horrified, he tried to straighten up, and could not. Dimly, he knew he had let it go too long, after all …
A glass was at his lips. He had no recollection of having leaned back in the chair, but he gulped the brandy gratefully, and lay still, fighting to regain his breath and see who had rescued him.
A familiar voice came through the mists. “Feelin’ top ’ole this mornin’, are yer, mate?”
Cornish. He thought a relieved, ‘Thank God!’ and after another minute the footman’s features swam into focus. He sat perched on the edge of the desk, his expression bland.
Devenish said feebly, “You damned impertinent clod crusher. If you breathe … a word…”
“Didn’t last time, did I, sir guv?”
Devenish took the glass the footman offered, and was irked because his hand shook. Still, the pain was easing into the endurable, and he asked, “Last time?”
“Yus, mate. Bein’ a footman gets proper boring sometimes, and when it does, I ’ops orf. I was ’aving a bit of a kip up in the loft last week when you come in. Alf went orf with yer ’orse, but I was lookin’ right dahn atcher. I says ter meself, ‘Charles,’ I says, ‘the littel—er, the master’s got somethin’ givin’ ’im pepper.’”
“Oh.” Devenish looked at him wearily. “I don’t mind if you share these pearls of wisdom with yourself. Just see you don’t tell no one else.” And after a pause, curious, he murmured, “Charles…?”
“Yus, mate. Yer gimpy leg, is it? You’d oughter—”
“I am aware. Very well—Charles.” Cornish beamed at him. “Get on with you. And—again, my thanks.”
Cornish stood, but lingered. “Guv—’as this been goin’ on ever since you was skewered?”
“Lord, no! Now, be a good chap and send in Finlayson. I want a word with him.”
“As well y’might. ’E’s gone. ’Opped the twig, as they say.
“Gone? Damn! Did Wolfe turn him off?”
“No, mate. Went creepin’ orf arter dinner the night you went and got yerself ’alfway shackled, like. A good creeper is Finlayson. Wot ’e does best.”
“Hum. Likely you’re right. Thank you. That will be all.” Cornish shook his head, but departed.
Watching the door close, Devenish thought with amusement, ‘Halfway shackled, indeed!’ He wondered then if the extraordinary footman could be relied on to keep a still tongue in his head. His was just the type of misguided loyalty that would impel him to go running to Guy or, God forbid!—to Josie! He sighed. Tomorrow, it would seem, was now too late. It must all be tidied up today. Just as well. And thank the Lord, he’d been able to ensure that the little Elf would be in reliable hands. The Chevalier seemed a good sort of man, even if she didn’t wind up with—
The door opened. He glanced up, preparing himself, but saw no one. A snort brought his gaze down. Lady Godiva grinned at him. He grinned back and fondled her ear. “I wonder,” he muttered, “who will take care of you, old lady.”
From the open door, Josie asked, “Why, Dev? Do you mean to go away?”
His hand jolted. Then he stood, directing his pleasant smile at her. “Good morning, Milady Elf. I suppose I should really say, Mademoiselle de Galin.”
She wandered over to occupy the fireside chair. “And soon, my name will change yet again, to Mrs. Drummond.”
“Yes. You won’t have long to enjoy your new status, little one. Shall you mind?”
Her eyes scanned him. “Dev—are you all right? You look—”
He coughed. “Blasted cold. Of all times to be so unromantical, just as I should be at my best.”
“I am very sure Lady Isabella understands. After all, when one is in love…”
“Speaking of which.” He took a small jewel case from the drawer and opened it. “D’you think she will like it?”
Josie took the case and gazed down at three fine diamonds mounted in an intricately filigreed setting wherein was the deeper gleam of small rubies. It seemed almost too cruel that he would show her the betrothal ring. And despite the fact that he was obviously proud of it, she was rather surprised, for his taste was usually good, and this was quite ostentatious. Somehow, she swallowed the lump in her throat and said, “It’s lovely.”
He took it back. “Thank you. I thought it just right for Bella. She’s so vivacious.”
“Yes. And seems very happy.”
“Naturally,” he said with a broad grin.
Why must she still think he was miserable? Why must she refuse to believe that his passion for the dark beauty was genuine? She thought, ‘Because I want so to believe it is all a misunderstanding. And because Isabella Scott-Matthias is a shrewish, selfish witch!’ But you could not tell a gentleman who fancied himself deep in love that his lady was a shrewish, selfish witch, and so, she asked instead, “Have you decided which architect you will commission?”
He stared at her.
“For the reconstruction,” she said, puzzled by his apparent lack of comprehension. “Did you not say you consulted some architects whilst you were in Bristol?”
“Oh. Er, yes. Well, I want Bella to see the plans, first. After all, the decision is one that will mean a deal to her.”
“I doubt Lady Isabella will wish to spend much time here,” she remarked dryly. “She is more the Town type.”
“Right! And, do you know, Josie, these past seven years have been jolly good, but—I’ll not be sad to see the last of the old place.” He saw his error even as her head jerked around to him, and added heartily, “Now, little Elf, you’ll be wishing to run off to Sussex today, I do not doubt. John said he would arrive to carry you forth, as it were.”
For a bewildering moment she wondered if it was really Dev speaking. The rapid words, the excessively bluff manner, the fact that he had scarce bothered to enquire as to her feelings, or given a thought to the wishes of the uncle she had so suddenly acquired and had scarcely even met, were all so foreign to her knowledge of this man. She thought, ‘He is so dazzled by his Isabella, he can no longer think of any other!’ And she said, “But you surely would not expect John to leave on the same day he arrives? He will want to rest, and to spend some time with you, discussing—”
He said airily, “You don’t know how a man feels when he’s smitten, my Elf. Mark my words, your John will be afire to rush you to Park Parapine. Not one to let any grass grow under his feet, is John. Were I you, I’d instruct Fletcher to pack your trunk at once.” He stood, before Josie could comment, his blue eyes alight and a fond smile curving his mouth. “Bella!”
Josie stood, but did not turn to the door. After he passed her, she summoned a smile and prepared to greet the beauty. She was taken aback to see them locked in a passionate embrace, and all but gawked her astonishment at such behaviour.
Leaning back in his arms, Isabella murmured softly, “Hot-blooded devil. What will your ward think of us?”
“Oh, Josie don’t mind,” he said carelessly. “She’s a good chit. Always has been.”
Isabella turned, smiling, to the pale and silent girl. “Good morning,” she purred, extending a beautifully gloved hand. “And pray accept my congratulations. I hear you are a considerable heiress.”
“Than
k you, ma’am,” said Josie, miserably aware that she must look very drab by comparison with Isabella, radiant in a revealing blush-pink gown, with pink velvet ribbons wound through her curls. “I wonder you knew about it.”
Isabella realized with a shock that Taine had expressly charged her not to mention the matter. She lied, “Why, Dev told me, of course, didn’t you, love?”
He also had been watching his betrothed narrowly, but murmured politely that he probably had done so.
“It is certainly a fortunate circumstance,” said Josie, who longed to meet her elegant new uncle and discuss with him certain tentative plans she had formed during the past few sleepless nights. “The Drummonds must be pleased, I think.”
Isabella’s brows arched enquiringly. “The—Drummonds…?”
Devenish said, “Oh, I’d forgot to tell you, Bella. Josie is in the way of becoming betrothed to John Drummond.”
‘Oh, Lord!’ thought Isabella, and said, “Why, my dear girl, what a lovely match! I am delighted! You must let me help choose your bride clothes.” She took a fold of Devenish’s neckcloth between her long fingers and murmured archly, “Speaking of which, darling…”
He smiled down at her, his expression so besotted that Josie yearned to kick him. She did not indulge herself, but instead slipped away. She had not intended to go into Sussex with John, thinking to plead that she must await her new uncle’s arrival, but it was becoming more and more clear that she was in the way at Devencourt …
Chapter 18
Lying back on the sofa, enfolded in the arms of her fiancé, Isabella opened languorous eyes and whispered, “Oh, Dev … I never dreamed you could be so…”
He chuckled. “Did you think I’d have gone along with this little plot if I did not care for you?”
She stiffened. “It was a horrid practical joke!”
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