Startled, Langridge exclaimed, “Oh, come now! Surely not! Swords are no longer—” He checked.
Sir Harry nodded. “That’s right, sir. Fontaine has chosen swords before, as a result of which poor young Saticoy will never walk again. Where are you off to, Jerry?”
Bolster, who had come to his feet and stretched sleepily, drawled, “Want a word with C-C-C—Dev’s man,” and wandered to Cornish, who had stepped a few paces distant, waiting for Mitchell’s instructions.
Sanguinet muttered, “Poor Alain—all these years he—”
“All aboard fer the Nancy Lee,” interrupted Cornish inexplicably.
Following his amused gaze, Sir Harry sprang to his feet. “The devil!”
They all turned in alarm.
His lordship had not been entirely truthful. Instead of chatting with Cornish, he had bestowed a kindly nod on the footman and walked past. Before his startled friends could intervene, he had stumbled into Lord Fontaine, sending the Viscount’s brandy splashing down his white and silver waistcoat.
“What the hell!” snorted Fontaine, inflamed.
“Just an accident, Taine,” soothed a friend, looking anxiously at Bolster’s innocent countenance. “Jerry didn’t mean it, did you, old chap?”
“Oh, yes,” said Bolster. The would-be peacemaker gawked his incredulity, and his lordship continued, “Terribly sorry, but I cannot like you, Fontaine. N-never have. It’s your—your feet, I think,” he explained apologetically. “Too big, by half.”
His incendiary temper flaring, Fontaine lashed out. His lordship reeled, and mopped a handkerchief at his lip. “Have to ch-challenge,” he said mildly.
All conversation in the crowded room had come to a halt. Jeremy Bolster was very well-liked, his diffident manner and warm good nature having won him a wide circle of friends, and that so amiable a man should have deliberately provoked a quarrel with the deadly Viscount brought dismay into the hearts of many who watched.
Bolster said, “My s-s—my—”
“Your seconds will call on me,” Fontaine snarled furiously. “Is that what you’re bumbling at?”
Bolster flushed a little, but bowed and offered his card.
As he turned away, Harry Redmond was at his elbow.
“Dolt!” he gritted, and went over to Fontaine. “One thing I cannot abide,” he declared fastidiously, “is to see a fellow come into White’s wearing a filthy waistcoat! Offends my sensibilities, be damned if it don’t.” He raised his own glass and with slow deliberation poured the contents across the offending garment.
Watching, his eyes glazed, Fontaine gasped, “You’re … ripe for Bedlam!”
Sir Harry smiled beatifically, and proffered his card.
“Personally,” said Leith, politely removing Sir Harry from his path, “it’s your mouth disgusts me, Fontaine. Every time I see the pretty thing, I feel sick!” It was necessary that he, too, wipe his lips, for he had hit a very sore spot, and Fontaine fairly sprang at him.
A small line had formed behind Leith. Someone at the back of the room, recovering from his stupefaction, gave a nervous giggle. Justin and Mitchell became involved in a slight argument regarding whose turn it was, whereupon Lyon slipped past and objected loudly to the mole on the Viscount’s neck. His medical explanation for the presence of the mark reduced several present to barely contained hilarity, but did nothing to soothe Fontaine, who was by this time practically apoplectic.
“Have done with your nonsense,” he raged, livid. “Give your stupid cards to O’Brien, and since you are all challenging, I reserve the right to choice of weapons. I’ll oblige the lot of you—much good it may do the coward you shield. You may tell that conniving fortune hunter he’ll not entrap his poor little ward whilst I—”
Strand had a famous right. He used it.
Looking down at the Viscount, Mitchell protested, “Now see what you’ve done, Justin. I wanted to tell him about that revolting hangnail on his thumb!”
Strand gave his card to a dazed Sir Martin O’Brien. “Now, be sure you don’t get mine mixed up with Redmond’s,” he exhorted. “I’m before him!”
Major Marcus Clay, sharing a sofa with Sir Freddy Foster, bowed his head into his hands and howled with laughter. Sir Freddy, recovering from his own amazement, joined in. Within seconds the room was pandemonium.
And thus it was that my lord Fontaine, recovering to find dismayed friends bending over him, found also that he was engulfed in a sea of mirth.
For his part, he was not amused.
* * *
Seated beside Leith in the hackney coach that conveyed them to the Pulteney, Harry Redmond was silent. Leith glanced at him and saw the lean features rather grim. He said, “A bit slow, weren’t we, Harry.”
Perhaps closest of them all to Bolster, the baronet gave a grunt of irritation. “My fault. I know the block. It’s just the sort of damnfool thing he’d do.”
Leith’s mouth twitched. “You weren’t far behind him.”
“I wish to heaven I’d been before him! He’s the worst shot of all of us. And his fencing! Tris—what in the world are we to do?”
After a moment’s thought, Leith said, “It’s a dashed bad time to rope him in—just before Christmas—but I fancy Lucian will oblige.”
“St. Clair?” Harry brightened. “Jove, but you’re right! He’s as good, if not better, than Fontaine! If he can get away. I fancy he and Deirdre and the children are down at Hollow Hill.”
“He’ll come. He’d move St. Paul’s for Jerry.”
Harry chuckled. “He’ll have more students than Bolster. He’ll likely have to work with the lot of us. Think of Lyon! Gad!”
Through the following silence, they avoided each other’s eyes.
If Elliot Fontaine worked his way down to Cahill, they would both already have fallen.
Chapter 20
Once again, snow was falling over old London Town, drifting down onto grim tower and graceful steeple, whitely etching domes and statues and bridges, settling on the tall crowns of gentlemen’s hats, frosting horses’ eyelashes, clinging like an ermine trim to fur-edged hoods and woollen bonnets, and turning to slush under countless wheels and hurrying feet. Yet everywhere was cheer and bustle. People tucked chins into warm scarves and ventured forth to shops and bazaars and emporiums; street vendors hawked warm gingerbread men, roasted chestnuts, and toffeed apples; and carollers stood on cold windy corners and sang lustily. For it was just six more days to Christmas Eve!
Alone in the pleasant room in Grillon’s Hotel, comfortably settled on a chaise longue by the window so that he could look down into Albemarle Street, Devenish was deep in thought. Josie and Mrs. Grenfell were out at the moment at his insistence, for since his operation his love had scarcely left his side and she needed some fresh air. His rather stern expression softened. He’d never suspected when he set off on that never-to-be-forgotten afternoon eight days ago, that instead of having reached the end of his life, he had come to the real beginning of it. How unbelievably dear she was. How she delighted in fussing over and pampering him. Those first few days he had done little more than sleep, but always when he’d awoken, she had been there, her soft eyes full of loving concern, her every touch a caress, filling his heart and his mind with the joy of knowing she was his; that she would very soon be twenty, and yet still she loved him and wanted to become his wife.
Tomorrow, they were to set out on the first stage of their journey to Cloudhills. He was to be carried downstairs, which was ridiculous, for he could already walk. Not with ease, exactly, but he could negotiate those stairs. If Josie would allow it, which, of course, she would not.
Truly, the future looked bright. He had the love of his life securely promised. They would be married as soon as the Chevalier came and could be formally petitioned for the right to solicit his niece’s hand. A hint of worry there—a jolly fine gentleman was the Chevalier, but he had every right to cut up stiff. Still, it didn’t really seem likely he’d refuse. And if he should, ther
e were friends who would come forward to vouch for him. The rest of the Nine would, certainly…?
The trouble in his blue eyes deepened. His friends had been superb. Visiting constantly—until yesterday, when no one had come. Bringing their gaiety and nonsense and the deep and true affection that bound them all. And yet … sometimes he had thought to catch Justin’s eyes blazing at him, or Leith’s dark gaze would seem oddly cold, or Mitch would glance at him and he would sense that all was not well. Almost—as if they were angered. Could it be that they, too, believed he had kept Josie hidden away, to hoard her to himself? Surely these fine men could not harbour the horrid worm of suspicion that he really did covet her fortune?
He jerked his head around eagerly as the door opened, but instead of his love came the tall figure of Leith, Mitchell Redmond’s cool elegance, and a rather troubled looking Bolster.
“Well, it’s about time,” he said, grinning as he took up the bell on the table near his hand. “I thought you’d deserted me.”
“Did you?” said Leith expressionlessly.
Devenish looked from one to the other, put the bell down, and said quietly, “Will you sit down—or can you not stay?”
None of them made a move to take the chairs he indicated. They smiled, but the smiles were a formality. Devenish nerved himself.
“We just came to say goodbye,” said Leith.
“G-going up t-t-to Cl-Cloudhills,” Bolster imparted.
“It wouldn’t be wise for you to undertake the journey,” said Mitchell, his grey eyes stern.
It was like a blow to the heart. They didn’t want him. For the first time he was to be excluded from the close-knit group. And that meant Josie also was to be shut out. The memory of past joyous Christmases rose to haunt him. The warmth and laughter and teasing. The lovely women chattering together, the shared reminiscences of old times, old perils, old triumphs. The innocent excitement of the children when the great tree’s candles were lit on Christmas Eve. The gifts and good food and singing, and above all, the comradeship, swelled by the presence of parents and loved ones drawn into their circle.
Stunned, he heard himself say politely, “No. Of course. Well, then—Merry Christmas!”
He could not know how white he had become, nor of the stricken expression that had crept into his betraying eyes. But Jeremy saw, and his soft heart was wrung. He moaned, “Oh—Lord!”
Devenish stared at him, then turned to look squarely at Leith. “I know it’s bad form to ask, but—is it … because of Josie? I mean—do you think I’ve not the right to offer? Truly, I have not done so because she’s an—an heiress.”
“Be damned!” exclaimed Redmond, jolted out of his icy remoteness.
“Well, if that don’t cap the lot,” growled Leith.
Suddenly all judicial hauteur, Bolster said, “That was not called for, Devenish.”
Unknowingly, Devenish quailed against the cushions. “M-my apologies, but—”
“We—were—friends,” said Leith.
“W-well, yes—I had thought w-we still are. But if you do not—”
“A friend,” said Redmond, throwing hat and gloves onto the sideboard, “don’t turn his back on people when he gets in a fix.”
“B-but—I—”
“One might have thought,” said Leith, advancing to direct a steely stare at his victim, “we were merest acquaintances.”
“Going off like that,” Bolster said severely, running a hand through his bright hair. “D-dashed un-unpleasant, to p-put it n-nicely.”
“If that is all you think of us,” said Leith, “you doubtless do not care to any longer associate with us.”
“Suppose we did think you was after Josie’s fortune,” Redmond began.
“Would you g-g-give her up?” finished Bolster, selecting an apple from the bowl.
Devenish blinked rapidly and managed to croak an affronted “You could go to hell, Jerry! And keep your greedy hands from my fruit!”
Leith’s voice made him jump. “Bolster! This is serious business!”
Instinctively having sprung to attention, poor Bolster gasped, “Oh—Gad! Forgot. S-sorry, Tris. We’d best be off then.”
“Good day to you, sir,” said Leith with a frigid bow.
“Cheerio,” offered Mitchell, picking up his hat and gloves again.
“M-m-m—happy holidays,” said Bolster, starting off with the apple, and replacing it with a guilty flush.
Devenish said stiffly, “Goodbye, gentlemen.” And watched, desolate, as they strolled to the door.
With his hand on the knob, Leith turned back. “Of course, if you care to apologize.”
“Apologize…?” echoed Devenish feebly.
“Abjectly,” said Mitchell, trying to be grave, but with a suspicious twinkle in his eyes.
“Oh, God! What did you expect me to do? Come whining to you with my troubles? Don’t you think I’d have screamed for help—if anything could have been done? I thought my damned bones were rotting! Could—could you have made them well?”
Bolster whitened and stared in sympathetic horror.
Made of sterner stuff, Redmond looked at Leith and shook his head. “Not very abject.”
“Not at all abject.”
“N-not…” mumbled Bolster.
“You didn’t have to whine,” said Leith. “You could have told us, Dev. So we’d have been prepared.”
“So we could have helped Josie,” said Mitchell.
“Awful sh-shock for us,” Bolster pointed out, recovering himself.
“I—I had writ to all of you,” Devenish pleaded humbly.
“Didn’t get any letter,” said Redmond.
“No. Well, I didn’t—exactly … send them off. It seemed so—weak-kneed.”
Mitchell looked at Bolster. “Weak-kneed, he says.”
“But—he d-did write,” said Bolster hopefully.
“Almost,” said Leith, very much the Colonel. “Let’s be off.” He opened the door.
Mitchell put on his hat. Bolster sighed and walked out.
Devenish started up and threw pride away. “Tris! Jerry! Mitch! I’m sorry!”
They looked at each other. Redmond bowed low, and waved Bolster in again.
Turning back, Leith said with a slow smile, “Let that be a lesson to you, Dev.”
Considerably shaken, Devenish leaned back against his cushions. Mitchell carried over the bowl of fruit, and they all gathered round and attacked it.
When he trusted himself to speak, Devenish said with gathering choler, “Damn you, Tris! What about when Rachel wouldn’t marry you, and you went slinking back to Cloudhills and hid yourself for a month and more, and damn near went into a decline, so that we all had to come and seek you out? What about you, Mitch, when you pretended not to give a button for England and the Regent, and went off and took on our Claude all by yourself? And as for you, Jerry—well, I can’t think of anything just now, but—by God, if I ever find you’ve been up to anything underhanded…!”
He had turned the tables with a vengeance, and his three inquisitors exchanged a glance that was very guilty indeed.
* * *
“Nothing sudden about it,” said Craig Tyndale, guiding Devenish carefully over the threshold as Josie and Yolande embraced in the oval entry hall. “We wanted you to see our new Town house, at all events, and thought you’d not mind coming before the others.”
“Besides, dearest Dev,” said the beauteous Yolande, hurrying to take this loved cousin’s pale face between her hands, scan it anxiously, and then bestow a very gentle kiss on his cheek, “it will allow you time to settle in and be nicely rested by the time everyone arrives.”
Already rather tired, and leaning heavily on Craig’s supporting arm, Devenish allowed himself to be shepherded along to a large room at the rear of the house, obviously hurriedly converted into a bedchamber. “Oh, Gad, Yolande,” he exclaimed ruefully. “What a fellow I am to be causing you such an uproar. And everyone’s plans blown to Jericho! Say what you wi
ll, I know very well all this fuss is to spare me the journey to Cloudhills, where Tris and Rachel have been preparing this age for all of us.”
“Yes, indeed. You are a great nuisance, Dev,” she agreed humorously. “Indeed, I cannot but wish Lyon had amputated your foolish head, so we might not hear all this farradiddle!” And stooping to ruffle up the curls of that same foolish head as he sank gratefully into a leather armchair before the fire, she added, “Silly boy, as if you would not do as much for any one of us, were we in trouble. Now here comes Mitch, so we shall leave you men to chat, while I show Josie my lovely new house and the nice bedchamber we have waiting for her.”
“And gossip about all your dearest friends,” said Mitchell, blowing Josie a kiss.
When Josie had been led up the graceful staircase, and had exclaimed over the beauties of the charming new house on Portland Place, the two girls waited only until they were alone in the dainty yellow and cream bedchamber before they held hands and sat in the window seat, looking at each other with anxious eyes.
Yolande said, “He does not suspect?”
“No. But—oh, if anything dreadful should happen, he will never forgive himself—or me, for not telling him! But—never mind that. How is Jeremy? Does Mandy know?”
“He has gone down to Three Fields to see her, but he’ll not tell her, I am very sure. Not with—with the new babe only a month from coming!”
“I know! Oh, I know! When I think how hopeful she is of giving Jeremy an heir at last, and he, bless him, saying he would as soon have a fourth daughter, when everyone knows how he longs for a boy…” Her voice failed.
Yolande hugged her. “We can only pray. And we must not let dear Dev know any of it whilst he is still convalescing. He would be out there in a flash, likely jumping between the swords!” Her own voice quavered, but she said bravely, “After all, dear, were it any one of them, Dev would have done the same with not an instant’s hesitation.”
They stared miserably at each other. Josie said, “If only it was not Elliot Fontaine! And to think that wicked creature dares pretend it is all to protect me! Lord, but Dev would—” She bit her lip. “When is it to be?”
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