Give All to Love (2 page)

“Yes, and we must go, too,” said Lady Louisa. “Rosemary, stop pestering Josie. We have been gone for hours and you know how Papa and your brother will fuss are we late for dinner.”

“Is Arthur come home, then?” asked Josie, surprised.

“No, dear. John. He returned from Canada last week. It is one of the reasons Craig brought Yolande and the children down so early, for their new Town house is not quite ready for them, you know. Now, do ask Devenish if you may come to us. You can have a note sent round to the Pulteney, for we do not expect to leave until tomorrow. But—if you cannot, we will see you at Cloudhills for Christmas—no?”

“Lovely,” said Josie, adding casually, “Shall Craig and his family stay in England until Christmas, do you think?”

“I fancy Craig would not think it worthwhile to return to Scotland. Their house will surely be ready at any day, and certainly the Nine Knights will wish to be together, as usual.” Josie murmuring agreement with this, my lady gathered up her daughter and her maid, and they all went into the Arcade, the commissionaire hurrying to call up my lady's carriage.

Outside, the afternoon was waning and there was a smell of rain in the air. The lamplighter had already begun his rounds, his coat flapping as he climbed his ladder. The cold wind sent the ladies' skirts flying, and whipped a gentleman's high-crowned beaver from his head, so that an enterprising street urchin was galvanized into earning a groat for retrieving it.

Josie declined an offer to be driven to the Clarendon, which would have severely taxed the capacity of the graceful brougham, and waved farewell as the vehicle edged into the stream of traffic.

Klaus, who had left some of the packages with Mrs. Grenfell while he went to the corner to hail a hackney, returned, followed by a neat coach. The hackney pulled into the kennel, the ladies were assisted inside, the fur rugs drawn over their knees, and the packages deposited on the seat opposite. As short as the delay had been, shouts of impatience were rising from the drivers of a tilbury and a carriage, and the jarvey waited only until Klaus had started to swing up beside him before cracking his whip.

Mrs. Grenfell leaned back with a sigh of relief. “We shall be very well pleased,” she observed, “to return to the hotel. We hope Devenish is not become anxious.”

“I'll lay you odds,” said Josie, her eyes full of merriment, “he is not alone when we get back to the Clarendon. He has friends everywhere!”

“Ladies,” Mrs. Grenfell pointed out, “do not lay odds, Josephine.”

Her charge sighed. “Shall I ever learn? I wonder Dev has any patience with me. Seven years since he rescued me from those dreadful gypsies, yet still I lapse so hideously at times!”

Mrs. Grenfell saw the droop to the girl's mouth and patted her hand kindly. “You do splendidly. We are sure Devenish is proud of you.”

“I wish that I could be as sure.” Josie was silent, staring into the blustery afternoon as the hackney picked its way towards the Clarendon. “Did you hear what my aunt said? The Tyndales mean to remain in Town.”

“Yolande Drummond Tyndale has been happily wed for nigh seven years and has three fine children,” said Mrs. Grenfell, without expression.

“And is as beautiful as ever.” Inside her cosy muff, Josie's hands tightened into fists. “Oh, how I
wish
we did not have to go to Cloudhills for Christmas!”

“We are, we believe, still fond of Colonel Tristram Leith and his lady and their children. And of the Bolsters, and Sir Harry and Lord Mitchell and their wives, and—”

“Oh, I know. I know. I should not have said it. Truly, I love them all dearly. Only…”

“Forgive and forget, child.”

“No!” A fierce and rare frown drew Josie's slim brows together. In a husky, grating little voice she said, “I shall never forgive her!
Never!
”

“You would have been happier, perhaps, to have had her for a mother?”

Josie stared at the impassive features, then gave a lilting little trill of mirth. “
Mother? My
mother? Oh, Pan, dear! Thank you for making me laugh! As if Yolande Drummond could have been my mother!”

“She is Mrs. Craig Tyndale now. But when she
was
Yolande Drummond, we are told she was most kind to you, and did, in fact, influence Devenish to make you his ward.”

Josie's laughter died away again. Coldly inflexible, she said, “She tore his heart out. If you could have seen him. Even now, I remember the look in his eyes—so much worse than when his leg troubles him, or when he was ill two years ago. For months afterwards he looked dazed sometimes, like—like a child who has been terribly injured and is striving to comprehend what has happened to him.”

Mrs. Grenfell looked grave, then said slowly, “Many people are so unfortunate as to suffer the pain of unrequited love. The lady had every right to—”

“She had
no
right! He had loved her all his life. They were betrothed! And she jilted him after she had told him to name the wedding day!”

“This was very bad, we admit. But—it was a long time ago, child, and Devenish does not seem to us a man scourged by grief. Indeed, when we all are together every year, it appears that he is fond of Yolande. If
he
does not hold the lady in abhorrence, why should you?”

Such a lengthy speech from the taciturn Mrs. Grenfell was a rarity, but Josie's silence was not occasioned by awe. The truth was that her chaperon had misunderstood the matter. Josie's concern was that Alain Devenish still felt for his cousin's wife an emotion far removed from abhorrence.

*   *   *

“I hope Craig may not call me out and put a bullet between my eyes!” Alain Devenish flung open the door to the parlour of his luxurious suite at the Clarendon and bowed the beautiful Mrs. Craig Tyndale inside.

Yolande laughed, stripped off gloves of soft green kid, and took off her high poked and plumed green bonnet.

“Fletcher,” called Devenish, crossing to knock at the connecting door to Josie's bedchamber. There being no answer, he knocked again, then opened the door and peeped inside. “Blast! She must have gone out.” He closed the door and limped back to take the cloak Yolande discarded, toss it over a chair, and grip both her hands, turning her to face him. “My lovely, lovely creature! What a delightful piece of luck to find
you
in the Strand! I can never believe you're the mother of three savage boys!” His admiring gaze took in her thick chestnut ringlets, her fine green eyes and fair complexion. She was not, perhaps, quite so slender as in the days when he had fondly expected she would become his bride, but her figure was neatly curved and, to his way of thinking, lost nothing by its more rounded lines.

For her part, Yolande was a little startled to find him unchanged since they last had met two years ago. She had been confined with her third son during the Christmas season last year, and had been unable to make the annual pilgrimage to rendezvous at one of the homes of the Nine. Now his eyes seemed if anything more deeply blue and just as full of merriment as they'd been when he was her devoted swain. His slim nose was as straight as ever, his mouth as well shaped and sensitive, the chin below it as firm. But it seemed to her upon closer inspection that about the delicate nostrils and between the brows were lines she had not remembered, so that unease dimmed the happy light in her eyes. She saw curiosity come into his face, and she reached up to touch the thin band of silver that arched back through the thick, loosely curling fair hair. “Never tell me you do not dye it,” she teased. “'Faith, Dev! Can you not be content with
half
the women in England at your feet?” And she thought, ‘Lord, but the man is criminally handsome!'

Any reference to his astonishing good looks irritated him, but this was one woman who could do no wrong in his eyes, and he merely said, “Fudge! I am vastly content to have
none
of them at my feet!” He led her to the sofa before the glowing fire. “Come and sit down for a moment and talk to me. Gad, but motherhood agrees with you, lovely one!”

“I am very fortunate,” she said, smiling at him. “But how comes it about that you have eluded all the traps set for you, my dear?”

He chuckled. “Traps, is it? I wish I might see some.” Her brows lifted in faint mockery, and he went on quickly. “No, really, Yolande, I've no wish to marry. I'm perfectly happy as I am. It's been a busy seven years, keeping an eye on my Elf, bringing Devencourt up to style—more or less, and managing the estate and the farms and so forth.”

She had seized upon the one word that mattered and, leaning forward, put her white hand on his sleeve and asked with fond intensity, “Has it, Dev?
Are
you happy?”

He covered her hand with his own and replied as intensely, “Yes, love. I thank you. These have been
very
good years for me, so do not be reproaching yourself.”

She had to turn away and found the room suddenly rather blurred.

“Tell me now,” he said, a shade too heartily, “how's old Craig? And what of my namesake? He must be—good Gad! Is it—five? Surely not!”

“You know perfectly well it is, since you never miss his birthday! And Jonas Craig is three, and baby Stuart almost a year. And all healthy and strong, thank God! And now, sirrah, what is this I hear about Don Juan Devenish and the string of broken hearts he trails behind him? Let me see now…” She held up one hand and began to count off, “There was Brenda Smythe-Carrington—”

“Who married Owsley,” he said imperturbably.

“And Deborah Grey, who they say went into a decline, and—No! Do not interrupt if you please! And Mary Lipton. And—who was that fiery, jet-haired creature…?”

“Never heard of the lady.”

“Isabella Scott-Matthias! Now,
she
almost had you, Dev, no use denying! And I hear whispers that she still—”

“Peccavi! Peccavi!”
Laughing, he limped over to a sideboard and poured two glasses of wine. “I have only sherry, I fear, but I'd as soon not order up ratafia, if you will forgive me, Yolande. Josie will be back soon, and I'd be grateful would you keep your promise before she arrives.”

“Oh, of course. I was forgetting the time.” She accepted the glass he brought her, and noted that he favoured the right leg still. If the old wound was responsible for the lines in his face and the silver slash in his hair, she thought fondly that it had not soured his disposition. She raised her glass in response to his toast to their reunion, sipped her wine, and then remarked, “I can scarce wait to see your little ward. Josie must be quite grownup by now.”

“Oh, yes—or so she thinks. And a scamp, I can tell you. Leads me a pretty dance. The young fellows in Gloucestershire are mad for her.”

Yolande suspected that Dev was looking at his ward through the doting eyes of fatherhood. The last she'd seen of the girl she had been no more than average in looks. Still, a year or two could work wonders at that age. “Is that why you engaged a companion for her?”

“Oh, so you heard about that, did you?”

“Mama wrote me of it. I was never more shocked! Poor child—I wonder she didn't murder you. Was she
very
naughty that you must go to such lengths?”

“Lord, no. Josie's never been naughty, bless her. Only…” He paused, staring fixedly at her bonnet lying on the side table. “Well, as you said, she's a young lady now, so about two years ago, I persuaded Mrs. G. to come to us. She's sister-in-law to Uncle Alastair's wife, so…” he shrugged.

“I appreciate your feeling obliged to provide Josie a chaperon, but—
Pandora Grenfell?
Really, Dev!”

He gave her a little-boy grin. “A bit awe-inspiring, ain't she? Puts the fear of God into me, I don't mind telling you!”

“I can believe it! Whatever inspired you to hire such a dragon?”

He returned his gaze to the bonnet. “Josie's a complete innocent, you see. Impulsive as she can stare, full of joy and gaiety. The most generous, kind-hearted girl. It would never occur to her that people might—might think…” He reddened, coughed, and went on bashfully, “I expect I'm not a very fatherly type. And—living out there at Devencourt most of the year—”

Aghast, she interposed, “Oh, Dev—you cannot
mean
it? Surely no one, knowing you—If ever I heard anything more ridiculous! You always have been the very soul of honour!”

“Thank you, m'dear. But—tongues do wag and—” He met her gaze squarely and said with quiet gravity, “You see, I won't have Josie touched by anything like that.”

Yolande had known this man all her life, for they had lived on adjoining estates and were distant cousins, but this was an Alain she'd never seen, and that brought her an odd sense of confusion. “I see,” she said slowly. “Well done, Dev!” And, standing, “Oh, look at the time! May we see the evidence now, if you please?”

He led her into his ward's bedchamber, opened the clothes press, and began to rummage around on the upper shelf.

Yolande ran her eye over the line of dainty gowns. Pale pink, a delicate orange, cream, white. She asked, “Is she still as dark, Dev?”

“Oh, yes. Very.” He lifted down a large package and laid it on the bed.

“And—her eyes?”

“Very dark brown, with the loveliest flecks of a light hazel—almost amber when she's happy. In fact—” He checked abruptly, and opened one end of the package. “Here's the stuff she bought. I know it's for her Christmas gown. What d'you think?”

She was thinking of a lovely Spring morning in 1816, when she and Devenish had stood in the grounds at Park Parapine and she had asked him to name the colour of her eyes. And of how furious she had been when he'd said they were blue. Resentment touched her. At once ashamed of such greed, she touched the rich pink velvet thoughtfully. “Have you found anything?”