Give All to Love (31 page)

For Lyon, there was only rage and hurt and the need for vengeance. All sense of fair play lost, he threw a right jab with all his strength behind it. From the corner of his eye, Devenish saw the knotted fist whizzing at him. He leapt aside, but swift as he was, he could only partially deflect that mighty blow. His upflung arm was slammed aside, and Lyon's fist caught him glancingly along the jaw. Hurled back, he crashed into the end of the desk. Pain jabbed a vicious spear through his leg, and he sagged helplessly.

Before Lyon could press his attack, however, someone was between them: a crouching ferocity, her face twisted with hatred, a dagger gleaming in one upraised hand.

“Vicious, thankless murderer,” hissed Mrs. Robinson as she confronted the halted Lyon. “After all he's done for you! It was
him
got Lord Belmont to take you—did you know that? Mr. Guy wanted it and paid for it, but it was the master went to his lordship to plead for you! When Lord Mitchell was in Paris three years ago and the master found out how your governor was being hounded, it was
him
found your new house, and got the other gentlemen to help persuade Mr. Guy to move here. Couldn't do enough, he couldn't. Small thanks that you think such evil of him in your nasty, filthy mind! That you'd raise your wicked hand against him!”

Very pale and stiff, Lyon said, “Madam, I think—”

Devenish, who had watched this exchange with dulled incredulity, now intervened breathlessly. “Thank you, dear lady, but—I can only hope … Dr. Cahill will think better of … what he said.”

Lyon flashed a seething glance at him.

From the doorway, Cornish grated, “Yer nag's saddled up an' ready, Doc.”

Without a word, Lyon stamped from the room. He was escorted every step of the way by Cornish, two frigid lackeys, and the bootblack.

*   *   *

By the time Devenish had been fussed over and ministered to by his valet, urged to rest by various and sundry footmen, and eyed with tender concern by sighing maids, his need to escape was desperate. Defying Hutchinson, he donned a riding coat, hat, and gloves, took up his whip, and went downstairs. En route to the stables, he detoured into the kitchen hall.

Mrs. Robinson, starting out with some keys in her hand, saw him, halted, and blushed furiously.

“Come here, you fighting fury,” he said huskily.

Timidly, she came to stand before him. He pulled her into his arms and gave her a hearty buss on the cheek. When he drew back, her face was averted. He turned it gently and smiled into her misted eyes. “You are a friend worth the having, I think,” he said.

She moved so quickly that before he could prevent it, she had pressed a kiss on his hand. “Ain't nothing I wouldn't do for you, sir,” she gulped. “Nothing!” and fled.

Deeply moved, he took himself into the cold outer air, and began to walk, heedless of direction. He did not walk alone, however, a development that was viewed from the windows by many amused eyes. As he made his way along the path below the terrace, he acquired a retinue. First, a fluffy white tail, high-held, came into view above the low hedges that lined the walk. Next to put in an appearance was a striped ginger tail, thinner, but equally high-held and politely keeping its place as third in line. After a space came another tail, curly and pink, and finally, a very small black spear that bounced along in Lady Godiva's wake and could not be identified by the uninitiated until the master struck off across the grass, at which time it was seen to belong to the diminutive black and white kitten known as Bits and Pieces.

Having come at last to the bridge over the trout stream, and being safely out of sight of the house, Devenish perched against the wall and massaged his right thigh. He was not surprised to perceive his fellow travellers, and rescued Bits and Pieces, who was looking decidedly wilted after the long stroll. Stroking the tiny creature and listening to her gravelly gratings, he told her that the trouble was, he kept forgetting. Unimpressed, Bits and Pieces chewed ferociously on the heavy brass button of his coat. Lady Godiva smiled up at him, then sat on his left foot and prepared to go to sleep. The ginger cat threw itself down and became fanatically obsessed with cleaning a front paw, and the white cat brushed his whiskers on a weed.

“I tell myself,” explained Devenish, “that I'm going to be staid and grandpapa-ish. But somehow, when she looks at me with one of her—special looks, I lose track of what I mean to do and … and then people begin to have wrong thoughts. Like Lyon, for instance. Just because she had a bad dream and I comforted her, he said I … desire her.” He leaned down to pull up a weed and stare at it. “And that I've trained her to … to be…” He swore furiously and flung the weed from him. “Filthy-minded young bastard!”

The whiskers having evidently been groomed to satisfaction, the white cat jumped on the wall and picked his way fastidiously to butt his head against Devenish. “The fact remains,” Devenish continued, stroking him absently, “that if Lyon, who used to think highly of me, has come to that conclusion, others might.” The white cat gave a trill and turned upside down on the wall. “Guy said that we—kissed … with our eyes…” He groaned and drew a hand across his brow. His companions were alarmed. The ginger cat got up, jumped onto the wall on the other side of him, and made a determined attempt to climb into his lap. The white cat jumped onto his shoulder, and Lady Godiva clambered to her feet and peered up at him anxiously. Even Bits and Pieces stirred and uttered a drowsy mew.

Devenish sighed heavily. “You are all very kind. But—we know what must be done, don't we?”

He restored both cats to the ground and repaired to the stables, carrying the sleeping Bits and Pieces, and with the remainder of his escort trailing rather grumpily along behind. He startled one of the grooms by giving the kitten into his care and asking that Miss Farthing be saddled. This beloved old friend greeted him with delight, an emotion he shared, and within a very short time he was riding out at a canter, behaviour that caused the groom to stare after him in so troubled a way that a colleague abandoned his currying of a promising filly to join him. “What's up, Alf?”

“You see that bruise?” asked Alf, plucking the straw from between his stained teeth.

“That there Cahill's got a good right.”

“And the master's got his hellbender look.”

“Couldn't of. He rid Miss Farthing.”

“Ar,” said Alf. “At a canter.”

They looked at each other.

The object of their concern soon slowed Miss Farthing to a pace that would have caused Alf's honest eyes to become very round indeed. Grappling with his problems, Devenish was halfway to Cirencester before he realized he was very cold. Shivering, he turned Miss Farthing for home.

His mood did not improve when he saw the gentleman who approached mounted on a splendid grey stallion. Devenish groaned, and reined up, sneezing.

“Good afternoon Dev-enish” said Lord Fontaine amiably. “Jove, but that's a nasty bruise.”

“Matches your own,” replied Devenish less amiably.

Fontaine smiled upon him.

His temper worsening, as it always did when he was thrown into close proximity with this elegant individual, Devenish blew his nose and demanded, “Well? You've something to say, I presume?”

“Eh? By thunder, but you're right! I was a—er, clod, Dev. You were absolutely right to mill me down.”

“Good … God!” gasped Devenish, staring at him.

The mettlesome grey danced, and whirled around. Reining him in, the Viscount's face was grave when he resumed. “I was well over the oar, old fellow. I'd already taken Bella to a rather jolly dinner party, y'see. The dear girl was fairly furious with me, and insisted I seek you out and”—he looked down, his grip on the reins very tight—“and make you my most humble apologies.”

Devenish had been almost looking forward to a savage quarrel, probably climaxed by a challenge, and he was so astonished as to be momentarily rendered speechless. He knew a great deal more about the Viscount than he had told Leith, knowledge that encompassed cruelty, wildness, and an often uncontrollable temper, besides several duels, one of which had left Fontaine's opponent, a young man on the brink of a brilliant diplomatic career, bedridden for life. That the Viscount was a rake was public knowledge. That he was a ruthless libertine was not, but Devenish knew. And Fontaine now knew he knew.

His lordship leaned forward in the saddle and held out one gloved hand. “Will you forgive?” he asked, his fine eyes pleading.

“Er—” said Devenish, and was enormously relieved when the grey took violent exception to a clump of branches tossed by the wind, and spun skittishly.

“Must get home,” shouted Devenish. “In a hurry.”

Fontaine glanced up, and frowned. “Jove! Surely it's not coming from—”

Jerking his head around, Devenish was suddenly bereft of breath. To the southwest a great black column of smoke boiled upward before it was whipped ragged by the gusts. He thought a numbed, ‘Josie!' and was away at a headlong gallop.

His expression very different now, his lordship followed.

It had been many years since Miss Farthing had felt spurs, but as they tore up the last hill, she was shocked by the sharp bite of steel. She had tried hard, but if her god needed more, she would run until she died, and she laid back her ears, gathered her powerful muscles, and fairly flew.

Chapter 15

There could be no doubt now. That black and terrible smoke column came from Devencourt. The smell of it drifted to them on the wind, and as they came over the hill, the full and ominous sight of it struck Devenish like a physical blow. Smoke poured from every window of the old wing, the top floor windows showing, horrifyingly, the pulsing red tongues of flame. Devenish shrank, flinching, in the saddle. To see the old house, the home of his ancestors, in such agony, wrought upon him in a way he would not have dreamed possible. He knew in that first rending instant that he had long sensed this was coming and that he had refused to acknowledge that awareness, even to himself.

Only for a very brief instant did that knowledge fill his mind, then it was gone, for above all else lurked the deeper dread; the fear so paralyzing that his brain reeled with terror of it.

A bucket brigade had already been set up, men and women toiling frantically, passing buckets in and out of the breakfast parlour windows and a smoke-blackened Cornish wrenching with incredible energy at the pump on the west end of the house beyond the large dining room. Two ladders were placed to the first floor level of the newer wings, the buckets being handed up to the men inside.

Even as they thundered across the lawns, ignoring the loop of the drivepath, Devenish saw Mrs. Robinson stagger, coughing, from the wide open front doors, carrying Josie's jewel box. A grimy footman ran to aid her. Above the crackle and roar of the flames rose a confused uproar of shouts and cries, while men and maids ran in and out of the doors, or climbed from the lower windows, bearing some treasured painting or object.

A new shout went up as Devenish flung himself from the saddle and went in an awkward limping run towards the house.

Hutchinson, his usually immaculate coat torn, his neckcloth awry, his face dirty, reeled to him. “Sir,” he croaked, “I—don't know where it started! We'd no—no warning!”

Devenish gripped his arm steadyingly. “Is everybody out?”

The man swayed, his face the colour of putty beneath the grime of smoke. “I—doubt it! No … no warning…”

Fontaine ran up. Devenish shouted, “Take him!” The Viscount pulled the valet's arm across his shoulders as a muffled roar came from within the house, and the lurid glare of flame began to lick at several second floor windows.

Two heavily laden footmen stumbled from the doors. It seemed to Devenish that he glimpsed a staggering figure behind them, and he sprinted madly for the steps.

“No, sir!” gasped a man he vaguely recognized as Finlayson. “Stay out! Hopeless!”

His eyes smarting as smoke billowed around them, Devenish shouted, “Where is Miss Storm? Did she come home?”

“I don't know, sir. Klaus is here, and I think I saw the phaeton, but—” He jerked around as someone shouted. “Oh, my God!” he groaned.

“What did he say?” Devenish demanded frantically.

“He must be mistaken, sir. He said Miss Storm is upstairs, but—”

Devenish had already plunged inside.

At once, he could feel the heat. Smoke choked him and stung his eyes. Two floors above raged an inferno, and somewhere in that inferno—Josie! Spluttering, he threw an arm across his eyes. Someone stumbled into him and sagged downwards. He gripped the frail figure. “Wolfe! Dammit, man—get out!”

The old man mumbled something and peered blearily at him. He was clutching something, and Devenish saw it to be the portrait of his father that hung in the Great Hall. He relieved the butler of the heavy painting, tightened his grip on Wolfe's arm, and hauled him outside, then paused, gulping in the cold, damp air.

A gust of wind sent sparks and flame whipping. A groom ran up to take Wolfe. Devenish thrust the portrait at a black-faced maid and shouted, “The stables! Let the horses out, just in case!”

Two men reeled from the house carrying a limp female form. Devenish ran over, frantic. The eyepatch identified Maisie Fletcher. He roared, “Where was she?”

“Crawling to … the stairs.”

“Kept trying to tell us summat 'bout … Miss Josie.”

Behind them, a man who had evidently ridden in to help gave an hysterical shout and pointed stabbingly upward. “Up there! Look! Look! A lady!”

Devenish was inside again. He had seen the flames at those windows, and he thought in frenzied anguish, ‘God keep you, little one! I'm coming!'

The smoke now was like a solid wall. All about him was heat and sound—the hideous grinding roar that told of the voracious appetite of the flames. Dimly, he remembered someone—Tris, he thought—telling him that in a fire the air closest to the floor stays fresh longest. He was coughing rackingly, and he dropped to his knees and crawled upwards. Someone collided with him. He croaked, “Who's there?” A pink snout shoved at his face. A terrified squeal rang out above the hubbub. He gripped Lady Godiva's head and wrenched her around. “That way…!” he said. “Go!” He dealt her a hard slap on her round rump, and she scuttled down the stairs. He heard someone choking, and legs tottered through the chaos. Someone was tearing at him. He blinked up. Alf, he thought, the groom. “Ain't no use … sir! Can't—can't get up there. C'mon, 'fore it's too—”