Give All to Love (41 page)

Very grim, Belmont stepped forward.

A swirl of ermine; a breath of
Toujours l'amour,
and the unkind slam of the door. Josie flew to ease it open again. Rapid footsteps echoed along the hall. She heard Leith's voice, anxious. “Is he—?”

“Very bad,” said Isabella. “I was never more shocked! He lied to me throughout. He knew he would shortly be—incapacitated! I feel no obligation! None! Oh! What an ordeal! I am—quite unnerved…”

Another door slammed.

Devenish muttered dully, “Has my little Elf … gone, Lyon?”

Josie flew back to the bed and bent low. “Never, beloved. Oh, Dev! The most wonderful news!” She clasped his weak hand again. “Darling mine—Lyon—show him!”

Lyon carried the box nearer. Devenish became even paler, but watched unflinchingly as Lyon took the lid off. Frowning, bewildered, he mumbled, “Nothing
in
there…”

Lyon put the box aside. “Dev—prepare yourself. We didn't have to take your leg off, after all!”

“Didn't … have…” Devenish gasped. “But—I
felt
you—” His eyes beginning to gleam with a touch of his old fire, he turned to Belmont. “You said—the bone was diseased!”

Josie bowed her head, thinking that he had kept that terrible diagnosis to himself all these weeks, throughout the preparations for her ball, throughout his pseudo-betrothal. Her clasp on his hand tightened and tears slipped down her cheeks.

Belmont replied with dignity that he had believed that to be the case. “Lyon was about to start the incision, two inches above the original injury, when I suddenly recalled your having mentioned that the only way they could remove the crossbow bolt was to saw through the steel shaft with a hacksaw. Did you hear me tell Cahill I meant to take over and cut directly over the old wound?”

Devenish said tautly, “I wish I could say I did not, sir!”

“Yes. Beastly for you, I know. But I was taking a desperate gamble.”

“His lordship's gamble was well justified,” Lyon put in exuberantly. “It was an incredible piece of skill and took a long time, which is why it was so very hard on you, Dev. But he found—this.” He held out his hand, on the palm of which lay a discoloured, twisted thing, like a tiny, rusted fish hook.

Devenish stared at it, scarcely comprehending.

“It is, as you can see, a filing from the bolt,” said Belmont. “When I examined you three years ago and told you the leg should be removed, you will recollect I warned you of the possibility of bone disease. When you came to see me last month and the leg was still causing you so much discomfort, I was strengthened in my belief that the bone had been damaged by the bolt and had indeed become diseased.”

Glaring at him, Devenish said accusingly, “Do you say now that it is
not?
”

“Healthy as the rest of you, I'd say.” Belmont grinned, cheered by this display of spirit.

For a moment longer, Devenish gazed at him. Josie was holding his right hand. He raised the other and it shook visibly as he clamped it over his eyes. A deep groan escaped him. Josie's grip tightened, her heart leaping with terror.

Only once or twice during his long ordeal had such a sound escaped him, and then he had been half conscious. Alarmed, the physicians hurried forward.

Lowering his hand, Devenish said in an emotional snarl, “Damn you!
Damn
you! Of all the
filthy
tricks! You—you told me I would wake up dead!”

Stifling a sigh of relief, Belmont protested, “We said no such thing!”

“Lyon said … that his first patient died because—because the amputation was so high on the leg that— And I knew— Oh, Lord! How
could
you manoeuvre me into such a pickle? I have got myself betrothed to
Bella!
”

With a ripple of laughter, Josie bent to kiss as much of him as she could reach. “I very much doubt she will have you, dearest. I rather fancy you have been abandoned to my care. And…” Her eyes soft with tenderness, she murmured, “Oh, my darling, I
do
care—so
very
much.”

The room seemed to be closing in before Devenish's eyes, and it was becoming so fuzzy he could only see the Elf's radiant face. His wound was hurting savagely, but it was not the agony he had endured on the long drive here, nor the unspeakable torment of the knife. He knew he was very weak, and yet, a soaring exhilaration was beginning to overwhelm him. It seemed, wonder of wonders, that he was not going to die, after all! It seemed—even more wondrous—that life might, just
might
offer more than he had dared to hope.

How dim the beloved features were growing … Lord, how he loved her! Probably, he should keep on protecting her from him. She was, after all, a great heiress … there was still the threat of what the world would say. He was still too old for her. Only, he didn't feel old. He felt giddy and rapturous with optimism, and so happy he could laugh aloud and dance and kick up his heels. Except … he was so very tired.

Still, peering, he could discern the glow in the dear eyes, the sweetness of the adored mouth.

“To hell … with the lot of it…” he whispered. And happily abandoning his principles, he lifted a trembling but determined hand to her cheek. He had meant to draw down her head, but couldn't seem to manage it, and his hand, very heavy now, fell again. He frowned a little, fretfully.

Josie gave a sob and bent to him, and with her lips on his, he fell into a deep, contented sleep.

*   *   *

White's was crowded on this dark, snowy afternoon. Christmas was only a week away, and the mysterious good fellowship that is always so much more evident at that season of the year than at any other pervaded the warm, brightly lit apartments so that the air rang with talk and laughter, and even in the card rooms the tension was less than usual.

In a corner of the main lounge, seven men had gathered their chairs into a circle so they might chat with the easy familiarity that speaks of long-established friendship. They were an attractive group, three very dark, one having fair hair, one—the quietest of the exuberant group—with straight hair of a deep gold; a Frenchman, with brown hair and hazel eyes and a countenance not at all in keeping with the reputation of his notorious house, and one, the only older man, with thinning grey hair and wearing a clerical collar.

Tales of the Nine Knights had spread, and many admiring glances came their way, and many were those who dropped over for a brief word of cheer with this indomitable band who had, or so it was whispered, saved England from some demoniacal plot—a plot so deadly that even now the details could not be released.

It was Guy who was speaking, his quiet voice not travelling farther than their circle. “Mitch, you see, have come straight to me after the fire, because he think all it is not well with Alain. I also suspect there is the deep trouble, and thought it wise that Mitchell have bribe Alain's footman to spy on him.”

“And from Guy's house I went to you, Leith,” Redmond put in, “and to my brother.”

“And then, back to Gloucester again,” said Harry, curious. “Why, exactly, Mitch?”

Mitchell shrugged. “Don't know, really. Just a feeling … Anyway, I'd no sooner arrived than Dev's footman
extraordinaire
came galloping in with our idiot's Last Will and Testament.”

“And also,” Guy said gravely, “a farewell to Josie of such tenderness it would, I think, have quite break her gentle heart if after his death she read it.”

“We drove hell for leather to Devencourt,” Mitchell inserted, “but we'd missed Dev, and were about to leave for Town when Josie came in. The rest you know.”

Justin Strand asked, “How did you and Leith get the word, Mordecai?”

“Dev's—er, footman
extraordinaire,
” said the reverend gentleman, his cherubic countenance a little flushed from the warmth of the noisy room. “Tris and I were at Watier's for breakfast, and Cornish saw us coming down the steps. He'd rid all night, the good fellow, but he was willing to go on after you, Justin. Leith wouldn't let him, of course, and sent some of his own fellows off after you and Craig.”

“I'm only thankful,” said the young baron, “that our block did not succeed in his ridiculous martyrdom!”

Lord Bolster said in his shy fashion, “Hope you m-m-may be right about that, Mitch.”

They all glanced at him curiously and found his gaze locked on a small but raucous group standing near the fire.

Sir Harry's vivid green eyes darkened. He said, “Fontaine! That dirty bastard! If all I hear of him is truth…”

“Well, well, our prominent sawbones has arrived,” said Leith. “Over here, Cahill! Now—tell us—how your foolish patient goes on.”

Dragging a chair into that privileged circle, Lyon reported that Devenish was doing splendidly. “He means, in fact, to come to Cloudhills, though in my opinion, such a journey would be ill advised.” He paused, to accept the tankard of ale a waiter hurried to offer.

Sanguinet asked, “Is this more progress than you have the hope for?”

“I'll tell you what I'd never tell him, sir. I was very sure we'd be burying him. If Josie had not come…” He hesitated, and the other men looked at each other soberly. “I'd never dreamed,” Lyon went on, “that such complete devotion…”

“You may be very sure I shall attend to him,” proclaimed Elliot Fontaine loudly. “A cunning ploy, arranged so as to allow the slippery rogue to get his hands on the poor chit's fortune.” He added something in a lower tone, and there was a burst of ribald laughter.

Scowling, Mitchell started up.

His brother put a detaining hand on his arm. “He hasn't named names, Mitch. You'd but add fuel to his fire, which is what he wants.”

Justin Strand's thin, intense face was flushed with an equal resentment. “I wonder how many others will think the same of Dev. I don't see how Fontaine can claim his sister was wronged. If anything, she's the one at fault. She must have fairly shot her notice to the papers that the betrothal between herself and Devenish was at an end—by
mutual
consent! Hah!”

“Her passion for him cooled the instant she thought she'd be saddled with a cripple,” said Lyon scornfully. “I wish you may have seen it! If she truly had been Dev's light o' love, her conduct might well have killed the poor fellow.”

Leith said, “There are rumours she's already agreed to wed Cromford.”

“A merry dance she'll lead him!” Mitchell gave a derisive laugh.

“But finish a rich widow,” said Lyon.

The reverend shook his head. “We should not speak ill of the lady, my friends. For it is—” He paused as a waiter came to murmur something in Mitchell's ear, and was sent hurrying off again.

“Our footman
extraordinaire
requests a word,” muttered Mitchell.

“Now what?” said Leith uneasily.

Astonishingly neat, Cornish followed the waiter over to the expectant group and looked mournfully at Mitchell. “Wotcher mate,” he said and, with a twinkle added, “I mean—me lord.”

“You astonish me, you varmint,” Mitchell told him. “What's to do?”

“'E's poppin' orf again,” said Cornish with a sigh. “Me littel rocket.”

Lyon leaned forward and set down his glass. “Do you mean Mr. Devenish has taken a turn for the worse?”

“'Pends 'ow you looks at it, mate. 'E didn't say nothin' to the young lady, y'understand, but when I come in 'e was splutterin' like one o' them there rockets o' Major Whinyates. Some good soul 'ad sent 'im a 'nonymuss note, sayin' as a certain gent”—his eyes turned to where Fontaine held forth—” 'ad 'ranged fer the wine ter be mucked up. And the same party's man 'ad set the fire wot about writ finish to the guv.”

“And off we go,” sighed Strand. “Someone don't like Fontaine, it would seem.”

Leith frowned and said slowly, “Unless it was Fontaine sent the note. I've no doubt nothing can be proved against him, and he hates Dev with a passion.”

Guy shook his head. “I cannot follow you, my Tristram. If Lord Elliot he wish to write the
fin
to Alain, why not simply call him out? He surely could delay until Dev properly is recovered?”

“I agree with Tris,” said Sir Harry. “Fontaine wants Dev to challenge, do you see? Then
he'd
have choice of weapons.”

“
Mon Dieu!
But what can he choose? The pistol, it is a pistol!”

Strand muttered, “And Fontaine is a master swordsman.”

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?”