Give All to Love (7 page)

They laughed at each other, gathered their reins, and walked over to sit on a rocky outcropping near the foot of the hill, and when they had exchanged greetings and preliminary enquiries, Devenish asked, “Now whither are you bound, as if I needed to ask? To Devencourt. But not to see me, I'll warrant.”

Lyon's dark eyes glinted. Colouring faintly, he said that he had, of course, hoped to see Devenish. “Especially,” he added with a sharpening glance, “to discover how you go on.”

“Oh, I'm perfectly fit, thank you. Once a doctor, always a doctor, eh?”

“Doctor, perhaps. Surgeon?” Cahill shrugged broad shoulders. “Sometimes I wonder, Dev.”

“Fustian! Old lad, don't you know how proud of you we all are? What you've accomplished in these few years, considering—”

“Considering I was gallows-bred?”

Scanning the suddenly truculent expression of this powerfully built young fellow, Devenish said, “And as hot-at-hand as you can stare.”

Lyon met his amused gaze; his flush deepened, and he looked away. “You may turn it off, but I fancy you'd not give us your blessing. If she'd have me, that is.” He flicked his riding whip idly at a leaf that fluttered past, but, waiting, he was so tense he could scarcely breathe.

Devenish hesitated. Despite the decade and more that separated them, there was a deep affection between the two. One of the thousands of starving, unwanted children struggling to survive in London's slums, Cahill's earliest memories were of the nightmare of being a climbing boy. From that hideous slow death, he had escaped only to fall victim to a Flash House, where, between beatings, he had been trained for a pickpocket and burglar. He had improved his lot when a young aristocrat caught him stealing, broke his arm, and then, becoming aware that his assailant was a child, took him to an apothecary and thence into his service. He had been known as Lion in those days, a name bestowed on him by his mentor, an unsavoury Corinthian named James Garvey. Lion had learned more of evil from his aristocrat than any simple thief or cutthroat had taught him, but when the boy had discovered Garvey was in league with the fanatical Monsieur Claude Sanguinet in a plot to murder the Regent, he had thrown in his lot with the courageous but hopelessly outnumbered gentlemen who opposed the Frenchman.

Despite the odds against them, they had won their struggle. Claude had died a victim of his own murderous scheme, but during a desperate affray had shot down his younger brother, Guy, leaving him partially paralyzed. The convalescent Frenchman had taken Lion for his personal servant. In a very short time, however, amazed by the boy's quick mind and eagerness to learn, he had engaged a tutor. That learned gentleman had lasted a year and a half, then told Guy that Lion's brilliance approached genius and required more guidance than he could provide. Intrigued, Guy had changed the boy's name to Lyon Cahill, and with the aid of several powerful friends had been able to get him into Rugby. The first months had been a nightmare for Lyon, who was shunned for his coarse way of speech and mocked for his lack of family background. Enraged, he had resorted to his fists, and within a year had become the middleweight boxing champion. Another year, and he was widely admired, the close personal friend of young men of the highest rank, and the despair of his teachers who were unable to keep pace with his voracious thirst for knowledge.

Guy, eager to provide his adopted son with every opportunity, had been blocked at every turn by the boy's lack of acceptable birth. Again, his friends had come to the rescue. Lord Belmont had taken the aspiring doctor under his wing, and in some magical fashion, Lyon had been admitted to the Royal College of Surgeons. The proudest day of Guy's life had dawned when Lyon was awarded his Licence to Practice an incredible three years later. Long years of resident study remained, however, if his lifelong dream of becoming a surgeon was to be realized, and he was overjoyed to win an appointment to the famous Guy's Hospital (which he blithely referred to as “my father's place”) augmented by study with the great Lord Belmont.

Despite his brilliance, however, he had fallen victim to an ailment that had claimed many intense and impatient young men before him—the inability to recognize the limitations of the human body. Driven by ambition, Lyon had ignored warnings that he was working too hard. Early in the autumn, having for many months worked a twenty-hour day, he collapsed from exhaustion and was subsequently stricken with influenza. Lord Belmont, incensed, had read him a furious lecture and sent him back to Gloucester with strict instructions that he was to rest, regain his strength, and not so much as think of medicine for at least a month.

Now, watching the taut features covertly, Devenish thought that Guy's faith in the youth had been well founded. Cahill was a splendid young fellow. His countenance was pleasant, and he had a fine pair of dark eyes, set well apart, that met a man's gaze squarely with no sliding off or evading. His hair was thick, dark, and straight; his nose a strong swoop; his chin square and determined. The mouth concerned Devenish a little, for it was too tight-lipped for such a young man and had a tendency to sneer; but considering Lyon's early years, that was scarce to be wondered at. The right girl could—Devenish frowned inwardly. Did Josie really care for this ambitious, driven young chap?

Lyon glanced at him, anxiety in the dark eyes, and realizing he had not answered the so vital question, Devenish said ruefully, “I personally think Josie too young to be thinking of marriage for another year or two. But—perhaps I—that is, she'll have whomsoever she chooses, I fancy. Has she—er, I mean, have you offered?”

“Of course I have not! As if I would do so rag-mannered a thing! I've not asked your permission to address her!”

“Are you doing so now? Forgive me, but I cannot be sure. And it was, for some odd reason, my impression that you'd asked her many times.”

Lyon grinned and said shyly, “In a way, perhaps. I—I have asked her if she loves me. Not if she will marry me. She says she loves me. And I believe she does, but—Oh, devil take it, you know how she can be.”

It was very familiar. Devenish thought, ‘Lightning strikes twice…' and said with ready sympathy, “You do not know if she is
in
love with you, is that it? Poor fellow. When I was just about your age, I was in the same miserable predicament. It's the devil.”

Lyon sighed and nodded. “I knew you'd understand. Though, Lord knows why any girl would have rejected
you.
” He eyed Devenish glumly, wondering, as had so many, why the beauteous Yolande Drummond, with this dashing fellow at her feet, had chosen instead his quiet Canadian cousin, who possessed only average looks, little of Devenish's engaging charm and personality, and who had, at that time, been under the cloud of a disgraced name.

Having a fair idea of what was going on in his friend's mind, Devenish's lips quirked. He said with a sigh, “Incomprehensible, ain't it?”

“Poor old Dev,” said Lyon kindly. “You never did get over it, did you? Well, what I mean is—you have not married.”

His eyes alight with laughter, Devenish exclaimed, “Good God! Do you fancy me to have lived a life of endless yearning for my unrequited love? To the contrary, my lad. Yolande was far wiser than I. Oh, damme! That don't sound very polite! What I'm trying to say is—” He checked, with the sensitive man's reluctance to put his inmost feelings into words. “I care for her deeply, and always will. Only—when a fellow wants very much to—er, to have a loving wife, a home, and—God willing—children…” And he had to stop again, because he did want children so very badly, and now it appeared he would never have any of his own.

Lyon said earnestly, “But—what's wrong with that? It is what every man dreams of, isn't it? To find a lady he can care for? To have a family?”

“Yes. But—sometimes people want it so much they—sort of, mistake love of the dream for—for … Well, there are different types of—of loving, I think. Sometimes—not often, I grant you, but, sometimes people share a devotion so equal, so intense, that from the very beginning they are like … the two parts of one—whole.” His eyes had become sad, his voice remote. “Yolande and Craig have that. Truly, a gift from…” He broke off, his face very red. “Jupiter, how dashed sober we are! You have made me talk a lot of nonsense. Now, you shall tell me—do you mean to—offer for Josie when she comes home?”

Lyon groaned. “I know how
I
feel, Dev. But—I've still some years of work before I can start my own practice. Guy has settled a generous sum on me, as you know. We'd not starve. But—I cannot tell whether
she
feels— She's so admired. So lovely and bright and—and altogether adorable. And—my fear is that … she may choose Fontaine.”

“Fontaine?”

Startled, Lyon saw Devenish's face transformed. The eyes were slits of rage, the fine features flushed. A voice he scarcely recognized snarled, “Has Elliot Fontaine been slithering around Josie?”

“Why—yes. How could you not know? They met at the Bolsters' Spring ball.”

“I know that! And—since?”

“Here and there, I suppose. He's been away of late, but he is come back, and you may see him everywhere. He's very popular.”

“And very cunning, damn him! I have never once seen him hanging about her. By Gad, I'd better not!” Devenish stood and stared southward. “Is he friendly with the Drummonds, do you know?”

Standing also, watching the savage wrath of the man beside him, Lyon said uneasily, “I cannot say. But I heard that he and Josie met again when you were in Town a few weeks back, and—”

“And she said nothing! The baggage! She knew damned well I'd have his liver out, if—”

“Dev!” Lyon put one hand on the other man's sleeve, then recoiled before the murderous anger he faced. “Lord, man! What is it? What have you against him?”

Devenish glared at him in silence, then said in a more normal tone, “I know him, is all. I never dreamed he'd dare cast his filthy eyes at Josie, for she's quite beneath his touch.”

“I do not see that!”

“You may not, but he does. If he wants her, it's not as his wife, of that I do assure you!”

“Why the hell not? She's been gently bred up! Her birth may not be—”

“Definitely not. He's from an ancient and proud house. He's not the kind to marry a girl with no background.”

Stung, and defensive of this apparent impugning of his adored lady, Lyon snapped, “Then you should not object to
my
offer! I'll marry her tomorrow, if she'll have me, and be proud to do so. We should suit—we're both gutter-bred.”

The words were no sooner out of his mouth than he was gasping as his neckcloth was seized in a grip of steel. An enraged glare scorched at his startled face; a deadly voice hissed, “Damn your eyes! Do not
dare
so name her!”

Lyon's powerful hand closed around the fine-boned wrist, but even his youthful might could not loosen that grip. The neckcloth was strangling him. “Dev!” he gasped out. “For the love—of heaven!”

With a smothered curse, Devenish relaxed his hold and turned away.

Grasping his throat, Lyon said unsteadily, “That leaves little doubt of
my
hopes … does it not! Good day—to you, sir!” Shaking with fury, he prepared to mount up.

An urgent hand gripped his arm. Whipping back one fist, prepared for battle, he was confronted by a remorseful smile. Devenish said humbly, “My poor fellow. Please accept my apologies. I'd no intent— It was just the thought of Fontaine, daring to— Lyon—forgive. Please! You must know that if she should choose you, I'd never stand in your way.”

The dark face lit up. Lyon gave a whoop. Devenish was seized and whirled around. Laughing, he cried, “Desist, you blasted madman!”

Lyon obliged, and they walked on, side by side, leading the horses. Elated, Lyon cried, “What a day this has been! Dev—when may I speak to her? I know you believe her to be sixteen, though I've often thought—”

“Yes. Many others have thought the same. It seems—that I was mistaken.” With an effort, he added, “By—by two years, at least, probably.”

Halting, staring at him, Lyon gasped, “Two … Then—then she would be
eighteen?
My God! Dev—do you mean it? You know that means—”

“That you had better choose your moment carefully, you great oaf. The fact I allow it does not mean you've won her, you—” He was interrupted for another outburst of wild exuberance, so that it was some moments before Lyon was sufficiently calm to be able to ask, “Will you tell me now what you have against Elliot Fontaine?”

Devenish's face clouded. He said grittily, “Nothing I can speak of, for I've no proof. I take it you find him unexceptionable.”

“I've met him only a time or two, but he's always been pleasant. More pleasant than many.”

“Oh, he's pleasant—damn him!”

Lyon eyed him askance. “This wouldn't be one of your clairvoyant starts?”

Devenish growled, fumed, but finally said irritably, “To an extent. I cannot abide the man! There's that about him makes my skin creep.” He knew Lyon was staring at him, and went on impatiently, “Oh, I know it sounds mad, but there it is. As for your being shunned—I'd hoped it would be better when Guy moved here from Sussex. Has it not improved at all?”

“At first it was better. Now it's worse. I suppose the word is spreading. Lord knows how Wellington ever thought to keep the business quiet. The whispers are becoming louder, but all people seem to know for certain is that Claude plotted against the crown. They don't know how damnably close he came to murdering the Regent and wrecking the whole country. If
that
ever becomes public knowledge”—he shook his head, troubled—“they'll likely take my poor guv'nor out and lynch him!”