In the sunny withdrawing-room which overlooked the street sat the Duchess of Avon, listening to her sister-in-law, Lady Fanny Marling, who had called to pay her a morning visit, and to talk over the week’s doings over a cup of chocolate and little sweet biscuits.
Lady Fanny no longer looked her best in the crude light of day, but her grace, though turned forty now, still retained a youthful bloom in her cheeks, and had no need at all to shrink from the sunlight. Lady Fanny, who had taken care to seat herself with her back to the window, could not help feeling slightly resentful. There really seemed to be so little difference between her grace, and the boy-girl whom Avon had brought to England twenty-four years ago. Léonie’s figure was as slim as ever, her Titian hair, worn just now en négligé, was untouched by grey, and her eyes, those great dark-blue eyes which had first attracted the Duke, held all their old sparkle. Twenty-four years of marriage had given her dignity, when she chose to assume it, and much feminine wisdom, which she had lacked in the old days, but no wifely or motherly responsibility, no weight of honours, of social eminence had succeeded in subduing the gamin spirit in her. Lady Fanny considered her far too impulsive, but since she was, at the bottom of her somewhat shallow heart, very fond of her sister-in-law, she admitted that Léonie’s impetuosity only added to her charm.
To-day, however, she was in no mood to admire the Duchess. Life was proving itself a tiresome business, full of unpaid bills and undutiful daughters. Vaguely it annoyed her that Léonie (who had a thoroughly unsatisfactory son if only she could be brought to realize it) should look so carefree.
“I vow,” she said rather sharply, “I do not know why we poor creatures slave and fret our lives out for our children, for they are all ungrateful and provoking and only want to disgrace one.”
Léonie wrinkled her brow at that. “I do not think,” she said seriously, “that John would ever want to disgrace you, Fanny.”
“Oh, I was not talking of John!” said her ladyship. “Sons are another matter, though to be sure I should not say so to you, for you have trouble enough with poor dear Dominic, and indeed I wonder how it is he has not turned your hair white with worry already, and young as he is.”
“I do not have trouble with Dominique,” said Léonie flatly. “I find him fort amusant.”
“Then I trust you will find his latest exploit fort amusant,” said Lady Fanny tartly. “I make no doubt he will break his neck over it, for what must he do at the drum last night but wager young Crossly — as mad a rake as ever I set eyes on, and I should be prodigious sorry to see my son in his company — that he would drive his curricle from London to Newmarket in four hours. Five hundred guineas on it, so I heard — play or pay!”
“He drives very well,” Léonie said hopefully. “I do not think that he will break his neck, but you are quite right, tout même, Fanny: it makes one very anxious.”
“And not content with making absurd wagers, which of course he must lose — ”
“He will not lose,” cried her grace indignantly. “And if you like I will lay you a wager that he will win!”
“Lord, my dear, I don’t know what you would have me stake,” said Lady Fanny, forgetting the main issue for the moment. “It’s very well for you with all the pin money and the jewels Avon gives you, but I give you my word I expect to find myself at any moment in that horrid place Rupert used to be clapped up in. If you can believe it I’ve not won once at loo this past month or at silver-pharaoh, and as for whist, I vow and declare to you I wish the game had never been thought of. But that’s neither here nor there, and at least I have not to stand by and watch my only son make himself the talk of the town with his bets and his highwaymen, and I don’t know what more beside.”
Léonie looked interested at this. “But tell!” she commanded. “What highwayman?”
“Oh, it was nothing but just to match the rest of his conduct. He shot one last night on Hounslow Heath, and must needs leave the body upon the road.”
“He is a very good shot,” Léonie said. “For me, I like best to fight with swords, and so does Monseigneur, but Dominique chooses pistols.”
Lady Fanny almost stamped her foot. “I declare you are as incorrigible as that worthless boy himself!” she cried. “It’s very well for the world to call Dominic Devil’s Cub, and place all his wildness at poor Avon’s door, but for my part I find him very like his mamma.”
Léonie was delighted. “ Voyons, that pleases me very much!” she said. “Do you really think so?”
What Fanny might have been goaded to reply to this was checked by the quiet opening of the door behind her. She had no need to turn her head to see who had come in, for Léonie’s face told her.
A soft voice spoke. “Ah, my dear Fanny,” it said, “lamenting my son’s wickedness as usual, I perceive.”
“Monseigneur, Dominique has shot a highwayman!” Léonie said, before Fanny had time to speak.
His Grace of Avon came slowly to the fire, and stretched one thin white hand to the blaze. He carried an ebony stick, but it was noticeable that he leaned on it but slightly. He was still very upright, and only his lined face showed his age. He wore a suit of black velvet with silver lacing, and his wig, which was curled in the latest French fashion, was thickly powdered. His eyes held all their old mockery, and mockery sounded in his voice as he answered: “Very proper.”
“And left the body to rot on the road!” snapped Lady Fanny.
His grace’s delicate brows rose. “I appreciate your indignation, my dear. An untidy ending.”
“But not at all, Monseigneur!” Léonie said practically. “I do not see that a corpse is of any use at all.”
“La, child, will you never lose those callous notions of yours?” demanded Fanny. “It might be Vidal himself speaking! All he would say was that he could not bring a corpse to the drum. Yes, Avon; that is positively the only excuse he gave for his inhuman conduct.”
“I did not know that Vidal had so much proper feeling,” remarked his grace. He moved towards a chair and sat down. “Doubtless you had some other reason for visiting us today — other than to mourn Vidal’s exploits.”
“Of course, I might have known you would uphold him, just to be disagreeable,” said Lady Fanny crossly.
“I never uphold Vidal — even to be disagreeable,” replied his grace.
“Indeed, and I cannot conceive how you should. I was only saying to Léonie when you came in that I have never seen my son in such scrapes as he is always in. I do not believe John has ever caused me one moment’s anxiety in all his life.”
The Duke opened his snuff-box — a plain gold case delicately painted en grisaille by Degault and protected by cristal de roche. “I can do nothing about it, my dear Fanny,” he said. “Recollect that you wanted to marry Edward.”
Under her rouge additional and quite natural colour rose in Fanny’s cheeks. “I won’t hear one word against my sainted Edward!” she said, her voice quivering a little. “And if you mean that John is like his dear father, I am sure I am thankful for it”
Léonie interposed hurriedly. “Monseigneur did not mean anything like that, did you, Monseigneur? And me, I was always very fond of Edward. And certainly John is like him, which is a good thing, just as Juliana is very like you, only not, I think, as pretty as you were.”
“Oh my dear, do you say so indeed?” Lady Fanny’s angry flush died down. “You flatter me, but I believe I was accounted something of a beauty in my young days, was I not, Justin? Only I hope I was never so headstrong as Juliana, who is likely to ruin everything by her stupid behaviour.” She turned to Avon. “Justin, it is too provoking! The foolish chit has taken a fancy to the veriest nobody, and I am forced — yes, forced to pack her off to France till she has got over it.”
Léonie at once pricked up her ears. “Oh, is Juliana in love? But who is he?”
“Pray do not put such an idea into her head!” besought Lady Fanny. “It’s no such matter, I’ll be bound. Lord, if I had married the first man whom I fancied I loved — ! It’s nothing but a silly girl’s first affair, but she is such a headstrong child I vow I do not know what she will be at next. So off she goes to France. John is to take her.”
“Who,” inquired his grace languidly, “is the nobody?”
“Oh, no one of account, my dear Justin. Some country squire’s son whom young Carlisle is sponsoring.”
“Is he nice?” Léonie asked.
“I dare say, my love, but that’s nothing to the point. I have other plans for Juliana.” She gave her laces a little shake, and went on airily: “I am sure we have spoken of it often enough, you and I, and I cannot help feeling that it would be a charming match, besides fulfilling my dearest wish. And I have always thought them remarkably well suited, and I make no doubt at all that everything would have been on the road to being settled by now had Juliana not taken it into her head to flout me in this way, though to be sure, I do not in the least blame her for appearing cold to him, for it is no more than he deserves.”
She paused for breath, and shot a look at Avon out of the corners of her eyes. He was quite unperturbed; a faint smile hovered over his thin lips, and he regarded his sister with an air of cynical amusement. “I find your conversation somewhat difficult to follow, my dear Fanny,” he said. “Pray enlighten me.”
Lady Fanny said shrewdly: “Indeed, and I think you follow me very well, Justin.”
“But I don’t,” Léonie said. “Who deserves that Juliana should be cold? It is not the poor nobody?”
“Of course not!” replied her ladyship impatiently. She seemed strangely loth to explain herself. Léonie glanced inquiringly at the Duke.
He had opened his snuff-box again, and held a pinch to one nostril before he spoke. “I apprehend, my love, that Fanny is referring to your son.”
A blank look came into Léonie’s face. “Dominique? But — ” She stopped and looked at Fanny. “No,” she said flatly.
Lady Fanny was hardly prepared for anything so downright. “Lord, my dear, what can you mean?”
“I do not at all want Dominique to marry Juliana,” Léonie explained.
“Perhaps,” said Lady Fanny, sitting very erect in her chair, “you will be good enough to explain what that signifies.”
“I am sorry if I seemed rude,” Léonie apologized. “Did I, Monseigneur?”
“Very,” he answered, shutting his snuff-box with an expert flick of the finger, “But, unlike Fanny, beautifully frank.”
“Well, I am sorry,” she repeated. “It is not that I do not like Juliana, but I do not think it would amuse Dominic to marry her.”
“Amuse him!” Fanny turned with pardonable exasperation to her brother. “If that is all — ! Have you also forgotten the plans we made, Avon, years back?”
“Acquit me, Fanny. I never make plans.”
Léonie interrupted a heated rejoinder to say: “It is true, Fanny: we did say Dominique should marry Juliana. Not Monseigneur, but you and I. But they were babies, and me, I think it is all quite different now.”
“What is different, pray?” demanded her ladyship.
Léonie reflected. “Well, Dominique is,” she replied naïvely. “He is not enough respectable for Juliana.”
“Lord, child, do you look to see him bring home one of his opera dancers on his arm?” Lady Fanny said with a shrill little laugh.
From a doorway a cool, faintly insolent voice spoke. “My good aunt interests herself in my affairs, I infer.” The Marquis of Vidal came into the room, his chapeau-bras under his arm, the wings of his riding coat clipped back, French fashion, and top boots on his feet There was a sparkle in his eyes, but he bowed with great politeness to his aunt, and went towards the Duchess.
She flew out of her chair. “Ah, my little one! Voyons, this makes me very happy!”
He put his arms round her. The red light went out of his eyes, and a softer look transformed his face. “‘My dear and only love,’ I give you good morrow,” he said. He shot a glance of mockery at his aunt, and took both Léonie’s hands in his. “‘My dear — and — only — love,’” he repeated maliciously, and kissed her fingers.
The Duchess gave a little crow of laughter. “Truly?” she inquired.
Fanny saw him smile into her eyes, a smile he kept for her alone. “Oh, quite, my dear!” he said negligently. Upon which my lady arose with an angry flounce of her armazine skirts, and announced that it was time she took her leave of them.
Léonie pressed her son’s hand coaxingly. “Dominique, you will escort your aunt to her carriage, will you not?”
“With the greatest pleasure on earth, madam,” he replied with promptitude, and offered his arm to the outraged lady.
She made her adieux stiffly, and went out with him. Halfway down the stairs her air of offended dignity deserted her. To be sure the boy was so very handsome, and she had ever a soft corner for a rake. She stole a glance at his profile, and suddenly laughed. “I declare you’re as disdainful as Avon,” she remarked. “But you need not be so cross, even if I do interest myself in your affairs.” She tapped his arm with her gloved hand. “You know, Dominic, I have a great fondness for you.”
The Marquis looked down at her rather enigmatically. “I shall strive to deserve your regard, ma’am,” he said.
“Shall you, my dear?” Lady Fanny’s tone was dry. “I wonder! Well, there’s no use denying I had hoped you would have made me happy, you and Juliana.”
“Console yourself, dear aunt, with the reflection that I shall cause neither you nor Juliana unhappiness.”
“Why, what do you mean?” she asked.
He laughed. “I should make a devil of a husband, aunt.”
“I believe you would,” she said slowly. “But — well, never mind.” They had come to the big door that gave on to the street. The porter swung it open and stood waiting. Lady Fanny gave her hand to the Marquis, who kissed it punctiliously. “Yes,” she said. “A devil of a husband. I am sorry for your wife — or I should be if I were a man.” On which obscure utterance she departed.
His lordship went back to the sunny room upstairs.
“I hope you did not engage her, mon petit?” Léonie said anxiously.
“Far from it,” replied the Marquis. “I think — but she became profound so that I cannot be sure — that she is now glad I am not going to marry my cousin.”
“I told her you would not. I knew you would not like it at all,” Léonie said.
His grace surveyed her blandly. “You put yourself to unnecessary trouble, my love. I cannot conceive that Juliana, who seems to me to have more sense than one would expect to find in a child of Fanny’s, would contemplate marriage with Vidal.”
The Marquis grinned. “As usual, sir, you are right.”
“But I do not think so at all,” objected Léonie. “And if you are right, then I say that Juliana is a little fool, and without any sense at all.”
“She is in love,” answered the Marquis, “with a man called Frederick.”
“ Incroyable!” Léonie exclaimed. “Tell me all about him at once. He sounds very disagreeable.”
The Duke looked across the room at his son. “One was led to suppose from Fanny’s somewhat incoherent discourse that the young man is impossible!”
“Oh, quite, sir,” agreed Vidal. “But she’ll have him for all that.”
“Well, if she loves him, I hope she will marry him,” said Léonie, with a bewildering change of front. “You do not mind, do you, Monseigneur?”
“It is not, thank God, my affair,” replied his grace. “I am not concerned with the Marlings’ futures.”
The Marquis met his glance squarely. “Very well, sir. The point is taken.”
Avon held out one of his very white hands towards the fire, and regarded through half-closed eyes the big emerald ring he wore. “It is not my custom,” he said smoothly, “to inquire into your affairs, but I have heard talk of a girl who is not an opera dancer.”
The Marquis answered with perfect composure. “But not, I think, talk of my approaching nuptials.”
“Hardly,” said his grace, with a faint lift of the brows.
“Nor will you, sir.”
“You relieve me,” said his grace politely. He got up, leaning lightly on his ebony cane. “Permit me to tell you, my son, that when you trifle with a girl of the bourgeoisie, you run the risk of creating the kind of scandal I deplore.”
A smile flickered across Vidal’s mouth. “Your pardon, sir, but do you speak from your wide experience?”
“Naturally,” said his grace.
“I do not believe,” said Léonie, who had been listening calmly to this interchange, “that you ever trifled with a bourgeoise, Justin.”
“You flatter me, child.” He looked again at his son. “I do not need your assurance that you amuse yourself only. I have no doubt that you will commit almost every indiscretion, but one you will not commit. You are, after all, my son. But I would advise you, Dominic, to amuse yourself with women of a certain class, or with your own kind, who understand how the game should be played.”
The Marquis bowed. “You are a fount of wisdom, sir.”
“Of worldly wisdom, yes,” said his grace. In the doorway he paused and looked back. “Ah, there was another little matter, as I remember. What kind of cattle do you keep in your stables that it must needs take you four hours to reach Newmarket?”
The Marquis’ eye gleamed appreciation, but Léonie was inclined to be indignant. “Monseigneur, I find you fort exigeant to-day. Four hours! ma foi, but of a surety he will break his neck.”
“It has been done in less,” his grace said tranquilly.
“That I do not at all believe,” stated the Duchess. “Who did it in less?”
“I did,” said Avon.
“Oh, then I do believe it,” said Léonie as a matter of course.
“How long, sir?” the Marquis said swiftly.
“Three hours and forty-seven minutes.”
“Still too generous, sir. Three hours and forty-five minutes should, I think, suffice. You would perhaps, like to lay me odds?”
“Not in the least,” said his grace. “But three hours and forty-five minutes should certainly suffice.”
He went out. Léonie said: “Of course I should like you to beat Monseigneur’s record, my little one, but it is very dangerous. Do not kill yourself, Dominique, please.”
“I won’t,” he answered. “That is a promise, my dear.”
She tucked her hand in his. “Ah, but it is a promise you could break, mon ange.”
“Devil a bit!” said his lordship cheerfully. “Ask my uncle. He will tell you I was born to be hanged.”
“Rupert?” said Léonie scornfully. “ Voyons, he would not tell me any such thing, because he would not dare.” She retained her clasp on his hand. “Now you will talk to me a little, mon enfant — tout bas. Who is this bourgeoise?”
The laugh went out of Vidal’s eyes at that, and his black brows drew close together. “Let be, madame. She is nothing. How did my father hear of her?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. But this I know, Dominique, you will never be able to hide anything from Monseigneur. And I think he is not quite pleased. It would be better, perhaps, if you did not amuse yourself there.”
“Content you, maman. I can manage my affairs.”
“Well, I hope so,” Léonie said doubtfully. “You are quite sure, I suppose, that this will not lead to a mésalliance?”
He looked at her rather sombrely. “You don’t flatter my judgment, madame. Do you think I am so likely to forget what I owe to my name?”
“Yes,” said her grace candidly, “I think, my dear, that when you have the devil in you — which I perfectly understand — you are likely to forget everything.”
He disengaged himself, and stood up. “My devil don’t prompt me to marriage, maman,” he said.