Miss Challoner had much time for reflection during the stage-coach’s slow progress to Pont-de-Moine, and not many miles had been covered when, her first impetuous impulse to fly having abated, she became extremely fearful of the consequences of her action. Her purse was now woefully slim, and she supposed that the cost of a night’s lodging would make an end of the few remaining coins lent her by Miss Marling.
She did not know what to do, a state of affairs repugnant to one of her orderly habit of mind. To be stranded in the middle of a strange country seemed to her the worst fate that could befall any young female, and no amount of sensible argument could convince her that it was no worse than to be stranded, penniless, in England.
She first bent her mind to the problem of reaching Paris, but after some consideration she decided that her determination to return there was without reason. Having no acquaintance in Paris, and no intention of claiming assistance from the English Embassy, there could be little point in striving to get to the capital. It might even be better for her to seek employment in some smaller town. She reflected that if my Lord Vidal still sought her he would suppose Paris to be her objective, in which case anywhere in the world would be preferable to her.
The Duchess of Avon’s words continued to ring in her ears. Well, the Duchess need not suppose that Miss Mary Challoner was going to thrust herself into the noble family of Alastair. She would rather die — no, that was absurd. She did not wish to die in the least. Lord, she was becoming like Juliana, and falling into a habit of foolish exaggeration! She gave herself an inward shake. Her situation, though disagreeable, was not desperate. Though it seemed unlikely that she could obtain genteel employment without proper credentials, there must be some work to be found, and to be sure she had no right to be over-nice after the adventures she had passed through. The realization of her sudden and undeserved loss of character provoked a dismal frame of mind which was hard to shake off. She began to consider the several occupations open to her, and by the time she had run through such depressing trades as milliner, seamstress, serving-maid, and washerwoman, she was feeling very doleful indeed. On the whole, the life of a serving-maid seemed to be the most agreeable of those debased professions. She thought that she would endeavour to find a suitable post, and as soon as she had saved enough money to pay for the journey she would go back to England, where more congenial employment might, with a little ingenuity, be found. Even if she had the means at her disposal she would not return to England yet, for no doubt the packet would be watched for some time to come, if not by the Marquis, certainly by her own family. Later, when all hue and cry had died down, and she was in a fair way to being forgotten, it would be safe to venture back, though never, she determined, to within reach of her own people.
Having made up her mind to become a serving-maid, she found herself without anything much to think of except the events of the past few days, and she was soon confronted by a fresh alarm: that the Marquis, upon discovering her flight, would pursue her immediately. She at once perceived that to board the Paris stage had been an act of supreme folly, for my lord would naturally suppose her to be escaping to Paris, and would have not the slightest difficulty in catching up with the slow-moving coach. At the same time, no one had actually seen her set forth, although one abigail must have a very good notion whither she had gone. It was possible that his lordship might first scour Dijon and the surrounding countryside, which would give her time to hide herself. There was also the Duchess to be reckoned with, and Miss Challoner, during the days of her journey in his lordship’s company, had been led to believe that her wishes were very nearly paramount with him. From what she had said upon seeing him, it seemed certain that she would exert all her influence to induce him to abandon his unfortunate liaison. There was the tall man, too, who, Miss Challoner guessed, was probably his lordship’s uncle. Between them they should be able to hold the Marquis in check.
Her hand crept up surreptitiously under her cloak to feel the wound on her shoulder. The Marquis’s fine handkerchief was still knotted round it. She thought she would keep that handkerchief always, in memory of one brief moment when she had been sure that he loved her.
Tears stung her eyelids; she forced them back, casting a timid look round the coach to see whether anyone was looking at her. The stout woman was asleep, with her jaw sagging; two farmers were earnestly conversing opposite to her, and judging from his stertorous breathing she thought the man on her left was also asleep.
Well, that one moment’s conviction would comfort her in the lonely future. He had called her — but, after all, it was dangerous to recall his words, or the look on his face, or the gentle note in his voice.
She had thought — it seemed a long time ago now — that if only he had loved her she could marry him, but she had not considered then what it would mean to him to marry one so far beneath him. Perhaps his father would cast him off; it might even be in his power to disinherit him, and from all she had heard of his grace he was quite capable of doing that. She did not think that his love would survive exclusion from his own order, nor could she for an instant contemplate dragging him down to the society of lesser men. She thought, a little sadly, that she had seen too clearly how a man could sink to be able to cheat herself into supposing that the Marquis would maintain his position. Her own father had been disowned by his father, and he had ceased to associate with his old friends, because he had been looked at askance, as one who had committed the unforgivable sin. If the Duke of Avon had it in his power to disinherit his son, the Marquis would soon find himself condemned to the society of Miss Challoner, and Uncle Henry Simpkins, and their like. The very notion was so incredible that had her heart been less heavy she would have smiled at it.
It had grown dark inside the coach, and very chilly. Miss Challoner drew her cloak more tightly round her, and tried to ease her cramped limbs. It did not seem as though they would ever arrive at Pont-de-Moine. At every halt, of which there were many, she waited hopefully to be set down, but though one of the farmers had alighted, and two other persons entered the coach, no summons had yet come for her. She had no means of ascertaining the time, but she felt sure she had been travelling for many hours, and had begun to wonder whether the guard had forgotten her, and long passed Pont-de-Moine, when the coach stopped again before a well-lighted inn, and the door was pulled open.
The guard announced Pont-de-Moine in a stentorian voice which woke the fat woman with a jerk. The child, drowsing in her arms, set up a whimper, and Miss Challoner descended thankfully on to the road.
The guard, who apparently took a friendly interest in her, jerked his thumb towards the open door of the inn, and said that she had best bespeak a bed for the night there. She looked at the inn doubtfully, fearing from its well-kept appearance that it might be beyond her means to stay there, and inquired whether there was not some smaller hostelry to which she could repair.
The guard scratched his chin, and ran his eyes over her thoughtfully. “Not for you, there is not,” he said bluntly. “There’s only a tavern, at the end of the village, but it’s not fit for a decent woman to enter.”
Miss Challoner thanked him, and rather recklessly pressed a silver coin into his hand, thereby depleting her slender hoard still further.
She watched the guard climb on to the box again, and feeling somewhat as though she had lost her only friend in all France, she turned, and walked resolutely into the inn.
She found herself in a small well -hall, with the stairs running up to a couple of galleries on the first and second storeys. The place was lit by swinging lamps, and had several doors leading out of it on one side. On the other an archway afforded a glimpse of a comfortable coffee-room.
Out of this apartment the landlord came bustling, a lean man with a sharp face, and a habit of sniffing. He came bowing, and rubbing his dry hands together, but when he saw that his visitor was quite unattended, his manner changed, and he asked her in a curt way what she wanted.
She was unaccustomed to meet with incivility, and instinctively she stiffened. She replied in her quiet, well-bred voice, that she had alighted from the stage, and required a bed-chamber.
Like the guard, the landlord eyed her up and down, but in his glance was no friendliness, but a distinct look of contempt. Solitary females travelling by stage were not wont to put up at his inn, which was a house catering for the nobility and gentry. He asked warily whether her abigail was outside, with her baggage, and perceived at once, from her sudden flush and downcast eyes, that she had no abigail, and probably no baggage either.
Until this humiliating moment Miss Challoner had not considered her extremely barren state. She knew quite well in what a light she must appear, and it took all her resolution not to turn and run ignominiously away.
Her fingers clasped her reticule tightly. She lifted her head, and said calmly: “There has been an accident, and my baggage is unhappily left behind me at Dijon. I expect it to-morrow. Meanwhile I require a bed-chamber, and some supper. A bowl of broth in my room will suffice.”
It was quite evident that the landlord did not place any belief in the existence of Miss Challoner’s baggage. “You have come to the wrong inn,” he said. “There is a place down the street for the likes of you.”
He encountered a look from Miss Challoner’s fine grey eyes that made him suddenly nervous lest her story might after all be true. But at this moment he was reinforced by the arrival of his wife, a dame as stout as he was lean, who demanded to know what the young person wanted.
He repeated Miss Challoner’s story to her. The dame set her arms akimbo, and gave vent to a short bark of laughter. “A very likely tale,” she said. “You’d best be off to the Chat Griz, my girl. The Rayon d’Or does not honour persons of your quality. Baggage in Dijon indeed!”
It did not seem as though an appeal to this scornful lady would be of avail. Miss Challoner said steadily: “I find you impertinent, my good woman. I am English, travelling to rejoin my friends in the neighbourhood, and although I am aware that the loss of my baggage must appear strange to you — ”
“Vastly strange, mademoiselle, I assure you. The English are all mad, sans doute, but we have had many of them at the Rayon d’Or, and they are not so mad that they permit their ladies to journey alone on the diligence. Come, now, be off with you! There is no lodging for you here, I can tell you. Such a tale! If you are English, you will be some serving-maid, very likely dismissed for some fault. The Chat Griz will give you a bed.”
“The guard on the stage warned me what kind of a hostelry that is,” replied Miss Challoner. “If you doubt my story, let me tell you that my name is Challoner, and I have sufficient money at my disposal to pay for your bed-chamber.”
“Take your money elsewhere!” said the woman brusquely. “A nice thing it would be if we were to house young persons of your kind! Don’t stand there staring down your nose at me, my girl! Be off at once!”
A soft voice spoke from the stairway. “One moment, my good creature,” it said.
Miss Challoner looked up quickly. Down the stairs, very leisurely, was coming a tall gentleman dressed in a rich suit of black cloth with much silver lacing. He wore a powdered wig, and a patch at the corner of his rather thin mouth, and there was the hint of a diamond in the lace at his throat. He carried a long ebony cane in one hand, and a great square emerald glinted on one of his fingers. As he descended into the full light of the lamps Miss Challoner saw that he was old, although his eyes, directly surveying her from under their heavy lids, were remarkably keen. They were of a hard grey, and held a cynical gleam.
That he was a personage of considerable importance she at once guessed, for not only was the landlord bowing till his nose almost touched his knee, but the gentleman had in every languid movement the air of one born to command. He reached the foot of the stairs, and came slowly towards the group by the door. He did not seem to be aware of the landlord’s existence; he was looking at Miss Challoner, and it was to her and in English that he addressed himself. “You appear to be in some difficulty, madam. Pray let me know how I can serve you.”
She curtsied with pretty dignity. “Thank you, sir. All I require is a lodging for the night, but I believe I must not trouble you.”
“It does not seem to be an out-of-the-way demand,” said the gentleman, raising his brows. “You will no doubt inform me where the hitch lies.”
His air of calm authority brought a smile quivering to Miss Challoner’s lips. “I repeat, sir, you are very kind, but I beg you will not concern yourself with my stupid affairs.”
His cold glance rested on her with a kind of bored indifference that she found disconcerting, and oddly familiar. “My good child,” he said, with a touch of disdain in his voice, “your scruples, though most affecting, are quite needless. I imagine I might well be your grandfather.”
She coloured a little, and replied, with a frank look: “I beg your pardon, sir. Indeed, my scruples are only lest I should be thought to importune a stranger.”
“You edify me extremely,” he said. “Will you now have the goodness to inform me why this woman finds herself unable to supply you with a bed-chamber?”
“I can scarcely blame her, sir,” said Miss Challoner honestly. “I have no maid, and no baggage, and I arrived by the stage coach. My situation is excessively awkward, and I was very foolish not to have realized sooner what an odd appearance I must present.”
“The loss of your baggage is, I fear, beyond my power to remedy, but a bed-chamber I can procure for you at once.”
“I should be very grateful to you, sir, if you would.”
The Englishman turned to the landlord, who was humbly awaiting his pleasure. “Your stupidity, my good Boisson, is lamentable,” he remarked. “You will escort this lady to a suitable chamber.”
“Yes, monseigneur, yes indeed. It shall be as monseigneur wishes. But — ”
“I do not think,” said the Englishman sweetly, “that I evinced any desire to converse with you.”
“No, monseigneur,” said the landlord. “If — if mademoiselle would follow my wife upstairs? The large front room, Celestine!”
Madame said resentfully: “What, the large room?”
The landlord gave her a push towards the stairs. “Certainly the large one. Go quickly!”
The Englishman turned to Miss Challoner. “You bespoke supper, I believe. I shall be honoured by your presence at my own table. Boisson will show you the way to my private salle.”
Miss Challoner hesitated. “A bowl of soup in my chamber, sir — ”
“You will find it more entertaining to sup with me,” he said. “Let me allay your qualms by informing you that I have the pleasure of your grandfather’s acquaintance.”
Miss Challoner grew rather pale. “My grandfather?” she said quickly.
“Certainly. You said, I think, that your name is Challoner. I have known Sir Giles any time these forty years. Permit me to tell you that you have a great look of him.”
In face of this piece of information Miss Challoner abandoned her first impulse to disclaim all relationship with Sir Giles. She stood feeling remarkably foolish, and looking rather worried.
The gentleman smiled faintly. “Very wise,” he commented, with uncanny perspicacity. “I should never believe that you were not his granddaughter. May I suggest that you follow this worthy female upstairs? You will join me at your convenience.”
Miss Challoner had to laugh. “Very well, sir,” she said, and curtsied, and went off in the wake of the landlady.
She was allotted what she guessed to be one of the best chambers, and a serving-maid brought her water in a brass can. She emptied her reticule on to the dressing-table, and somewhat ruefully inspected the collection thus displayed. Luckily she had slipped a clean tucker into it, and when carefully arranged round her shoulders this concealed the tear in her gown. She combed out her hair, and dressed it again, washed her face and hands, and went downstairs to the hall.
The presence of a countryman had been providential, but that he should be acquainted with her grandfather, and knew her identity, was a calamity. Miss Challoner had no idea what she was going to say to him, but some explanation was clearly called for.
The landlord was awaiting her at the foot of the staircase, and he met her with a respect as marked as his late contempt. He led the way to one of the doors leading from the hall, and ushered her into a large parlour.
Covers were laid on the table in the centre of the room, and the apartment was lit by clusters of wax candles in solid chandeliers. Miss Challoner’s new friend was standing by the fireplace. He came forward to meet her, and taking her hand at once remarked on its coldness. She confessed that she was still feeling chilly, and told him that the stage had been full of draughts. She went to the fire, and spread out her hands to the blaze. “I find this very welcome, sir,” she said, smiling up at him. “You are indeed kind to invite me to sup with you.”
He surveyed her somewhat enigmatically. “You shall let me know later how I may serve you further,” he said. “Will you not be seated?”
She walked to the table, and sat down at his right hand. A liveried servant came in noiselessly, and set soup before them. He would have stayed behind his master’s chair, but a slight sign dismissed him.
Miss Challoner drank her soup, realizing suddenly that it was many hours since she had partaken of food. She was relieved to find that her host did not seem to require an immediate explanation of her peculiar circumstances, but talked gently instead on a number of impersonal subjects. He had a caustic way with him, which Miss Challoner found entertaining. There was often a twinkle in her eye, and since her knowledge was sufficiently wide (for, unlike her friend Juliana, she had not wasted her time at school), she was able not only to listen, but to contribute her own share to the conversation. By the time the sweetmeats were set on the table she and her host were getting on famously, and she had quite lost any shyness that she might at first have felt. He encouraged her to talk, sitting back in his chair, sipping his wine, and watching her. To begin with, she had found his scrutiny a little trying, for his face told her nothing of what he might be thinking, but she was not the woman to be easily unnerved, and she looked back at him, whenever occasion demanded, with her usual friendly calm.
She could not be rid of the conviction that she had met him before, and the effort to remember where brought a crease between her brows. Observing it, her host said: “Something troubles you, Miss Challoner?”
She smiled. “No, sir, hardly that. Perhaps it is ridiculous of me to suppose it, but I have an odd feeling that I have met you before. I have not?”
He set his glass down, and stretched out his hand for the decanter. “No, Miss Challoner, you have not.”
She was tempted to ask his name, but since he was so very much older than herself she did not care to appear in the least familiar. If he wished her to know it no doubt he would tell her.
She laid down her napkin, and rose. “I have been talking a great deal, I fear,” she said. “May I thank you, sir, for a pleasant evening, and for your exceeding kindness, and so bid you good-night?”
“Don’t go,” he said. “Your reputation is quite safe, and the night is still young. Without wishing to seem idly curious, I should like to hear why you are journeying unprotected, through France. Do you think I am entitled to an explanation?”
She remained standing beside her chair. “Yes, sir, I do think it,” she answered quietly. “For my situation must seem indeed strange. But unhappily I am not able to give you the true explanation, and since I do not wish to repay your kindness with lies it is better that I should offer none. May I wish you good-night, sir?”
“Not yet,” he said. “Sit down, my child.”
She looked at him for a moment, and after some slight hesitation, obeyed, lightly clasping her hands in the lap of her grey gown.
The stranger regarded her over the brim of his wineglass. “May I ask why you find yourself unable to proffer the true explanation?”
She seemed to ponder her reply for a while. “There are several reasons, sir. The truth is so very nearly as strange as Mr. Walpole’s famous romance that perhaps I fear to be disbelieved.”
He tilted his glass, observing the reflection of the candlelight in the deep red wine. “But did you not say, Miss Challoner, that you would not lie to me?” he inquired softly.
Her eyes narrowed. “You are very acute, sir.”
“I have that reputation,” he agreed.
His words touched a chord of memory in her brain, but she was unable to catch the fleeting remembrance. She said: “You are quite right, sir: that is not my reason. The truth is there is someone else involved in my story.”
“I had supposed that there might be,” he replied. “Am I to understand that your lips are sealed out of consideration for this other person?”
“Not entirely, sir, but in part, yes.”
“Your sentiments are most elevating, Miss Challoner. But this punctiliousness is quite needless, believe me. Lord Vidal’s exploits have never been attended by any secrecy.”
She jumped, and her eyes flew to his face in a look of startled interrogation. He smiled. “I had the felicity of meeting your esteemed grandparent at Newmarket not many days since,” he said. “Upon hearing that I was bound for France he requested me to inquire for you on my way through Paris.”
“He knew?” she said blankly.
“Without doubt he knew.”
She covered her face with her hands. “My mother must have told him,” she said almost inaudibly. “It is worse, then, than I thought.”
He put his wineglass down, and pushed his chair a little way back from the table. “I beg you will not distress yourself, Miss Challoner. The role of confidant is certainly new to me, but I trust I know the rules.”
She got up and went over to the fire, trying to collect her thoughts, and to compose her natural agitation. The gentleman at the table took snuff, and waited for her to return. She did so in a minute or two, with a certain brisk determination that characterized her. She was rather pale, but completely mistress of herself. “If you know that I — left England with Lord Vidal, sir, I am more than ever grateful for your hospitality to-night, and an explanation is beyond doubt due to you,” she said. “I do not know how much you have learned of me, but since no one in England knows the whole truth, I fear you may have been quite misinformed on several points.”
“It is more than likely,” agreed her host. “May I suggest that you tell me the whole story? I have every intention of helping you out of your somewhat difficult situation, but I desire to know exactly why you left England with Lord Vidal, and why I find you to-day, apparently alone and friendless.”
She leaned towards him, her face eager. “Will you help me, sir? Will you help me to obtain a post as governess in some French family, so that I need not go back to England, but can maintain myself abroad?”
“Is that what you want?” he inquired incredulously.
“Yes, sir, indeed it is.”
“Dear me!” he remarked. “You seem to be a female of great resource. Pray begin your story.”
“In doing so, sir, I am forced to betray the — folly — of my sister. I dare say I need not ask you to — to forget that part of the tale.”
“My memory is most adaptable, Miss Challoner.”
“Thank you, sir. You must know then that I have a sister who is very young, foolish as girls are sometimes, and very, very lovely. Her path was crossed, not so long ago, by the Marquis of Vidal.”
“Naturally,” murmured her host.
“Naturally, sir?”
“Oh, I think so,” he said, with a faintly satirical smile. “If she is — very, very lovely — I feel sure that the Marquis of Vidal would cross her path. But continue, I beg of you!”
She inclined her head. “Very well, sir. This part of the story is very hard to tell, for I do not wish to give you to understand that the Marquis — forced his attentions upon an unwilling female. My sister encouraged him, and led him to suppose that she was — that she — ”
“I comprehend perfectly, Miss Challoner.”
She threw him a grateful look. “Yes, sir. Well, the end of it was that the Marquis induced my sister to consent to fly with him. I discovered their assignation, which was for eleven o’clock one evening. I should explain that the billet his lordship sent my sister, appointing the hour, fell into my hands, and not hers. There were reasons, sir, into which I shall not drag you, which prevented me from informing my mother of this dreadful elopement. I need not tell you, sir, that his lordship did not contemplate marriage. It seemed to me that I must contrive not only to stop the actual flight, but to put an end to an affair that would only mean Sophia’s ruin. When I look back I marvel at my own simplicity. I conceived the notion of taking Sophia’s place in the coach, and when he discovered the imposture it was my intention to make him believe that Sophia and I had planned it between us, for a jest. I thought that nothing would more surely disgust him.” She paused, and added dryly: “I was quite right.”
The gentleman twisted the emerald ring on his finger. “Do I understand that you carried out this remarkable plan?” he inquired.
“Oh, yes, sir. But it went sadly awry.”
“That was to have been expected,” he said gently.
“I suppose so,” she sighed. “It was a silly plan. Lord Vidal did not discover the cheat until next morning, when we reached Newhaven. To find myself by the sea was a shock to me. I had not guessed that his lordship intended to leave England. I entered the inn on the quay in his company, and in the private room he had engaged I discovered myself to him.” She stopped.
“I can well imagine that Lord Vidal’s emotions baffle description,” said the gentleman.
She was looking straight in front of her. She nodded, and said slowly: “In what followed, sir, I do not wish to lay any blame on Lord Vidal. I played my part too well, not dreaming of the revenge he would take. I must have appeared to him — I did appear to him — a vulgar, loose female.” She turned her head towards him. “Are you acquainted with Lord Vidal, sir?”
“I am, Miss Challoner.”
“Then you will know, sir, that his lordship’s temper is extremely fiery and uncontrolled. I had provoked it, and it — it was disastrous. Lord Vidal forced me to go on board his yacht, and carried me to Dieppe.”
The gentleman felt for his quizzing-glass, and raised it. Through it he surveyed Miss Challoner. “May I ask what were his lordship’s tactics?” he inquired. “I feel an almost overwhelming interest in the methods of daylight abduction employed by the modern youth.”
“Well, it was not very romantic,” confessed Miss Challoner. “He threatened to pour the contents of his flask down my throat, thereby rendering me too drunk to resist.” She saw a frown in his eyes, and said: “I fear I shock you, sir, but remember that his lordship was enraged.”
“I am not shocked, Miss Challoner, but I infinitely deplore such a lack of finesse. Did his lordship carry out this ingenious plan?”
“No, for I submitted. To be made drunk seemed to me a horrid fate. I said I would go with him. It was very early, and there was no one on the quay, so that I could not call for help, even had I dared. And since his lordship threatened to strangle me if I made the least outcry, I am sure I should not have dared. I went on board the yacht, and as our passage was rough, I was most vilely unwell.”
A smile flickered across her hearer’s countenance. “My sympathies are with Lord Vidal. He no doubt found you most disconcerting.”
She gave a little laugh. “I think you don’t know him very well, sir,for it is one of the nice things about him that he was not disconcerted, but on the contrary, extremely prompt in dealing with the situation.”
He was looking at her rather curiously. “I thought that I knew him very well indeed,” he said. “Apparently I was wrong. Pray continue: you begin to interest me vastly.”
“He has a dreadful reputation,” she said earnestly, “but he is not wicked at heart. He is nothing but a wild, passionate, spoiled boy.”
“I am all admiration for your shrewdness, Miss Challoner,” said the gentleman politely.
“It is true, sir,” she insisted, suspecting him of irony. “When I was sick on that yacht — ”
He raised one thin hand. “I accept your reading of his lordship’s true nature, Miss Challoner. Spare me a recital of your sufferings at sea, I beg of you.”
She smiled. “They were excessively painful, sir, I assure you. But we arrived at length at Dieppe, where his lordship had planned to spend the night. We dined. His lordship had, I think, been drinking aboard the yacht. He was in an ugly mood, and I was compelled, in the end, to protect my virtue in a somewhat drastic manner.”
The gentleman opened his snuff-box, and took a pinch delicately. “If you succeeded in protecting your virtue, my dear Miss Challoner, I can readily believe — knowing his lordship — that your methods must have been exceedingly drastic. You perceive me positively agog with curiosity.”
“I shot him,” she said bluntly.
The hand that was raising the pinch of snuff to one nostril was checked for a brief moment. “Accept my compliments,” said the gentleman calmly, and inhaled the snuff.
“It was not a very bad wound,” she told him. “But it sobered him, you see.”
“I imagine that it might do so,” he conceded.
“Yes, sir. He began to realize that I was not — not vulgarly coy, but in deadly earnest.”
“Did he indeed? A gentleman of intuition, I perceive.”
Miss Challoner said with dignity: “You laugh, sir, but it was not very amusing at the time.”
The gentleman bowed. “I beg your pardon,” he said solemnly. “What happened next?”
“His lordship insisted that I should tell him all that I have told you. When he had heard me out he said that there was. only one thing to be done. I must marry him at once.”
The keen eyes lifted from the contemplation of the enamelled snuff-box, and were suddenly intent. “We have reached the point where you interest me extraordinarily,” said that smooth voice. “Proceed, Miss Challoner.”
She looked down at her clasped hands. “I could not consent to so wild a scheme, sir, of course. I was forced to decline his lordship’s offer.”
“I do not think I am a fool,” said the gentleman pensively. “But although I can sympathize with your reluctance to marry so dissolute a gentleman as Lord Vidal, your predicament was such that I do not immediately perceive what forced you to decline.”
“The knowledge, sir, that Lord Vidal did not care for me,” answered Miss Challoner in a low voice. “The knowledge also that in marrying me he would be making a — a deplorable mésalliance. I do not desire to discuss that, if you please. I requested his lordship — since I could hardly return to England — to escort me to Paris, where I hoped to find some genteel employment, such as I described to you.”
The quizzing-glass was raised again. “You appear to have confronted your somewhat unnerving situation with remarkable equanimity, Miss Challoner.”
She shrugged. “What else could I do, sir? Vapours would not have helped me. Besides, I had his lordship sick on my hands with some slight inflammation of the wound I had given him, and as he was bent on doing a number of imprudent things I had too much to do in preventing him to think very much of my own troubles.”
“From my brief acquaintance with you, Miss Challoner, I feel moderately convinced that you did prevent Lord Vidal’s imprudence.”
“Oh yes,” she answered. “He is quite easy to manage, if — if one only knows the way.”
The quizzing-glass fell. “His lordship’s parents should be anxious to meet you,” said the gentleman.
Her smile was twisted. “I am afraid not, sir. I do not know whether you are acquainted with his grace of Avon?”
“Intimately,” he said, with the ghost of a laugh.
“Oh, then — ” She broke off. “In short, sir, I refused Lord Vidal’s offer, and we — ”
“But were you not about to make some observation concerning his grace of Avon?” he interposed urbanely.
“I was, sir, but if you are intimate with him I will refrain.”
“Pray do not. In what monstrous light has this gentleman appeared to you?”
“I have never set eyes on him, sir. I only judge him by what I have heard, and by things that Lord Vidal has from time to time let fall. I suppose him to be a man of few morals and no heart. He seems to me a sinister person, and is, I believe, quite unscrupulous in attaining his ends.”
The gentleman appeared to be amused. “I am far from contradicting you, Miss Challoner, but may I inquire whether you culled this masterly description from Lord Vidal’s lips?”
“If you mean, did Lord Vidal tell me so, no, sir, he did not. Lord Vidal is, I think, attached to his grace. I go by common report, a little, and by the very lively fear of her uncle evinced by my friend Miss Marling, His lordship merely gave me to understand that his father was uncannily omniscient, and had a habit of succeeding in all his objects.”
“I am relieved to hear that Lord Vidal has so much respect for his grace,” remarked the gentleman.
“Are you, sir? Well, having formed this opinion, I could not but feel that so far from desiring to meet me, his grace would very likely disinherit Lord Vidal if his lordship married me.”
“You draw an amiable portrait, Miss Challoner, but I can assure you that whatever his grace’s feelings might be he would never follow so distressingly crude a course.”
“Would he not, sir? I did not know, but I am very sure he would not countenance his son’s marriage to a nobody. To continue: Lord Vidal, discovering that I was once at school with his cousin, Miss Marling, brought me to Paris, and consigned me to her care until such time as he could find an English divine to marry me. Miss Marling was secretly betrothed to a certain Mr. Comyn, but their betrothal was broken off — irrevocably, as I thought — and Mr. Comyn, being a gentleman of great chivalry, offered his hand to me, to enable me to escape from Lord Vidal. Though I blush to confess it, sir, such was my desperate need, that I consented to elope with Mr. Comyn to Dijon where Lord Vidal had found an English divine. Unfortunately, Mr. Comyn thought it incumbent on him to leave a note for his lordship, apprising him of our intention to wed. The result was, sir, that Lord Vidal, accompanied by Miss Marling, overtook us at Dijon before the knot was tied. There was a painful scene. Mr. Comyn, desiring to protect me from his lordship’s — coercion — announced that we were man and wife. Lord Vidal, with the object of making me a widow, tried to choke the life out of Mr. Comyn. In which I think he would probably have succeeded,” she added, “had there not been a jug of water at hand. I threw it over them both, and my lord let Mr. Comyn go.”
“A jug of water!” he repeated. His shoulders shook slightly. “But continue, Miss Challoner!”
“After that,” she said matter-of-factly, “they fought with their swords.”
“How very enlivening! Where did they fight with — er — their swords?”
“In the private parlour. Juliana had hysterics.”
“It is quite unnecessary to tell me that,” he assured her. “What I should like to know is what was done with Mr. Comyn’s body?”
“He wasn’t killed, sir. No one was hurt at all.”
“You amaze me,” said the gentleman.
“Mr. Comyn would have been killed,” Miss Challoner admitted, “but I stopped it. I thought it was time.”
The gentleman surveyed her with distinct admiration, not untouched by amusement. “Of course I should have known that you stopped it,” he said. “What means did you employ this time?”
“Rather rough-and-ready ones, sir. I tried to catch the blades in a coat.”
“I am disappointed,” he said. “I had imagined a far neater scheme. Were you hurt?”
“A little, sir. His lordship’s sword scratched me, no more. That ended the duel. Mr. Comyn said that he must tell Lord Vidal the truth about us, and feeling myself somewhat shaken, I retired to my chamber.” She paused, and drew a long breath. “Before I had reached the stairway, his lordship’s mother arrived, accompanied, I think, by Lord Rupert Alastair. They did not see me, but I — I heard her grace — say to Lord Vidal — that he must not marry me, and I — I got into the diligence for Paris, which was at the door, and — and came here. That is all my story, sir.”
A silence fell. Conscious of her host’s scrutiny, Miss Challoner averted her face. After a moment she said: “Having heard me, sir, do you still feel inclined to assist me out of my difficulty?”
“I am doubly anxious to assist you, Miss Challoner. But since you have been so frank, I must request you to be yet franker. Am I right in assuming that you love Lord Vidal?”
“Too well to marry him, sir,” said Miss Challoner in a subdued voice.
“May I ask why ‘too well’?”
She raised her head. “How could I, sir, knowing that his parents would do anything in their power to prevent such a marriage? How could I let him stoop to my level? I am not of his world, though Sir Giles Challoner is my grandfather. Please do not let us speak any more of this! My mind is made up; my one dread now is that his lordship may pursue me to this place.”
“I can safely promise you, my dear, that while you remain under my protection you are in no danger from Lord Vidal.”
The words were hardly out of his mouth when the sound of voices outside came to Miss Challoner’s ears. She grew very white, and half rose from her chair. “Sir, he has come!” she said, trying to be calm.
“So I apprehend,” he said imperturbably.
Miss Challoner cast a frightened look round. “You promised I should be safe, sir. Will you bide me somewhere? We must be quick!”
“I still promise that you shall be safe,” he replied. “But I shall certainly not hide you. Let me recommend you to be seated once more ... Come in!”
One of the inn servants came in looking rather scared, and firmly shut the door. “Milor’, there is a gentleman outside demands to see the English lady. I told him she was supping with an English milor’, and he spoke through his teeth, thus: ‘I will see this English milor’,’ he said. Milor’, he has the look of one about to do a murder. Shall I summon milor’s own servants?”
“Certainly not,” said milor’. “Admit this gentleman.”
Miss Challoner put out her hand impulsively. “Sir, I beg you will not! If my lord is in one of his rages I cannot answer for what he may do. I have a great alarm lest your years should not protect you from his violence. Is there no way I can escape from this room unseen?”
“Miss Challoner, I must once more request you to be seated,” said milor’, bored. “Lord Vidal will lay violent hands on neither of us.” He looked across at the serving-man. “I do not in the least understand why you are standing there goggling at me,” he said. “Admit his lordship.”
The servant withdrew; Miss Challoner, standing still beside her chair, looked down rather helplessly at her host. She wondered what would happen when my lord came in. A clock had chimed midnight somewhere in the distance not long since; it was a very odd hour at which to be found supping with a strange gentleman, however venerable he might be, and she feared that the Marquis’s jealous temper might flare up with disastrous results. There seemed to be no hope of making her host understand that the Marquis in a black rage was scarcely responsible for his actions. The gentleman was maddeningly imperturbable: he was even smiling a little.
She heard a quick step in the hall; Vidal’s voice said sharply: “Stable my horse, one of you. Where is this Englishman?”
Miss Challoner laid her hand on the back of her chair, and grasped it as though for support. The servant said: “I will announce m’sieur.”
He was cut short. “I’ll announce myself,” said his lordship savagely.
A moment later the door was flung open, and the Marquis strode in, his fingers hard clenched on his riding-whip. He cast one swift smouldering glance across the room, and stopped dead, a look of thunderstruck amazement on his face. “Sir!” he gasped.
The gentleman at the head of the table looked him over from his head to his heels. “You may come in, Vidal,” he said suavely.
The Marquis stayed where he was, one hand still on the doorknob. “You here!” he stammered. “I thought ...”
“Your reflections are quite without interest, Vidal. No doubt you will shut that door in your own good time.”
To Miss Challoner’s utter astonishment the Marquis shut it at once, and said stiffly: “Your pardon, sir.” He tugged at his cravat. “Had I known that you were here — ”
“Had you known that I was here,” said the elder man in a voice that froze Miss Challoner to the marrow, “you would possibly have made your entrance in a more seemly fashion. You will permit me to tell you that I find your manners execrable.”
The Marquis flushed, and set his teeth. An incredible and dreadful premonition seized Miss Challoner. She looked from the Marquis to her host, and her hand went instinctively to her cheek. “Oh, good God!” she said, aghast. “Are you — can you be — ?” She could get no further.
The look of amusement crept back into the gentleman’s eyes. “As usual, you are quite right, Miss Challoner. I am that unscrupulous and sinister person so aptly described by you a while back.”
Miss Challoner’s tongue seemed to tie itself into knots. “I can’t — I would not — there is nothing I can say, sir, except that I ask your pardon.”
“There is not the smallest need, Miss Challoner, I assure you. Your reading of my character was most masterly. The only thing I find hard to forgive is your conviction that you had met me before. I don’t pretend to be flattered by the likeness you evidently perceived.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the Marquis politely.
Miss Challoner walked away to the fireplace. “I am ashamed,” she said. Real perturbation sounded in her voice. “I had no business to say what I did. I see now that I was quite at fault. For the rest — had I known who you were I would never have told you all that I did.”
“That would have been a pity,” said his grace. “I found your story extremely illuminating.”
She made a hopeless little gesture. “Please permit me to retire, sir.”
“You are no doubt fatigued after the many discomforts you have suffered today,” agreed his grace, “but I apprehend that my son — whose apologies I beg to offer — is come here expressly to see you. I really think that you would be well advised to listen to anything he may have to say.”
“I can’t!” she said, in a suffocated way. “Please let me go!”
The Marquis came quickly across the room to her side. He took her hands in his strong clasp, and said in a low voice: “You should not have fled from me. My God, do you hate me so much? Mary, listen to me! I’ll force nothing on you, but I beg of you, accept my name! There’s no other way I can right you in the eyes of the world. You must wed me! I swear to you on my honour I’ll not hurt you. I won’t come near you unless you bid me. Father, tell her she must marry me! Tell her how needful it is!”
His grace said placidly: “I find myself quite unable to tell Miss Challoner anything of the kind.”
“What, have you been one hour in her company and not seen how infinitely above me she is?” the Marquis cried hotly.
“By no means,” said the Duke. “If Miss Challoner feels herself able to become your wife I shall consider myself to be vastly in her debt, but out of justice to her I am bound to advise her to consider well before she throws herself away so lamentably.” He regarded Miss Challoner blandly. “My dear, are you sure you cannot do better for yourself than to marry Vidal?”
A laugh escaped the Marquis. He drew Miss Challoner closer. “Mary, look at me! Mary, little love!”
“I am of course loth to interrupt you, Vidal, but I desire to inform Miss Challoner that there is no reason why she should accept your hand unless she chooses.” The Duke rose, and came towards them. The Marquis let Miss Challoner go. “You appear to be a woman of so much sense,” said his grace, “that I find it hard to believe you can really desire to marry my son. I beg you will not allow the exigencies of your situation to weigh with you. If marriage with Vidal is distasteful to you I will arrange matters for you in some other way.”
Miss Challoner gazed down into the fire. “I cannot ... I — the Duchess — my sister — oh, I do not know what to say!”
“The Duchess need not trouble you,” said his grace. He walked to the door, and opened it. He glanced back, and said languidly: “By the way, Vidal’s morals are rather better than mine.” He went out, and the door closed softly behind him.
The Marquis and Miss Challoner were left confronting one another. She did not look at him, but she knew that his eyes never wavered from her face. He made no movement to recapture her hands; he said slowly: “Until you ran away with Comyn, I never knew how much I loved you, Mary. If you won’t marry me, I shall spend the rest of my life striving to win you. I’ll never rest till I’ve got you. Never, do you understand?”
A smile trembled on her lips. “And if I do marry you, my lord? You’ll let me go my own road? You’ll not come near me unless I wish it? You’ll not fly into rages with me, nor tyrannize over me?”
“I swear it,” he said.
She came to him, her eyes full of tender laughter. “Oh, my love, I know you better than you know yourself!” she said huskily. “At the first hint of opposition, you’ll coerce me shamefully. Oh, Vidal! Vidal! ”
He had caught her in his arms so fiercely that the breath was almost crushed out of her. His dark face swam before her eyes for an instant, then his mouth was locked to hers, in a kiss so hard that her lips felt bruised. She yielded, carried away half-swooning on the tide of his passion. But in a moment she struggled to get her hands free, and at once his hold on her slackened. She flung up her arms round his neck, and with a queer little sound between a sob and a laugh, buried her face in his coat.
Chapter XIX
Miss Challoner appeared at the breakfast hour next morning rather shy, her face delicately tinged with colour. She found both the Marquis and his father in the parlour, and an elderly dapper little Frenchman whom she discovered to be his grace’s valet.
The Marquis carried her hand to his lips, and held it there for a moment. His grace said in his bored voice: “I trust you slept well, child. Pray be seated. Gaston, you will take my chaise immediately to Dijon, where you will find her grace.”
“ Bien, monseigneur.”
“You will bring her to this place. Also my Lord Rupert, Miss Marling, and Mr. Comyn. That is all, Gaston.”
There had been a day when Gaston would have been appalled by such an order, but twenty-five years in Avon’s service had left their mark.
“ Bien, monseigneur,” he replied without the smallest sign of surprise and bowed himself out.
The Marquis said impetuously: “I’ll make that fellow Hammond marry us, Mary, at once.”
“Very well,” said Miss Challoner equably.
“You will be married,” said his grace, “in Paris, at the Embassy.”
“But, sir — ”
“A little coffee, my lord?” said Miss Challoner.
“I never touch it. Sir — ”
“If his grace wishes you to married at the Embassy, my lord, I won’t be married anywhere else,” stated Miss Challoner calmly.
The Marquis said: “You won’t, eh? Sir, it’s very well, but it will cause a deal of talk.”
“I rather think that it will,” agreed Avon. “I had no time on my way through Paris to arrange the details. But I have no doubt that my friend Sir Giles will have done so by this time.”
Miss Challoner regarded him in frank wonderment. “Is my grandfather in Paris then, sir?”
“Certainly,” said his grace. “I should tell you, my child, that officially you are in his company.”
“Am I, sir?” Miss Challoner blinked at him. “Then you did meet him at Newmarket?”
“Let us say, rather, that he came to find me at Newmarket,” he amended. “He is staying in an hôtel which he has hired for some few weeks. You, my dear Mary, are at present keeping to your room, on account of some slight disorder of the system. The betrothal between yourself and my son is of long, though secret standing. Hitherto” — his grace touched his lips with his napkin, and laid it down. “Hitherto, both Sir Giles and myself have refused our consent to your marriage.”
“Have you?” said Mary, quite fascinated.
“Obviously. But Vidal’s banishment to France so attacked your sensibilities, my dear child, that you seemed to be in danger of going into a decline. This induced Sir Giles and myself to relent.”
“Oh, no!” begged Miss Challoner. “Not a decline, sir! I am not such a poor creature!”
“I am desolated to be obliged to contradict you, Mary, but you were certainly on the brink of a decline,” said Avon firmly.
Miss Challoner sighed. “Well, if you insist, sir ... What next?”
“Next,” said Avon, “the Duchess and myself come to Paris to grace the ceremony with our presence. We have not yet arrived, but we shall do so in a day or two. I imagine we are somewhere in the neighbourhood of Calais at the moment. When we do arrive we shall hold a rout-party in your honour. You will be formally presented to society as my son’s future wife. Which reminds me, that I cannot sufficiently praise your admirable discretion in refusing to go about when you sojourned with my cousin Elisabeth.”
Miss Challoner felt herself bound to say: “There is one person who met me at the Hôtel Charbonne, sir. The Vicomte de Valmé.”
“You can leave Bertrand to me,” interposed the Marquis. “This is all very well thought of, sir, but when does our marriage take place?”
“Your marriage, my son, takes place when Miss Challoner has had time to buy her bride-clothes. I shall leave you to decide the rest. My ingenuity falls short of planning your wedding trip.”
“You surprise me, sir. I shall take you into Italy, Mary. Will you come with me?”
“Yes, sir, with all my heart,” said Mary, smiling at him.
His hand went out to her across the table. The Duke said dryly: “Delay your affecting demonstrations a moment longer, Vidal. I have to inform you that your late adversary was, when I left England, on the road to recovery.”
“My late adversary?” frowned his lordship. “Oh, Quarles! Was he, sir?”
“You do not appear to feel any undue interest in his fate,” remarked Avon.
The Marquis was looking at Mary. He said casually: “It makes no odds to me now, sir. He can live for all I care.”
“How very magnanimous!” said his grace with gentle satire. “Perhaps it may interest you to learn that the gentleman has been — er — induced to make a statement which obviates the need for your exile.”
Vidal turned his head, surveying his father with candid admiration. “I should like to know how you induced him to make such a statement, sir, I admit. But I did not leave England for fear of the runners.”
Avon smiled. “Did you not, my son?”
“No, sir, and you know it. I left at your command.”
“Very proper,” said his grace, rising. “I have no doubt I shall be weak enough to command your return — when you get back from Italy.” His eyes rested for an instant on Miss Challoner. “I comfort myself with the reflection that your wife will possibly be able to curb your desire — I admit, a natural one for the most part — to exterminate your fellows.”
“I shall try not to disappoint you, sir,” said Miss Challoner demurely.
It was past noon when Gaston returned with his charges. Miss Challoner felt extremely nervous of meeting the Duchess of Avon, but that lady’s entrance put all her fears to flight.
Her grace came into the parlour like a small whirlwind, and cast herself into her husband’s arms. “Monseigneur!” she cried joyfully. “I am so very glad you have come! I thought I should not have to tell you anything about it, but it is all so difficult I cannot manage it in the least, and Rupert will not try because he only thinks of getting all that wine home. Monseigneur, he has bought dozens and dozens of bottles of wine. I could not stop him. He says first he will hire a coach, and now he says no, it must go by canal.”
“It must undoubtedly go by canal,” said his grace, betraying a faint interest. He removed his ruffle from his wife’s clutch. “May I ask, Léonie, why you must needs elope with Rupert in this distressing fashion?”
“But do you not know, then?” she demanded. “If you don’t know, why are you here, Monseigneur? You are teasing me! Where is Dominique? Gaston said that he was with you.”
“He is,” said his grace.
“Then of course you know. Oh, Monseigneur, he says he will marry that girl, and I have a great fear she is like the sister whom I found detestable!”
The Duke took her hand and led her to Miss Challoner. “You shall judge for yourself,” he said. “This is Miss Challoner.”
The Duchess looked sharply up at him, and then at Mary, who stood still and looked gravely back at her. Léonie drew a long breath. “ Voyons, are you the sister of that other one?” she demanded, not very lucidly.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Mary.
“ Vraiment? But it is not at all credible, I find. I do not want to be rude, but — ”
“In that case, my love, you had better refrain from making the comparisons that are on the lips of your very unguarded tongue,” interposed his grace.
“I was not going to say anything indiscreet,” the Duchess assured him. “But I say one thing. If you do not like it, Monseigneur, I am sorry, but I am not going to permit that my son abducts this Mary Challoner and then does not marry her. I say he shall marry her at once, and Rupert shall fetch that Hammond person, who has the manners of a pig.”
“These continued references to Mr. Hammond — a gentleman quite unknown to me — I find most tedious,” complained his grace. “If his manners are those of a pig, I beg that Rupert will refrain from fetching him.”
“But you do not understand, Justin. He is a priest.”
“So I have been led to infer. I believe it will not be necessary for us to disturb him.”
The Duchess took Miss Challoner’s hand, and held it. She faced her husband resolutely. “Monseigneur, you must listen to me. When I thought that this child was — was — ”
“Pray do not continue, my dear. I understand perfectly. If you will permit me to — ”
“No, Monseigneur,” she said firmly. “This time it is I who must speak. When I thought this child was not a respectable person, I said Dominique should not marry her. I made Rupert bring me to Dijon because I thought I would be very clever and arrange everything so that you would never know — ”
“This touching but misplaced confidence in your powers of concealment, ma mie — ”
“Justin, you shall listen to me!” said the Duchess. “Of course I might have known you would find out — how did you, Monseigneur? It was very clever of you, I think. No, no, let me speak! — I meant that Dominique should not marry Mademoiselle Challoner. But now I have seen her, and I am not a fool, me, and she is a person entirely respectable, and this time I do not care what you may say, Dominique is to marry her.”
His grace looked down at her impassively. “Quite right, my dear. He is,” he said.
The Duchess opened her eyes very wide indeed. “You do not mind, Monseigneur?”
“I cannot conceive why I should be supposed to mind,” said his grace. “The marriage seems to be eminently desirable.”
The Duchess let go of Miss Challoner to fling out her hands. “But, Monseigneur, if you do not mind why did you not say so at once?” she demanded.
“You may perhaps recall, my love, that you forbade me to speak.”
The Duchess paid no attention to this, but said with her usual buoyancy: “ Voyons, now I am quite happy!” She looked at Mary again. “And you — I think you will be very good to my son, n’est-ce pas?”
Miss Challoner said: “I love him, ma’am. I can only say that. And — and thank you — for your — ”
“Ah, bah!” Léonie said. “I do not want to be thanked. Where is Rupert? I must tell him at once that everything is arranged.”
Lord Rupert, who had evidently been detained outside, came into the room at this moment. He seemed preoccupied, and addressed himself at once to his brother. “Damme, Avon, I’m devilish glad you’ve come!” he said. “The Lord knows I never thought I should want to see you, but we’re in a plaguey difficulty.”
“No, we are not, Rupert!” Léonie told him. “It is all arranged.”
“Eh?” His lordship seemed surprised. “Who arranged it?”
“Oh, but Monseigneur, of course! They are to be married.”
Rupert said disgustedly: “Lord, can’t you think of aught beside that young fire-eater of yours?” He took hold of one of the silver buttons on his grace’s coat, and said confidentially: “It’s a mighty fortunate thing you’ve arrived, Avon, ’pon my soul it is. I’ve got six dozen of burgundy, and about three of as soft a port as ever I tasted, lying back in Dijon. I bought ’em off the landlord of some inn or another we stayed at, and the devil’s in it I can’t pay for ’em.”
“Monseigneur, I am quite ennuyée with this wine,” said Léonie, “Do not buy it! I do not wish to travel with bottles and bottles of wine.”
“May I request you to unhand me, Rupert?” said his grace. “If you have purchased port it must of course go by water. Did you bring a bottle with you?”
“Bring a bottle? Lord, I’ve brought six!” said Rupert. “We’ll crack one at once, and if you don’t find I’m right — well, you’ve changed, Justin, and that’s all there is to it.”
Léonie said indignantly: “Rupert, I do not care what you do, but I wish to present you to Mademoiselle Challoner, who is to marry Dominique.”
His lordship was roused to look round. “What, is she here?” He perceived Mary at last. “So you’re the girl that confounded nevvy of mine ran off with!” he said. “I wish you joy of him, my dear. A pretty dance you’ve led us. You’ll forgive me if I leave you at this present. There’s a little matter demanding my attention. Now, Avon, I’m with you.
Léonie called after him: “But Rupert, Rupert! Where are Juliana and M. Comyn?”
Rupert looked back from the doorway to say: They’ll be here soon enough. Too soon for my liking. Stap me if ever I saw such a pair for ogling and holding hands. It’s enough to turn a man’s stomach. Their chaise fell behind.”
He went out as he spoke, and Léonie turned to Miss Challoner with a gesture of resignation. “He is mad, you understand. You must not be offended with him, for presently he will recover, I assure you.”
“I could not be offended, ma’am,” said Miss Challoner. “He makes me want to laugh.” She moved a little away from the Duchess. “Madame, are you — are you sure that you wish me to marry your son?”
Léonie nodded. “But yes, I am quite sure, petite.” She sat down by the fire, and held out her hand. “Come, ma chère, you shall tell me all about it, please, and — I think, not cry, hein?”
Miss Challoner dabbed at her eyes. “No, ma’am, certainly not cry,” she said rather tremulously.
Ten minutes later Miss Marling came in to find her friend seated at the Duchess’s feet, with both her hands clasped in Léonie’s. She said brightly: “Oh, Aunt Léonie, is it all decided, then? Has my Uncle Justin given his consent? I vow it is famous!”
Léonie released Miss Challoner and stood up. “Yes, it is quite famous, as you say, Juliana, for now I am to have a daughter, which will amuse me very much, and Dominique is to make no more scandals. Where is M. Comyn? Do not tell me you have quarrelled again?”
“Good gracious, no!” replied Juliana, shocked. “Uncle Rupert met us in the hall, and he took Frederick off with him to that room over the way. I think they are all there. I am certain I saw Vidal.”
“ Voyons, it is insupportable!” said her grace. “Do they all go off to drink Rupert’s wine? I won’t have it!”
She went quickly out into the hall with Miss Challoner, who followed in the direction of her accusingly levelled finger, and frankly laughed. Through the archway that gave on to the coffee-room the outraged Duchess could see her son, seated on the edge of a table with one foot swinging, and a glass in his hand. Lord Rupert was in the background, holding a bottle, and speaking to somebody outside Léonie’s range of vision. A burst of laughter set the seal to her grace’s wrath. She promptly walked into the coffee-room, saw that not only Mr. Comyn, but her husband also, was there, and said reproachfully: “But I find you extremely rude, all of you! One would say this wine of Rupert’s, of which I have already heard enough, was of more importance than the betrothal of Dominique. Ma fille, come here!”
Miss Challoner came and shook her head. “Dreadful, madam!” she said.
“Devil a bit!” said Lord Rupert. “We’re drinking your health, my dear.” He saw Vidal smile across at Miss Challoner, and raise his glass in a silent toast, and said hastily: “That’ll do, Vidal, that’ll do! Don’t start fondling, for the love of God, for I can’t bear it. Well, what d’ye say, Justin? Will you buy it or not?”
His grace sipped the wine, while Lord Rupert watched him anxiously. The Duke said: “Almost the only evidence of intelligence I find in you, Rupert, lies in your ability to pick a wine. Decidedly I will buy it.”
“Now that’s devilish good of you, ’pon my word it is!” said his lordship. “Damme, if I don’t let you have a dozen bottles of it!”
“Your generosity, my dear Rupert, quite overwhelms me,” said his grace with polite gratitude.
Léonie stared at his lordship. “Let Monseigneur — oh, but that is too much, enfin!”
“No, no,” replied his lordship recklessly. “He shall have a dozen: that’s fair enough. Give your mother a glass, Vidal — oh, and what’s the girl’s name? Sophia! Give her a glass too, for I’ve — ”
“Mary!” snapped the Marquis, with a sudden frown.
His uncle was quite unabashed. “Mary! so it is. Sophia was t’other one. Well, give her a glass, my boy. I’ve a toast for you to drink.”
Léonie accepted the glass her son handed her. “Yes, it is true that I wish very much to drink to my son and daughter,” she said. “Go on, Rupert.”
His lordship raised his glass. “Dijon!” he said quite unheeding, and drank deeply.