It was with difficulty that Miss Taverner succeeded in preventing her brother from following the stranger and Lord Worcester into the coffee-room and there attempting to force an issue. He was out of reason angry, but upon Judith’s representing to him how such a scene could only end in a public brawl which must involve her, as the cause of it, he allowed himself to be drawn away, still declaring that he would at least know the stranger’s name.
She pushed him up the stairs in front of her, and in the seclusion of her own room gave him an account of her adventure. It was not, after all, so very bad; there had been nothing to alarm her, though much to enrage. She made light of the circumstance of the stranger’s kissing her: he would bestow just such a careless embrace on a pretty chambermaid, she dared say. It was certain that he mistook her station in life.
Peregrine could not be content. She had been insulted, and it must be for him to bring the stranger to book. As she set about the task of arguing him out of this determination, Judith realized that she had rather bring the gentleman to book herself. To have Peregrine settle the business could bring her no satisfaction; it must be for her to punish the stranger’s insolence, and she fancied that she could do so without assistance.
When Peregrine went downstairs again to the coffee-room the strange gentleman had gone. The landlord, still harassed and busy with the company, could not tell Peregrine his name, nor even recall having served Lord Worcester. So many gentlemen had crowded into his inn to-day that he could not be blamed for forgetting half of them. As for a team of blood-chestnuts, he could name half a dozen such teams; they might all have drawn up at the George for anything he knew. Peregrine could only be sorry that Mr. Fitzjohn was already on his way back to London: he might have known the stranger’s name.
By dinner-time Grantham was quiet. A few gentlemen stayed on overnight, but they were not many. Miss Taverner could go to bed in the expectation of a night’s unbroken repose.
She thought herself reasonably safe from any further talk of the fight. It had been described to her in detail at least five times. There could be no more to say.
There was no more to say. Peregrine realized it, and beyond exclaiming once or twice during breakfast next morning that he never hoped to see a better mill, and asking his sister whether he had told her of this or that hit, he did not talk of it. He was out of spirits; after the excitement of the previous day, Sunday in Grantham was insipid beyond bearing. He was cursed flat, was only sorry Judith’s scruples forbade them setting forward for London at once.
There was nothing to do but go to church, and stroll about the town a little with his sister on his arm. Even the gig had had to be returned to its owner.
They attended the service together, and after it walked slowly back to the George. Peregrine was all yawns and abstraction. He could not be brought to admire anything, was not interested in the history even of the Angel Inn, where it was said that Richard the Third had once lain. Judith must know he had never cared a rap for such fusty old stuff. He wished there were some way of passing the time; he could not think what he should do with himself until dinner.
He was grumbling on in this strain when the pressure of Judith’s fingers on his arm compelled his attention. She said in a low voice: “Perry, the gentleman who gave up his rooms to us! I wish you would speak to him: we owe him a little extraordinary civility.”
He brightened at once, and looked round him. He would be glad to shake hands with the fellow; might even, if Judith was agreeable, invite him to dine with them.
The gentleman was approaching them, upon the same side of the road. It was evident that he had recognized them; he looked a little conscious, but did not seem to wish to stop. As he drew nearer he raised his hat and bowed slightly, and would have passed on if Peregrine, dropping his sister’s arm, had not stood in the way.
“I beg pardon,” Peregrine said, “but I think you are the gentleman who was so obliging to us on Friday?”
The other bowed again, and murmured something about it being of no moment.
“But it was of great moment to us, sir,” Judith said. “I am afraid we thanked you rather curtly, and you may have thought us very uncivil.”
He raised his eyes to her face, and said earnestly: “No, indeed not, ma’am. I was happy to be of service; it was nothing to me: I might command a lodging elsewhere. I beg you won’t think of it again.”
He would have passed on, and seeing him so anxious to be gone Miss Taverner made no further effort to detain him. But Peregrine was less perceptive, and still barred the way. “Well, I’m glad to have met you again, sir. Say what you will, I am in your debt. My name is Taverner—Peregrine Taverner. This is my sister, as perhaps you know.”
The gentleman hesitated for an instant. Then he said in rather a low voice: “I did know. That is to say, I heard your name mentioned.”
“Ay, did you so? I daresay you might. But we did not hear yours, sir,” said Peregrine, laughing.
“No, I was unwilling to—I did not wish to thrust myself upon your notice,” said the other. A smile crept into his eyes; he said a little ruefully: “My name is also Taverner.”
“Good God!” cried Peregrine in great astonishment. “You don’t mean—you are not related to us, are you?”
“I am afraid I am,” said Mr. Taverner. “My father is Admiral Taverner.”
“Well, by all that’s famous!” exclaimed Peregrine. “I never knew he had a son!”
Judith had listened with mixed feelings. She was amazed, at once delighted to find that she had so unexpectedly amiable a relative, and sorry that he should be the son of a man her father had mistrusted so wholeheartedly. His modesty, the delicacy with which he had refrained from instantly making himself known to them, his manners, which were extremely engaging, outweighed the rest. She held her hand out to him, saying in a friendly way: “Then we are cousins, and should know each other better.”
He bowed over her fingers. “You are very good. I have wished to speak to you, but the disagreements—the estrangement, rather, between your father and mine made me diffident.”
“Oh well, there’s no reason why that should concern us!” said Peregrine, brushing it aside with an airy gesture. “I daresay my uncle is as hasty as my father was, eh, Judith?”
She could not assent to it; he should not be speaking of their father in that fashion to one who was quite a stranger to them.
Mr. Taverner seemed to feel it also. He said: “I believe there were grave faults, but we can hardly judge—I certainly must not. You will understand—it is difficult for me.—But I have already said too much.”
He addressed himself more particularly to Judith. She fancied there was a faint bitterness in the way he spoke. She found herself more than ever disposed to like him. His manner indicated—or so she thought—that he was aware of some behaviour on his father’s part which he could not approve. She respected him for his reticence; he seemed to feel just as he ought. It was with pleasure that she heard Peregrine invite him to dine with them.
He was obliged to excuse himself: he was engaged with his friends; he wished it had been in his power to accept.
He was obviously sincere; he looked disconsolate. For her part Judith was sadly disappointed, but she would neither press him, nor permit Peregrine to do so.
Mr. Taverner bowed over her hand again, and held it a moment. “I am more than sorry. I should have liked excessively—But it must not be. I am promised. May I—you will be open with me, cousin—may I give myself the pleasure of calling on you in town?”
She smiled and gave permission.
“You have a guardian who will advise you,” he said. “I am not acquainted with Lord Worth, but I believe him to be generally very well-liked. He will put you in the way of everything. But if there is at any time anything I can do for you—if you should feel yourselves in want of a friend—I hope you will remember that the wicked cousin would be only too happy to be of service.” It was said with an arch look, and the hint of a smile. He gave Peregrine his card.
Peregrine held it between his fingers. “Thank you. We shall hope to see more of you, cousin. We mean to put up at Grillon’s for the present, but my sister has a notion of setting up house. I don’t know how it will end. But Grillon’s will find us.”
Mr. Taverner noted it down in his pocket-book, bowed again, and took his leave of them. They watched him walk away down the street.
“I’ll tell you what, Ju,” said Peregrine suddenly, “I wish he may tell me the name of his tailor. Did you notice his coat?”
She had not; she had been aware only of a certain elegance. There was nothing of the fop about him.
They strolled on towards the George wondering about their cousin. A glance at his card informed them that his name was Bernard, and that he was to be found at an address in Harley Street, which Miss Taverner knew, from having heard her father speak of an acquaintance living there, to be a respectable neighbourhood.
The rest of the day passed quietly; they went to bed in good time to be in readiness for an early start in the morning.
Consultation of the Traveller’s Guide convinced Miss Taverner at least that the rest of the journey could not be accomplished with comfort in one day. It was in vain that Peregrine argued that by setting forward at eight in the morning they could not fail to reach London by nine in the evening at the latest. Miss Taverner placed no dependence on his reckoning. The post-horses might, as he swore they would, cover nine miles an hour, but he made no allowance for changing them, or for the halts at the turnpikes, or for any other of the checks they would be sure to encounter. She had no wish to be traveling for as much as twelve hours at a stretch, and no wish to arrive in London after nightfall. Peregrine was forced to give way, though with an ill-grace.
However, by the time they had reached Stevenage, shortly after three o’clock on the following afternoon, he was heartily tired of sitting in the chaise, and very glad to get down at the Swan Inn, and stretch his limbs, and bespeak dinner and beds for the night.
They were off again directly they had breakfasted next morning. They had only thirty-one miles to cover now, and with London drawing nearer every moment they were both impatient to arrive, and alert to catch sight of every milestone.
Barnet was their last stage, and here they seemed to be at last within hail of London. The town was busy, for the traffic of the Holyhead road, as well as that of the Great North road, passed through it. There were any number of inns, and two great houses which were solely devoted to posting business. The smaller of these, the Red Lion, took most of the north-going vehicles, while the larger, the Green Man, which was situated in the middle of the town and kept no less than twenty-six pairs of horses and eleven post-boys, seized on the chaises travelling south.
The rivalry between the two was fierce in the extreme; it was said that on more than one occasion private chaises had been intercepted and the horses forcibly changed at one or other of the inns.
Some sign of this was evident in the way the ostlers of the Green Man came running out at the approach of the Taverners’ chaise, and led it into the big stable yard. A glass of sherry was handed up to Peregrine, and sandwiches were offered to his sister, this being one of the superior attractions of the Green Man over the Red Lion that its customers had free refreshments pressed on them.
The change of horses was accomplished in two minutes; a couple of post-boys cast off the smocks they wore over their blue jackets to keep them clean, and sprang into the saddles; and almost before the travellers had time to fetch their breath they were out of the stable-yard again, and trotting off towards London.
Another two miles brought them to the village of Whetstone, and the turnpike which marked the beginning of Finchley Common.
The very name of this famous tract of land was enough to conjure up terrifying thoughts, but on this fine warm October day the heath seemed kindly enough. No masked figures came galloping to hold up the chaise; nothing more alarming than a stage-coach painted all the colours of the rainbow was to be met with; and in a short space the village of East End was reached, and whatever terrors the Common might hide were left safely behind.
Highgate afforded the travellers their first glimpse of London. As the chaise topped the rise and began the descent upon the southern side, the view spread itself before Miss Taverner’s wondering eyes. There were the spires, the ribbon of the Thames, and the great huddle of buildings of which she had heard so much, lying below her in a haze of sunlight. She could not take her eyes from the sight, nor believe that she was really come at last to the city she had dreamed of for so long.
The way led down until the view was lost, and the chaise entered on the Holloway road, a lonely track which ran, still descending, between high banks until Islington Spa was reached. This was a charming village, with tall elm trees growing on the green, a rustic pound for strayed cattle, and a number of coaching inns.
The last toll-gate was passed, and the ticket which opened it given up to the gate-keeper. In a very little while the chaise was bowling between lines of houses, over a cobbled surface.
Everything seemed to flash by in an instant. Miss Taverner tried to read the names of the streets down which they drove, but there was too much to look at; she began to be bewildered. It was so very large and bustling.
They seemed to have been driving through the town for an age when the chaise at last stopped. Leaning forward, Miss Taverner saw that the street in which they now stood was lined on either side with very genteel-looking houses, and had an air of being extremely well-kept, unlike some of those through which they had come.
The door of the chaise was opened, the steps let down, and in another minute Miss Taverner was standing inside Grillon’s hotel.
It was soon seen that Mr. Fitzjohn had not advised Peregrine ill. Grillon’s hotel offered its guests everything that could be imagined in the way of comfort. The bedchambers, the saloons, the furnishings, all were in the best of taste. Miss Taverner, who had been inclined to doubt the wisdom of following a strange young gentleman’s advice, was satisfied. There could be no need to inspect the sheets at Grillon’s.
The first thing to be done was to see her trunks unpacked, and her clothing tidily bestowed; the next to pull the bell-rope for the chambermaid, and bespeak some hot water.
On her way through one of the saloons to the staircase she had seen some of the other visitors to the hotel. There was a gentleman in tight pantaloons, reading a newspaper; two ladies in flimsy muslin dresses, talking by the window, and a stately dowager in a turban, who stared at Miss Taverner in a haughty manner that made her. feel that her bonnet was dowdy, and her dress crushed from sitting in the post-chaise for so long.
She put on her best gown for dinner, but she was afraid, looking doubtfully at her reflection in the long mirror, that it was not fashionable enough for so modish a hotel. However, her pearls at least were incomparable. She clasped the string round her neck, pulled on a pair of silk mittens over her hands, and sat down to wait for Peregrine.
They dined at six, which seemed a very late hour to Judith, but which Peregrine, who had been in conversation with some of the other guests while she was unpacking and had contrived to glean a quantity of odd information, assured her was not late at all, but on the contrary, unfashionably early.
Peregrine was agog with excitement, his blue eyes sparkling, and all his doldrums vanished. He wanted to be up and doing, and tried to coax Judith into going with him to the play after dinner. She refused it, but urged him to go without her, not to be thinking himself tied to her apron strings. For herself, she was very tired, and would go to bed at the earliest opportunity.
He went, and she did not see him again until next morning, when they met at the breakfast-table. He had been to Covent Garden, to see Kemble; he had kept the playbill for her; he was devilish sorry she had not been there, for she would have liked it of all things. Such a great theatre, with he knew not how many boxes, all hung with curtains, and supported on pillars, and the roomiest pit! He dared not say how many candles there were: everything was a blaze of light; and as for the company, why, he had never seen so many dressed-up people in his life; no, nor half so many quizzes neither!
She listened to it all, and asked him a dozen questions. He could not tell her very much about the play; he had been too much taken up with watching all the fashionables. He thought it had been Othello, or some such thing. He was nearly sure it was Othello, now he came to think of it; famous stuff, but he had enjoyed the farce more. And now what were they to do? For his part he thought they had best call on Lord Worth, and get it done with.
She agreed to it, and went up to her room after breakfast to put on her hat and her gloves. She hoped Lord Worth would not be angry with them for having come to London against his advice, but now that she was so near to seeing him in person she owned to a slight feeling of nervousness. But Peregrine was right: nothing could be done until they had presented themselves to their guardian.
Since neither she nor Peregrine had the least notion where Cavendish Square was to be found, and since neither of them cared to betray their ignorance by inquiring the way, Peregrine called up one of the hackneys with which the streets seemed to abound and gave the coachman the direction.
Cavendish Square was soon reached, and the hackney, drawing up before a great stucco-fronted house with an imposing portico, Peregrine handed his sister down, paid off the coachman, and said stoutly: “Well, he can’t eat us, Ju, after all.”
“No,” said Miss Taverner. “No, of course not. Oh Perry, wait! Do not knock! There is a straw in your shoe; you must have picked it up off the floor of that horrid carriage.”
“Lord, what a lucky chance that you saw it!” said Peregrine, removing the straw, and giving a final twitch to the lapels of his coat. “Now for it, Ju!” He raised his hand to the knocker, and beat a mild tattoo on the door.
“They will never hear that!” said his sister scornfully. “If you are afraid I certainly am not!” She stepped forward and grasping the knocker firmly, beat an imperious summons with it.
In the middle of this operation the door opened, rather to Miss Taverner’s discomfiture. A very large footman confronted them, inclining his head slightly to learn their business.
Miss Taverner, recovering her composure, inquired if Lord Worth were at home, and upon being asked civilly for her name, replied grandly: “Be good enough to inform his lordship, if you please, that Sir Peregrine and Miss Taverner are here.”
The footman bowed, as though he were much impressed by this speech, and held the door wide for them to pass through into the house. Here a second footman took them in charge, and begging them to follow him, led the way across what seemed to be a vast hall to a mahogany door which opened into a saloon. He ushered them into this apartment and left them there.
Peregrine passed a finger inside his cravat. “You carried. that off mighty well, Ju,” he said approvingly. “I hope you may handle the old gentleman as prettily.”
“Oh,” said Miss Taverner, “I don’t expect there will be the least need. Do you know, Perry, I have been thinking that we have made Lord Worth into an ogre, between us, and ten to one but he is perfectly amiable?”
“He may be, of course,” conceded Peregrine, without much hope. “He has a devilish fine house, hasn’t he?”
It was indeed a fine house, fitted up, apparently, in the first style of elegance. The saloon in which they stood was a noble apartment hung with a delicate blue paper, and with tall windows giving on to the square. The curtains, which were of blue and crimson silk, were draped over these in tasteful festoons, and tied back with cords, to which were attached huge silken tassels. An Axminster carpet covered the floor; there were one or two couches with gilded scroll ends and crimson upholstery; a satin-wood sofa-table; some Sheraton chairs; a secretaire with a cylinder front and the upper part enclosed in glazed doors; a couple of thimble-footed window-stools; and a handsome console-table, supported by gilded sphinxes.
There were a number of pictures on the walls, and Miss Taverner was engaged in contemplating one of these when the door opened again and someone came in.
She turned quickly, just as a stifled exclamation broke from Peregrine, and stood rooted to the ground, staring in blank astonishment at the man who had entered. It was the gentleman of the curricle.
He was no longer dressed in a caped greatcoat and topboots, but in spite of his close-fitting coat of blue cloth, and his tight pantaloons, and his shining Hessians with their little gold tassels, she could not mistake him. It was he.
He gave no sign of having recognized her, but came across the room and bowed formally. “Miss Taverner, I believe?” he said. Then, as she did not answer, being quite bereft of speech, he turned to Peregrine, and held out his hand. “And you are, I suppose, Peregrine,” he said. “How do you do?”
Peregrine put out his own hand instinctively and almost snatched it back again. “What are you doing in this house?” he blurted out.
The thin black brows rose in an expression of faint hauteur. “I can conceive of no one who has a better right to be in this house,” the other replied. “I am Lord Worth.”
Peregrine recoiled. “What!” An angry flush mounted to his cheeks. “This is nothing but an ill-mannered jest! You are not Lord Worth! You cannot be!”
“Why can I not be Lord Worth?” said the gentleman.
“It is impossible! I don’t believe it! Lord Worth is—must be—an older man!” cried Peregrine.
The gentleman smiled slightly, and drew an enamelled snuffbox from his pocket, and unfobbed it with a flick of his forefinger. The gesture brought the picture of him, as he had stood in the hall of the George Inn, back to Judith’s mind. She found her tongue suddenly, and engaging Peregrine’s silence with a movement of her hand, said in a level voice: “Is it true? Are you indeed Lord Worth?”
His glance swept her face. “Certainly I am,” he said, and took a pinch of snuff from the box, and delicately sniffed it.
She felt her brain to be reeling. “But it is surely—You, sir, cannot have been a friend of my father?”
He shut his box again, and slipped it back into his pocket. “I regret, madam, I had not that honour,” he said.
“Then—oh, there is some mistake!” she said. “There must be a mistake!”
“Quite possibly,” agreed his lordship. “But the mistake, Miss Taverner, was not mine.”
“But you are not our guardian!” Peregrine burst out.
“I am afraid there is no loophole for escape,” replied Worth. “I am your guardian.” He added kindly: “I assure you, you cannot regret the circumstance more than I do.”
“How can this be?” demanded Judith. “My father did not mean it so!”
“Unfortunately,” said Worth, “your father’s Will was drawn up nine months after the death of mine.”
“Oh!” groaned Miss Taverner, sinking down upon one of the gilt and crimson couches.
“But the name!” said Peregrine. “My father must have written the name down!”
“Your father,” said Worth, “left you to the sole guardianship of Julian St. John Audley, Fifth Earl of Worth. The name was certainly my father’s. It is also mine. The mistake—if it is a mistake—is in the title. Your father named mine the Fifth Earl in error. I am the Fifth Earl.”
An unfilial expression was wrenched from Miss Taverner. “He would!” she said bitterly. “Oh, I can readily believe it!”
Peregrine gulped, and said: “This must be set right. We are not your wards. We had rather be anything in the world than your wards!”
“Possibly,” said the Earl, unmoved. “But the distressing fact remains that you are my wards.”
“I shall go at once to my father’s lawyer!” declared Peregrine.
“Certainly. Do just as you please,” said the Earl. “But do try and rid yourself of the notion that you are the only sufferer.”
Miss Taverner, who had been sitting with one gloved hand covering her eyes, now straightened herself, and folded both hands in her lap. It was evident to her that this conversation led nowhere. She suspected that what Worth said was true, and they would find it impossible to overset the Will. If that were so this bickering was both fruitless and undignified. She quelled Peregrine with a frown, and addressed herself to the Earl. “Very well, sir, if you are indeed our guardian perhaps you will be good enough to inform us whether we are at liberty to establish ourselves in London?”
“Subject to my permission, you are,” replied Worth.
Peregrine ground his teeth, and flung over to the window, and stood staring out on to the square.
Miss Taverner’s fierce blue eyes met her guardian’s cool grey ones in a long look that spoke volumes. “You may, through an error in my father’s Will, be our guardian in name, sir, but that is all.”
“You cannot have read the Will, Miss Taverner,” said the Earl.
“I am aware that the control of our fortune is in your hands,” snapped Miss Taverner. “And I am anxious to come to an agreement with you!”
“By all means,” agreed Worth. “You will not find me at all difficult. I shall not, I hope, find myself obliged to interfere in your lives very much.” He added, with the flicker of a smile: “I am not even going to make myself unpleasant to you on this question of your coming to London against my advice.”
“Thank you,” said Miss Taverner witheringly.
He moved towards the secretaire and opened it. “That was, after all, a piece of advice given to suit my own convenience. I have no real objection to your having come to town, and I will do what lies in my power to see you comfortably established.” He picked up a document and held it for Miss Taverner to see. “I have here the lease of a furnished house in Brook Street which you may move into at your earliest convenience. I trust you will find it to your liking.”
“You are extremely obliging,” said Miss Taverner, “but I do not know that I should care to lodge in Brook Street.”
The smile gleamed again. “Indeed, Miss Taverner? And in which street would you care to lodge?”
She bit her lip, but replied with dignity. “I am as yet wholly unacquainted with London, sir. I should prefer to wait until I can decide for myself where I desire to live.”
“While you are making up your mind,” said Worth, “you may lodge in Brook Street.” He put the lease back into its pigeonhole, and closed the secretaire. “The task of engaging your servants can be left to my secretary. I have instructed him to attend to this.”
“I prefer to engage my own servants,” said Miss Taverner, goaded.
“Certainly,” replied Worth suavely. “I will instruct Blackader to direct those he considers the most suitable to call on you at your hotel. Where are you putting up?”
“At Grillon’s,” said Miss Taverner in a hollow voice. A vision of butlers, footmen, housekeepers, serving-maids, grooms, all streaming into Grillon’s hotel to be interviewed, most forcibly struck her mind’s eye. She began to perceive that the Earl of Worth was a foe well worthy of her steel.
The Earl lowered his sword—or so it seemed to her. “Unless you would prefer to see Blackader himself, and give him your commands?”
Miss Taverner, with a chilly haughtiness that concealed her inward gratitude, accepted this offer.
Peregrine looked over his shoulder, and said belligerently: “I shall be sending to Yorkshire, for certain of my horses, but we shall be needing others, and a carriage for my sister.”
“Surely you can buy a carriage without my assistance?” said Worth in a weary voice. “You will probably be cheated in buying your horses, but the experience won’t harm you.”
Peregrine choked. “I did not mean that! For sure, I don’t need your assistance! All I meant was—what I wished to make plain—”
“I see,” said Worth. “You want to know whether you may set up your stable. Certainly. I have not the least objection.” He came away from the secretaire, and walked slowly across the room to the fireplace. “There remains, Miss Taverner, the problem of finding a lady to live with you.”
“I have a cousin living in Kensington, sir,” said Miss Taverner. “I shall ask her if she will come to me.”
He glanced down at her meditatively. “Will you tell me, Miss Taverner, what precisely is your object in having come to London?”
“What is that to the point, sir?”
“When you are better acquainted with me,” said the Earl, “you will know that I never ask pointless questions. Is it your intention to live upon the fringe of society, or do you mean to take your place in the world of Fashion? Will the Pantheon do for you, or must it be Almack’s?”
She replied instantly: “It must be the best, sir.”
“Then we need not consider the cousin living in Kensington,” said Worth. “Fortunately, I know a lady who (though I fear you may find her in some ways extremely foolish) is not only willing to undertake the task of chaperoning you, but has the undoubted entrée to the world you wish to figure in. Her name is Scattergood. She is a widow, and some sort of a cousin of mine. I will bring her to call on you.”
Miss Taverner got up in one swift graceful movement. “I had rather anyone than a cousin of yours, Lord Worth!” she declared.
He drew out his snuff-box again, and took a pinch between finger and thumb. Over it his eyes met hers. “Shall we agree, Miss Taverner, to consider that remark unsaid?” he suggested gently.
She blushed to the roots of her hair. She could have cried from vexation at having allowed her unruly tongue to betray her into a piece of school-girlish rudeness. “I beg your pardon!” she said stiffly.
He bowed, and laid his snuff-box down open on the table. He had apparently no more to say to her, for he turned to Peregrine, and called him away from the window. “When you have visited a tailor,” he said, “come to me again, and we will discuss what clubs you want me to put your name up for.”
Peregrine came to the table, half sulky, half eager. “Can you have me made a member of White’s?” he asked rather shyly.
“Yes, I can have you made a member of White’s.” said the Earl.
“And—and—Watier’s, is it not?”
“That will be for my friend Mr. Brummell to decide. His decision will not be in your favour if you let him see you in that coat. Go to Weston, in Conduit Street, or to Schweitzer and Davidson, and mention my name.”
“I thought of going to Stultz,” said Peregrine, making a bid for independence.
“By all means, if you wish the whole of London to recognize your tailor at a glance,” shrugged his lordship.
“Oh!” said Peregrine, a little abashed. “Mr. Fitzjohn recommended him to me.”
“So I should imagine,” said the Earl.
Miss Taverner said with an edge to her voice: “Pray, sir, have you no advice to offer me in the matter of my dress?”
He turned. “My advice to you, Miss Taverner, is to put yourself unreservedly in the hands of Mrs. Scattergood. There is one other matter. While you are under my guardianship you will, if you please, refrain from being present in towns where a prizefight is being held.”
She caught her breath. “Yes, my lord? You think, perhaps, that my being in such towns might lay me open to some insult?”
“On the contrary,” replied the Earl, “I think it might lay you open to an excess of civility.”