Devil’s Cub at-2 Page 3

  “La, child, will you never lose those callous notions of yours?” demanded Fanny. “It might be Vidal himself speaking! All he would say was that ne could not bring a corpse to the drum. Yes, Avon; that is positively the only excuse he gave for his inhuman conduct.”

  “I did not know that Vidal had so much proper feeling,”

  remarked his grace. He moved towards a chair and sat down. “Doubtless you had some other reason for visiting us today—other than to mourn Vidal’s exploits.”

  “Of course, I might have known you would uphold him, just to be disagreeable,” said Lady Fanny crossly.

  “I never uphold Vidal—even to be disagreeable,” replied his grace.

  “Indeed, and I cannot conceive how you should. I was only saying to Léonie when you came in that I have never seen my son in such scrapes as he is always in. I do not believe John has ever caused me one moment’s anxiety in all his life.”

  The Duke opened his snuff-box—a plain gold case delicately painted en grisaille by Degault and protected by cristal de roche. “I can do nothing about it, my dear Fanny,” he said. “Recollect that you wanted to marry Edward.”

  Under her rouge additional and quite natural colour rose in Fanny’s cheeks. “I won’t hear one word against my sainted Edward!” she said, her voice quivering a little. “And if you mean that John is like his dear father, I am sure I am thankful for it”

  Léonie interposed hurriedly. “Monseigneur did not mean anything like that, did you, Monseigneur? And me, I was always very fond of Edward. And certainly John is like him, which is a good thing, just as Juliana is very like you, only not, I think, as pretty as you were.”

  “Oh my dear, do you say so indeed?” Lady Fanny’s angry flush died down. “You flatter me, but I believe I was accounted something of a beauty in my young days, was I not, Justin? Only I hope I was never so headstrong as Juliana, who is likely to ruin everything by her stupid behaviour.” She turned to Avon. “Justin, it is too provoking! The foolish chit has taken a fancy to the veriest nobody, and I am forced—yes, forced to pack her off to France till she has got over it.”

  Léonie at once pricked up her ears. “Oh, is Juliana in love? But who is he?”

  “Pray do not put such an idea into her head!” besought Lady Fanny. “It’s no such matter, Fll be bound. Lord, if I

  had married the first man whom I fancied I loved—!

  It’s nothing but a silly girl’s first affair, but she is such a headstrong child I vow I do not know what she will be at next. So off she goes to France. John is to take her.”

  “Who,” inquired his grace languidly, “is the nobody?”

  “Oh, no one of account, my dear Justin. Some country squire’s son whom young Carlisle is sponsoring.”

  “Is he nice?” Léonie asked.

  “I dare say, my love, but that’s nothing to the point. I have other plans for Juliana.” She gave her laces a little shake, and went on airily: “I am sure we have spoken of it often enough, you and I, and I cannot help feeling that it would be a charming match, besides fulfilling my dearest wish. And I have always thought them remarkably well suited, and I make no doubt at all that everything would have been on the road to being settled by now had Juliana not taken it into her head to flout me in this way, though to be sure, I do not in the least blame her for appearing cold to him, for it is no more than he deserves.”

  She paused for breath, and shot a look at Avon out of the corners of her eyes. He was quite unperturbed; a faint smile hovered over his thin lips, and he regarded his sister with an air of cynical amusement “I find your conversation somewhat difficult to follow, my dear Fanny,” he said. “Pray enlighten me.”

  Lady Fanny said shrewdly: “Indeed, and I think you follow me very well, Justin.”

  “But I don’t,” Léonie said. “Who deserves that Juliana should be cold? It is not the poor nobody?”

  “Of course not!” replied her ladyship impatiently. She seemed strangely loth to explain herself. Léonie glanced inquiringly at the Duke.

  He had opened his snuff-box again, and held a pinch to one nostril before he spoke. “I apprehend, my love, that Fanny is referring to your son.”

  A blank look came into Léonie’s face. “Dominique? But

  —” She stopped and looked at Fanny. “No,” she said flatly.

  Lady Fanny was hardly prepared for anything so downright “Lord, my dear, what can you mean?”

  “I do not at all want Dominique to marry Juliana,” Léonie explained.

  “Perhaps,” said Lady Fanny, sitting very erect in her chair, “you will be good enough to explain what that signifies.”

  “I am sorry if I seemed rude,” Léonie apologized. “Did I, Monseigneur?”

  “Very,” he answered, shutting his snuff-box with an expert flick of the finger, “But, unlike Fanny, beautifully frank.”

  “Well, I am sorry,” she repeated. “It is not that I do not like Juliana, but I do not think it would amuse Dominic to marry her.”

  “Amuse him!” Fanny turned with pardonable exasperation to her brother. “If that is all—! Have you also forgotten the plans we made, Avon, years back?”

  “Acquit me, Fanny. I never make plans.”

  Léonie interrupted a heated rejoinder to say: “It is true, Fanny: we did say Dominique should marry Juliana. Not Monseigneur, but you and I. But they were babies, and me, I think it is all quite different now.”

  “What is different, pray?” demanded her ladyship.

  Léonie reflected. “Well, Dominique is,” she replied naively. “He is not enough respectable for Juliana.”

  “Lord, child, do you look to see him bring home one of his opera dancers on his arm?” Lady Fanny said with a shrill little laugh.

  From a doorway a cool, faintly insolent voice spoke. “My good aunt interests herself in my affairs, I infer.” The Marquis of Vidal came into the room, his chapeau-bras under his arm, the wings of his riding coat clipped back, French fashion, and top boots on his feet There was a sparkle in his eyes, but he bowed with great politeness to his aunt, and went towards the Duchess.

  She flew out of her chair. “Ah, my little one! Voyons, this makes me very happy!”

  He put his arms round her. The red light went out of his eyes, and a softer look transformed his face. “‘My dear and only love,’ I give you good morrow,” he said. He shot a glance of mockery at his aunt, and took both Léonie’s hands in his. “‘My dear—and—only—love,’” he repeated maliciously, and kissed her fingers.

  The Duchess gave a little crow of laughter. “Truly?” she inquired.

  Fanny saw him smile into her eyes, a smile he kept for her alone. “Oh, quite, my dear!” he said negligently. Upon which my lady arose with an angry flounce of her armazine skirts, and announced that it was time she took her leave of them.

  Léonie pressed her son’s hand coaxingly. “Dominique, you will escort your aunt to her carriage, will you not?”

  “With the greatest pleasure on earth, madam,” he replied with promptitude, and offered his arm to the outraged lady.

  She made her adieux stiffly, and went out with him. Haft-way down the stairs her air of offended dignity deserted her. To be sure the boy was so very handsome, and she had ever a soft corner for a rake. She stole a glance at his profile, and suddenly laughed. “I declare you’re as disdainful as Avon,” she remarked. “But you need not be so cross, even if I do interest myself in your affairs.” She tapped his arm with her gloved hand. “You know, Dominic, I have a great fondness for you.”

  The Marquis looked down at her rather enigmatically. I shall strive to deserve your regard, ma’am,” he said.

  “Shall you, my dear?” Lady Fanny’s tone was dry. “I wonder! Well, there’s no use denying I had hoped you would have made me happy, you and Juliana.”

  “Console yourself, dear aunt, with the reflection that I shall cause neither you nor Juliana unhappiness.”

  “Why, what do you mean?” she asked.


  He laughed. “I should make a devil of a husband, aunt.”

  “I believe you would,” she said slowly. “But—well, never mind.” They had come to the big door that gave on to the street. The porter swung it open and stood waiting. Lady Fanny gave her hand to the Marquis, who kissed it punctiliously. “Yes,” she said. “A devil of a husband. I am sorry for your wife—or I should be if I were a man.” On which obscure utterance she departed.

  His lordship went back to the sunny room upstairs.

  “I hope you did not engage her, mon petit?” Léonie said anxiously.

  “Far from it,” replied the Marquis. “I think—but she became profound so that I cannot be sure—that she is now glad I am not going to marry my cousin.”

  “I told her you would not. I knew you would not like it at all,” Léonie said.

  His grace surveyed her blandly. “You put yourself to unnecessary trouble, my love. I cannot conceive that Juliana, who seems to me to have more sense than one would expect to find in a child of Fanny’s, would contemplate marriage with Vidal.”

  The Marquis grinned. “As usual, sir, you are right.”

  “But I do not think so at all,” objected Léonie. “And if you are right, then I say that Juliana is a little fool, and without any sense at all.”

  “She is in love,” answered the Marquis, “with a man called Frederick.”

  “Incroyable!” Léonie exclaimed. “Tell me all about him at once. He sounds very disagreeable.”

  The Duke looked across the room at his son. “One was led to suppose from Fanny’s somewhat incoherent discourse that the young man is impossible!”

  “Oh, quite, sir,” agreed Vidal. “But she’ll have him for all that.”

  “Well, if she loves him, I hope she will marry him,” said Léonie, with a bewildering change of front “You do not mind, do you, Monseigneur?”

  “It is not, thank God, my affair,” replied his grace. “I am not concerned with the Marlings’ futures.”

  The Marquis met his glance squarely. “Very well, sir. The point is taken.”

  Avon held out one of his very white hands towards the fire, and regarded through half-closed eyes the big emerald ring he wore. “It is not my custom,” he said smoothly, “to inquire into your affairs, but I have heard talk of a girl who is not an opera dancer.”

  The Marquis answered with perfect composure. “But not, I think, talk of my approaching nuptials.”

  “Hardly,” said his grace, with a faint lift of the brows.

  “Nor will you, sir.”

  “You relieve me,” said his grace politely. He got up, leaning lightly on his ebony cane. “Permit me to tell you, my son, that when you trifle with a girl of the bourgeoisie, you run the risk of creating the kind of scandal I deplore.”

  A smile flickered across Vidal’s mouth. “Your pardon, sir, but do you speak from your wide experience?”

  “Naturally,” said his grace.

  “I do not believe,” said Léonie, who had been listening calmly to this interchange, “that you ever trifled with a bourgeoise, Justin.”

  “You flatter me, child.” He looked again at his son. “I do not need your assurance that you amuse yourself only. I have no doubt that you will commit almost every indiscretion, but one you will not commit. You are, after all, my son. But I would advise you, Dominic, to amuse yourself with women of a certain class, or with your own kind, who understand how the game should be played.”

  The Marquis bowed. “You are a fount of wisdom, sir.”

  “Of worldly wisdom, yes,” said his grace. In the doorway he paused and looked back. “Ah, there was another little matter, as I remember. What kind of cattle do you keep in your stables that it must needs take you four hours to reach Newmarket?”

  The Marquis’ eye gleamed appreciation, but Léonie was inclined to be indignant. “Monseigneur, I find you fort exi-geant to-day. Four hours! ma foi, but of a surety he will break his neck.”

  “It has been done in less,” his grace said tranquilly.

  “That I do not at all believe,” stated the Duchess. “Who did it in less?”

  “I did,” said Avon.

  “Oh, then I do believe it,” said Léonie as a matter of course.

  “How long, sir?” the Marquis said swiftly.

  “Three hours and forty-seven minutes.”

  “Still too generous, sir. Three hours and forty-five minutes should, I think, suffice. You would perhaps, like to lay me odds?”

  “Not in the least,” said his grace. “But three hours and forty-five minutes should certainly suffice.”

  He went out. Léonie said: “Of course I should like you to beat Monseigneur’s record, my little one, but it is very dangerous. Do not kill yourself, Dominique, please.”

  “I won’t,” he answered. “That is a promise, my dear.”

  She tucked her hand in his. “Ah, but it is a promise you could break, mon ange.”

  “Devil a bit!” said his lordship cheerfully. “Ask my uncle. He will tell you I was born to be hanged.”

  “Rupert?” said Léonie scornfully. “Voyons, he would not tell me any such thing, because he would not dare.” She retained her clasp on his hand. “Now you will talk to me a little, mon enfant—tout bas. Who is this bourgeoise?”

  The laugh went out of Vidal’s eyes at that, and his black brows drew close together. “Let be, madame. She is nothing. How did my father hear of her?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. But this I know, Dominique, you will never be able to hide anything from Monseigneur. And I think he is not quite pleased. It would be better, perhaps, if you did not amuse yourself there.”

  “Content you, maman. I can manage my affairs.”

  “Well, I hope so,” Léonie said doubtfully. “You are quite sure, I suppose, that this will not lead to a mésalliance?” He looked at her rather sombrely. “You don’t flatter my judgment, madame. Do you think I am so likely to forget what I owe to my name?”

  “Yes,” said her grace candidly, “I think, my dear, that when you have the devil in you—which I perfectly understand—

  you are likely to forget everything.” He disengaged himself, and stood up. “My devil don’t prompt me to marriage, maman,” he said.

  Chapter III

  mrs. challoner occupied rooms in a genteel part of the town which might be said to touch the fringe of the more fashionable quarter. She was a widow with a jointure quite inadequate for a lady of her ambition, but she had an additional source of income in her brother, who was a city merchant of considerable affluence. From time to time he paid some of Mrs. Challoner’s more pressing bills, and though he did it with a bad grace, and was consistently discouraged by his wife and daughters, he could always be relied upon to step into the breach before matters reached too serious a pass. He said, grumbling, that he did it for his little Sophy’s sake, for he could not bear to see such a monstrous pretty girl go dressed in the rags Mrs. Challoner assured him she was reduced to. His elder niece awoke no such generous feeling in his breast, but since she never exerted herself to captivate him, and always stated in her calm way that she lacked nothing, this was perhaps not surprising. Though he would naturally never admit it, he stood a little in awe of Mary Challoner. She favoured her father, and Henry Simpkins had never been able to feel at ease with his handsome brother-in-law. Charles Challoner had been reckless and graceless, and his own noble family had, declined having any hiter-course with him after he had committed the crowning in-descretion of marriage with Miss Clara Simpkins. He was indolent and spendthrift, and his morals shocked a decent-living merchant. But for all that he had an air, a faint hauteur of manner that set his wife’s relations at a distance, and kept them there. They might assist materially in the upkeep of his establishment, and he was not above permitting them to rescue him from the Spunging House, whenever he was unfortunate enough to fall a victim to his creditors, but a gentleman of his connections could not be expected to consort on equal terms with (as he neatly phr
ased it) a bundle of Cits. This easy air of assurance, and a patrician cast of countenance he bequeathed to his elder daughter. Her Uncle Henry found himself ill at ease in her presence, and wished that if his son Joshua must feel it incumbent on him to fall in love with one of his cousins, he would choose the easier and prettier Sophia.

  Mrs. Challoner had only the two daughters, and since Mary’s sixteenth birthday her main object in life had been to marry them both suitably as soon as possible. The signal success once achieved by a certain Irish widow put ideas into her head which her brother thought absurd, but though she admitted that Mary, in spite of her grand education, could scarcely hope to achieve more than a respectable alliance, she could not find that either Maria or Elizabeth Gunning in their prime had outshone her own Sophia. It was more than twenty years since the Gunning sisters had taken the town by storm, and Mrs. Challoner could not remember ever to have set eyes on either, but she knew several reliable persons who had, and they all assured her that Sophia far transcended the famous beauties. If Mrs. Gunning, who hadn’t a penny, and was dreadfully Irish as well, could catch an earl and a duke in her matrimonial net, there seemed to be very little reason why Mrs. Challoner, with a respectable jointure, and no common Irish accent, should not do quite as well. Or if not quite, at least half—for she was not besotted about her daughters, and had made up her mind a long time ago that nothing great could be hoped for Mary.

  It was not that the girl was ill-favoured. She had a fine pair of grey eyes, and her profile with its delightfully straight nose and short upper lip was quite lovely. But placed beside Sophia she was nothing beyond the common. What chance had chestnut curls when compared to a riot of bright gold ringlets? What chance had cool grey eyes when the most limpid blue ones peeped between preposterously long eyelashes?

  She had, moreover, grave disadvantages. Those fine eyes of hers had a disconcertingly direct gaze, and very often twinkled in a manner disturbing to male egotism. She had common-sense too, and what man wanted the plainly matter-of-fact, when he could enjoy instead Sophia’s delicious folly? Worst of all she had been educated at a very select seminary—Mrs. Challoner was sometimes afraid that she was almost a Bluestocking.