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  When she returned to the box, alone, the curtain had already gone up on the fifth act. She was still flushed by excitement, and met her sister’s look with a defiant toss of her head. Let Mary frown if she would: Mary had no brilliant future before her; Mary might consider herself fortunate if she caught Cousin Joshua for a husband. Sophia gave herself to ecstatic imaginings.

  The Marquis, meanwhile, betook himself to Timothy’s and created a sensation.

  “Good God, it’s Vidal!” ejaculated Lord Cholmondley.

  Mr. Fox, who was playing piquet with him, tranquilly dealt a fresh hand. “Why not?” he inquired.

  “Cold-blooded devil!” marvelled Cholmondley.

  Mr. Fox looked bored, and waved a languid hand at the Marquis.

  Vidal was standing just inside the card-room, apparently surveying the company. There was just a moment when all play was suspended, and heads turned in his direction. The sudden silence was broken by an inebriated gentleman seated by the window, who called out: “Hey, Vidal, what time did you make? Laid a monkey you’d not do it under the four hours.”

  “You have lost your stake, my lord,” said the Marquis. He perceived Mr. Fox, and began to make his leisurely way across the room to his table.

  A hum of talk broke out. Many disapproving glances were cast at Vidal’s tall figure, but he seemed unaware of them and passed to Mr. Fox’s side, a picture of cool unconcern.

  Cholmondley had laid down his cards. “Is that true?” he demanded. “You made it in the four hours?”

  The Marquis smiled. “I made it in three hours and forty-four minutes, my dear.”

  “Man, you were drunk!” Cholmondley cried. “I’d say it was impossible!”

  “Ask the judges,” shrugged the Marquis. “I warned you that I drive best when I am drunk.” He was watching the next table as he spoke. Loo was being played, but someone was leaving, and the party was broken up. The Marquis raised his voice slightly, addressing one of the players. “A hand of piquet, Mr. Comyn?”

  Mr. Comyn turned his head quickly. A flicker of surprise showed in his face. He bowed. “I shall count myself honoured, my lord.”

  Vidal strolled over to his table and waited while a waiter put fresh cards and placed chairs.

  “Cut, Mr. Comyn,” said the Marquis.

  Mr. Comyn obeyed, and won the deal.

  “The usual stakes?” drawled the Marquis.

  Mr. Comyn met his eye firmly. “Whatever you will, my lord.”

  Vidal laughed suddenly, and abandoned his drawl. “We’ll play for love, Mr. Comyn.”

  Mr. Comyn paused in the middle of his deal. “I can scarcely suppose, my lord, that that would amuse you.”

  “Not in the least,” grinned the Marquis.

  “Or me, my lord.”

  “I never gamble in the family,” explained Vidal.

  Mr. Comyn jumped. “Sir?”

  “Well, sir?”

  Mr. Comyn carefully laid down the pack. “Do I understand you to mean that you favour my suit, my lord?”

  “Devilish precise, ain’t you?” commented Vidal. “I suppose if Juliana wants you she’ll have you. Get it out of your head that I have anything to do with it. It don’t concern me.”

  Mr. Comyn leaned back in his chair. “I apprehend, my lord, that to play piquet with me was not your object in singling me out to-night.”

  “Oh, I’ll play,” said his lordship. “But I don’t fleece my relatives, and I don’t care to be fleeced by ’em. Call it ten shillings a hundred.”

  “Certainly—if that satisfies you,” said Mr. Comyn.

  The Marquis’s eye twinkled. “Oh, I’m quite sober to-night.”

  Mr. Comyn completed the deal and said slowly: “Without wishing to be guilty of impoliteness, my lord, your temper is such that I should not wish to play with you were you not sober.”

  “Much wiser not,” agreed Vidal, putting down his discard. “Four only. You think I might blow a hole through you?”

  Mr. Comyn picked up the remaining four cards. “Oh, surely not—in the family, my lord?”

  Vidal laughed. “Egad, I think you’d better make all speed to Paris and abduct Juliana. You will do very well in our family. If you want my advice, let me recommend you to better your acquaintance with my father. I’ve a strong notion he might approve your suit. A point of six, a quinte, and three aces. Six played.”

  Mr. Comyn drew six cards from his hand with some deliberation. “Taking into consideration, sir, the unfortunate circumstances under which I made his grace’s acquaintance—if such I can call it—I cannot suppose that a further meeting with me could be anything but repugnant to him.”

  “It is evident,” retorted his lordship, “that you don’t know much of my father.” He played the rest of the hand in silence, but as the cards were gathered up he said: “I have it from my uncle that you in some sort upheld me last night. I’m obliged to you. Why did you do it? Policy? You don’t exactly love me, do you?”

  A smile disturbed Mr. Comyn’s gravity. “On the contrary, my lord, I was under the impression that I detested you, but I believe I have an innate passion for justice.”

  “I thought as much,” said the Marquis. “But to-day you find that I can be quite agreeable, and you reserve judgment.”

  “True,” said Mr. Comyn thoughtfully. “Yet I confess that from tune to time I find your manner calculated to arouse feelings of animosity in my breast.”

  “Alas!” said his lordship. “Let us again endeavour. Sir, you were kind enough to speak in my defence yesterday. I am probably your debtor, since I dare say my respected father may have believed you. At any other season I might have put in a word for you to his grace, but I don’t imagine my word will carry much weight with him at the moment. Failing that, I make you a present of my advice. Marry my cousin out of hand. You won’t get her else.”

  Mr. Comyn’s brow wrinkled. “So I have been given to understand. Yet I fail to see why Lady Fanny should consider my suit so ineligible. I do not desire to make a brag of my estate, but though not noble I believe it is not disgraceful, nor is my fortune contemptible. I am heir to a baronetcy of—”

  “You may be heir to a dozen baronetcies,” interrupted Vidal, “but you can’t compete with the heir to a dukedom.”

  Mr. Comyn looked a question. “Myself,” said the Marquis. “Failing me, some other—if I know my aunt. She’s looking high, you see, and she’s a damned obstinate woman.”

  “But, sir, to persuade Miss Marling into a runaway marriage is a course savouring strongly of the dishonourable.”

  “She won’t need any persuading,” said his lordship callously. “And she hasn’t a fortune, so you needn’t fear to be thought an adventurer. You’ll do as you please about it, but that’s my advice.”

  Mr. Comyn gathered up his hand and began to sort the cards.. “I must thank you, I suppose, but anything in the nature of irregularity, or clandestine conduct, is distasteful to me—especially in this delicate affair.”

  “Then you shouldn’t ally yourself with my family,” replied his lordship.

  Chapter VI

  the Marquis of Vidal had not expected to enjoy his interview with Avon, but it turned out to be more unpleasant than he was prepared for. To begin with, his grace was writing at his desk when Vidal was ushered into the room, and although the lackey quite loudly announced his lordship, his fine hand continued to travel across the paper, and he neither looked up nor betrayed by even the smallest sign that he had heard the announcement.

  The Marquis paused for a moment on the threshold, eyeing him; then he walked across to the fireplace and stretched one elegantly shod foot to the warmth. To all appearances he was thoughtfully observing the extremely high polish on his top boot, but once he put up his hand to the Mechlin lace round his throat, and gave it a tug as though it were too tight.

  He was dressed with unusual care, possibly out of deference to his grace’s known views, but, as was his habit in the forenoon, for riding. His buff breeches
were of impeccable cut, his coat of blue cloth with silver buttons was somewhat severe, but admirably became his tall person. His fringed cravat was for once very neatly arranged, the ends thrust through a gold buttonhole, and his black locks strictly confined by a thin black riband. He wore no jewellery save a heavy gold signet ring, and his face was innocent of the patches and powder affected by the Macaronis.

  The Duke had finished writing, and was now reading his letter through with maddening deliberation. Vidal felt his temper rising, and set his teeth. Having made some slight alteration in his letter, the Duke folded it, and dipping his quill in the standish, began to write the direction. Without turning his head he said: “You may sit down, Vidal.”

  “Thank you, sir, I’ll stand,” replied his lordship curtly.

  The Duke laid his letter aside, ready for sealing, and at last turned, shifting his chair so that he could survey his son. Vidal found himself wishing, for perhaps the hundredth time in his life, that it was possible to read his father’s expression.

  The eyes, faintly disdainful, travelled from Vidal’s boots to his face, and there stayed. “I suppose I should count myself honoured that you have been able to visit me,” said his grace gently.

  There did not seem to be anything to say in answer to this. After a moment’s uncomfortable silence the Duke continued: “Your presence in England is extremely—shall we say enlivening?—Vidal. But I believe I shall survive the loss of it.” At that the Marquis spoke. “Is he dead then?” Avon’s brows rose in polite surprise. “Is it possible that you don’t know?”

  “I don’t, sir.”

  “I envy you your light-heartedness,” said Avon. “So far, as I am aware the gentleman still lives. Whether he continues to do so or not is a question that does not at the moment concern me. It will make very little difference to you. Three months ago I warned you that your next killing would prove serious. You will allow me to point out that it is never wise to disregard my warnings.”

  “Certainly, sir. I take it I may have to stand my trial?”

  “Not at all,” said his grace coldly. “I am still somebody. But you may take it that for some appreciable time to come your residence will be upon the Continent. An affair of honour, conducted honourably, might have been condoned. A pot-house brawl can only be—one trusts—eventually forgotten.”

  The Marquis flushed. “One moment, sir. My affairs, whether settled at Barn Elms or in a pot-house, are still honourably conducted.”

  “I make you my apologies,” replied Avon, slightly inclining his head. “You must forgive my declining years, which make it difficult for me to appreciate the manners of your generation. In my day we did not fight in gaming-hells, or when we were in our cups.”

  “A mistake, sir, I admit. I am sorry for it.”

  The Duke looked at him sardonically. “I am not in the least interested in your emotions, Vidal. What I object to is that you have had the impertinence to disturb your mother. That I do not permit. You will leave England at once.”

  Vidal was very pale, and a muscle at the corner of his mouth twitched. “Ill stand my trial, I believe.”

  The Duke put up his glass and surveyed Vidal through it “You do not appear to have much understanding of the situation,” he remarked. “You will leave England, not to save your neck, nor because it is my will, but to spare your mother any further anxiety concerning your safety. I trust I make myself plain?”

  Vidal looked at him with hard defiant eyes. Then he strode restlessly to the window and back again. “Quite plain. Yet if I say I’ll not go, what then?”

  “I should regret the necessity of course, but I should—er—contrive your departure willy-nilly.”

  The Marquis gave a short laugh. “Egad, I believe you would! I’ll go.”

  “You had better bid your mother good-bye,” recommended his grace. “You will reach the coast quite easily by to-night.”

  “Just as you please, sir,” Vidal said indifferently. He picked up his hat and gloves from the table. “Is there anything more you desire to say to me?”

  “Very little,” Avon answered. “Your restraint is quite admirable. I applaud it.”

  “I thought it was my lack of it that had offended your sensibilities, sir,” said Vidal grimly. “You go too fast for me.”

  Avon smiled. “You must not think me witless, my dear boy. I am perfectly aware that you would like to throw my extremely reprehensible past in my teeth.”

  “I confess, sir, I find your homily a little ironic.”

  “Quite amusing, is it not?” agreed his grace. “I am perfectly sensible of it. But the road I travelled is not the road I should desire my son to take. And you will no doubt agree that a liberal experience of vice gives me some right to judge.” He rose and came to the fire. “Concerning more immediate matters, you may draw upon Foley’s in Paris, of course.”

  “Thank you, sir, I have enough for my needs,” the Marquis said stiffly.

  “I compliment you. You are certainly the first Alastair ever to say so. You will find your mother upstairs.”

  “Then I’ll take my leave of you, sir,” Vidal said. “Accept my apologies for the inconvenience I may have caused you.” He bowed, unsmiling, and turned sharp on his heel. As he jerked open the door, Avon spoke again. “By the way, Vidal, does my record still stand?”

  The Marquis looked back over his shoulder, frowning. “Your record, sir?”

  “Three hours and forty-seven minutes was my time,” said his grace pensively.

  An unwilling laugh broke from Vidal. “No, sir, your record does not stand.”

  “I thought not,” said Avon. “May I be permitted to know the new record?”

  “Three hours and forty-four minutes. But the curricle was specially designed.”

  “So was mine,” said Avon. “I am glad you bettered my time. If I were twenty years younger—”

  “I beg you will not attempt it, ski” said the Marquis quickly. He hesitated; the stormy look was still in his face, but his eyes had softened.

  “Pray do not do violence to your feelings,” Avon said. “You will find me remarkably hard to wound.”

  The Marquis let go the door handle, and came back to his father’s side. “I beg your pardon, sir.” He took Avon’s thin hand in his, and bent to touch it with his lips. “Adieu, mon père.”

  “Let us say, rather, au revoir,” Avon answered. “I will spare you my blessing which I cannot conceive would benefit you in the least.”

  Upon which they parted, each one understanding the other tolerably well. Vidal’s interview with his mother lasted much longer, and was to him even more unpleasant. Léonie had no reproaches for him, but she was plainly unhappy, and the Marquis hated to see his mother unhappy.

  “It’s my damnable temper, maman,” he said ruefully.

  She nodded. “I know. That is why I am feeling very miserable. It is no good people saying you are a devil like all the Alastairs, because me, I know that it is my temper that you have, mon pauvre. You see, there is very black blood in my family.” She shook her head sadly. “M. de Saint-Vire—my father, you understand—was of a character the most abominable. And hot-headed! He shot himself in the end, which was a very good thing. He had red hair like mine.”

  “I haven’t that excuse,” said her son, grinning.

  “No, but you behave just as I should like to when I am enraged,” Léonie said candidly. “When I_was young I was very fond of shooting people dead. Of course, I never did shoot anyone, but I wanted to—oh, often! I meant to shoot my father once—which shocked Rupert—it was when M. de Saint-Vire kidnapped me, and Rupert saved me—only Mon-seigneur arrived, and he would not at all permit it.” She paused, wrinkling her brow. “You see, Dominique, I am not a respectable person, and you are not a respectable person either. And I did want you to be.”

  “I’m sorry, maman. But I don’t come of respectable stock, either side.”

  “Ah, but the Alastairs are quite different,” Léonie said quickly. “No o
ne minds if you have affaires. Of course, if you are a very great rake people say you are a devil, but it is quite in the mode and entirely respectable. Only when you do things that other people do not do, like you, and make scandals, then at once you are not respectable.”

  He looked down at her half-smiling. “What am I to do, maman? If I made you a promise to become respectable I am very sure I should break it.”

  She slipped her hand in his. “Well, I have been thinking, Dominique, that perhaps the best thing would be for you to be in love and marry somebody,” she said confidentially. “I do not like to say this, but it is true that before he married me, Monseigneur was a very great rake. A vrai dire, his reputation was what one does not talk about. When he made me his page, and then his ward, it was not to be kind, but because he wanted to be revenged upon M. de Saint-Vire. Only then he found that he would like to marry me, and do you know, ever since he has not been a rake at all, or done anything particularly dreadful that I can remember.”

  “But I could never hope to find another woman like you, maman. If I could I promise you I’d marry her.”

  “Then you would make a great mistake,” said Léonie wisely. “I am not at all the sort of wife for you.”

  He did not pursue the subject. He was with her for an hour and more; it seemed as though she could not let him go. At last he wrenched himself away, knowing that for all her brave smiles she would weep her heart out once he was gone. He had given his word to her that he would leave London that night; he had much to do in the few hours left to him. His servants were sent flying on various errands, one to Newhaven to warn the captain of his yacht, the Albatross, that his lordship would sail for France next day, another to his bankers, a third to a quiet house in Blooms-bury with a billet, hastily scrawled.

  This was delivered to an untidy abigail who received it in a hand hastily wiped upon her apron. She shut the door upon the messenger, and stood turning the heavily sealed letter over in her hand. Sealed with a crest it was; she wouldn’t be surprised if it came from the handsome lord that was running after Miss Sophy, only that it was directed to Miss Challoner.