He waved away her protests that she must change into something more suited to the Park than the dainty striped sarcenet gown she was wearing.
‘A pelisse and a bonnet or fly, I pray! I know you ladies! Give you a moment and you’ll take an hour! And I must confess, I do have an important appointment a little later today.’
That you have, my lord, she thought as she hurried upstairs, and not one you’ll relish!
Left to himself, the Marquis wandered about the book-room, glancing at portraits and inspecting various objets d’art of Mr. Derwent’s collecting. His call upon his proposed bride had been brought about partly out of boredom and partly to discover what he could of Mr. Derwent’s intentions. Then he noticed a walking-stick leaning against the writing-desk. Taking it in his great hands, he fingered the Trennick crest engraved upon its silver knob. ‘So, little brother, you have been consorting with the enemy? Now, why, I wonder?’
Carefully he set the stick back where he had found it and raised his head to stare blindly out of the window. The sunlight shone full upon his livid face, the thin lips drawn back in an animal-like snarl, a strange red glow behind the pale eyes. ‘Oh, Francis, Francis! Have you been playing the traitor?’
Five minutes later, when Miss Honeywell rejoined him, dressed in her pelisse of Norwich crape and a most becoming gypsy hat, tied under her chin, he was his urbane self again.
‘An unfortunate thing I have just remembered,’ he said as he handed her into his phaeton and seated himself beside her. ‘A small commission my father required me to execute. If you can bear with me we will go first to Berkeley Square. It won’t take above five minutes.’
Miss Honeywell saw no cause to raise any objection to this reasonable request, and they spurted away in spanking style. At His Grace’s residence they were received by a stately butler who ushered them into a small anteroom, dark with heavy furnishings. Presuming that the Marquis would leave her to attend to whatever business had brought him there, Miss Honeywell was surprised that he remained with her until the butler had withdrawn. She was about to assure him that she could support his absence for a time when he spoke in so menacing a manner that she caught her breath in alarm.
‘What had my brother to say to you this afternoon, Miss Honeywell? Or did he, perhaps speak to Mr. Derwent?’
To call for help in this house, she was persuaded, would be a complete waste of time. Even the pontifical butler looked as if he would take to his heels at the Marquis’s lightest word. In any case, she concluded, he was going to know all about his brother’s defection soon, what difference could an hour or so make?
‘Lord Francis spoke to both Mr. Derwent and me. He told us you had changed teams during the race and set his name to a statement to that effect. Mr. Derwent is waiting for you at Brooks’s Club to suggest that the wager be cancelled.’
‘Very magnanimous of him, to be sure.’
‘Well, I do think it is,’ said Miss Honeywell spiritedly. ‘It’s a deal more than you deserve, my lord—oh!’
His hands had shot out and fastened round her throat, the red mist was back in his eyes and, for the first time in her life, Kate was utterly terrified. The room spun around her and the blood drummed in her ears as his fingers tightened; her hands tore unavailingly at his until her struggles ceased and, mercifully, she became insensible.
Some long time later she was aware of an arm about her shoulders, and a glass being held to her lips. Spluttering and gasping, she managed to swallow a little of the brandy and then opened her eyes to meet those of an ashen-pale and agitated Sophia.
‘Kate, whatever has happened? Why are you here?’
‘Your dear brother,’ began Miss Honeywell, and then realised that practically no sound was issuing from her bruised and swollen throat, so took another sip of brandy and tried again.
‘He knows all about your visit to Charles Street this afternoon and Lord Francis’s confession. He has gone to Brooks’s Club to see Mr. Derwent.’
‘Dear God!’ sobbed Sophia. ‘If he can vent his spite in such a manner upon you for the mere telling of the tale, what will he do to Francis?’
Miss Honeywell sat up, her fingers cautiously probing her throat as if to assure herself of its continued existence.
‘I think,’ she said at last in what was intended to be a confident voice but which came out as a stifled squeak, ‘that we must persuade Lord Francis to play least in sight for the time until Wayleigh’s fury has abated.’
‘Then we must go to Mount Trennick without delay,’ agreed Sophia miserably. ‘Oh, dear, and I did wish to remain here in the hope of showing myself to Timothy to give him encouragement.’
Miss Honeywell, while having every sympathy with her cousin, felt that, of the two, Lord Francis’s case was the more urgent.
‘And what carriage can we use?’ Sophia’s despair threatened to overwhelm her. ‘There is none but Wayleigh’s here, and we dare not take that.’
‘Call a hackney to take us to Charles Street,’ croaked Miss Honeywell. ‘We can employ one of the equipages there.’
‘Dear Kate, you cannot undertake such a journey in this state!’
‘Oh yes, I can!’ Miss Honeywell declared grimly, inwardly praying that she would be found to be right.
When Mr. Derwent arrived at his club to be informed that the Marquis had been there but had stepped out for an hour or so, he settled down to wait with his customary composure.
Everyone present was agog to know what would be the outcome of the affair, and his refusal to gratify their curiosity had the natural effect of stimulating it. Not even to Mr. Dacres would he divulge his reasons for wishing to speak to Wayleigh.
‘I have until midnight, Augustus,’ he reiterated stubbornly. ‘If he does not return before that, then things must take their course.’
Mr. Dacres gave it up and suggested dinner. Halfway through the admirable meal, a disturbance in the crowded dining-room and a considerable diminution in the buzz of conversation attended the entrance of the Marquis.
‘He’s here!’ hissed Mr. Dacres, feeling that a touch of drama might be the very thing to stir his friend from his lethargy, but Mr. Derwent continued to eat his poulet a la Reine with unabated enjoyment. A moment later Wayleigh’s voice sounded at his elbow.
‘ ’Evening, Derwent. Something of a squeeze here tonight, ain’t there?’
‘ ’Evening, my lord.’ Mr. Derwent turned to look over the oddly hushed room. ‘Indeed, yes, not a place to be had. Do you care to join us?’
‘My thanks. I’d heard you were asking for me.’ At his gesture a waiter came running with a chair and his lordship ordered wine. ‘Haven’t time for a meal, got one or two things to attend to, but I’d like to get our business settled first. I take it you have something of interest for me?’
‘Yes, my lord. A written admission by your brother that he assisted you to change horses on your way to Newmarket last week.’
In the pause that followed Mr. Derwent’s quietly-spoken words Mr. Dacres manfully strove to get a mouthful of roast duck down a throat gone suddenly dry, and was obliged to assist the process with a generous gulp of Burgundy. The waiter came with his lordship’s wine before the conversation could be resumed.
‘A voluntary admission, Derwent?’
Lysander, having finished his chicken, consulted the menu and decided upon walnut pudding. ‘Voluntary admission or no,’ he replied when the waiter had once more left them, ‘there is no doubt of its authenticity. I suggest that the wager be cancelled.’
The Marquis poured himself some wine with a perfectly steady hand. ‘Dacres,’ he drawled, ‘much as I enjoy your company, at this moment I find myself content to dispense with it.’
‘You need not leave on my account, Augustus.’ Mr. Derwent was crisply emphatic. ‘I am persuaded I can rely upon you to say nothing of what passes at this table tonight.’
‘That you can, but it would appear his lordship does not repose the same trust in me!’ Mr. Dacres, very much on
his dignity, drained his glass and glared at the Marquis. ‘Goodnight to you, Lysander. My lord!’
Wayleigh, half-rising, made him a mocking bow as he strode off. ‘Not that I don’t trust him, mark you,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Only that I believe the fewer people who know about our arrangement the better.’
‘Just so,’ agreed Mr. Derwent, wondering not a little at his lordship’s extreme amiability.
‘There is one thing I feel I ought to discuss with you.’ Wayleigh sounded like a cat that had swallowed the cream and Lysander felt a shiver of premonition run up his spine. ‘And that is, my lord?’
‘What to do with Miss Honeywell,’ said the Marquis. Mr. Derwent did not lift his eyes from his plate. ‘I was informed you had the intention of marrying her, my lord.’
‘Marriage is such a binding contract,’ sighed his lordship. At that Mr. Derwent did lift his head and look across the table. ‘You’ll not get her fortune if you don’t,’ he said.
‘Ah, but I can always make that a condition for marriage—afterwards.’
Mr. Derwent did not need to be told what that ‘afterwards’ meant, and had to struggle against a powerful urge to smash his fist into the complacently smiling countenance opposite him. Forcing himself to eat the food on his plate, he said: ‘What proposition are you putting before me, my lord?’ The Marquis sighed contentedly. ‘One of the qualities I most respect in you, Derwent, is your acuteness of perception. You need to have so little explained to you.’
‘You are too kind, my lord. But in this case, a little clarification of ideas is necessary. I presume that you have Miss Honeywell in your—er—possession once more?’
The Marquis made a deprecating gesture. ‘Repetition can be so tiresome, don’t you agree? A delightful young lady, but, shall we say, over-impulsive? I assure you I positively regret—but that is nothing to the point. If you are willing to overlook my brother’s unfortunate lapse and pay me the amount wagered, then I will guarantee that Miss Honeywell is restored to your household—intacta, as it were.’
‘I can place such faith in your word, my lord!’
‘I will take you to her myself,’ Wayleigh assured him solemnly, ‘and you need not hand over the money until you are perfectly satisfied that she has come to no harm. Though now I think on’t, I owe you something for Barbara Weston!’
Mr. Derwent let that pass. ‘I have not the money with me tonight.’
‘Why should you have, indeed, when you had no expectation of having to forfeit it?’ The Marquis was all sympathetic understanding. ‘But you do have my brother’s letter, do you not? I will take that now as an earnest of your good intentions. If you are not satisfied, Francis can always write you another.’
Smoothly though it was said, there was that in his voice that made Mr. Derwent very fearful for Lord Francis’s continued existence.
‘The boy was only doing what he believed to be right, Wayleigh. If harm comes to him because of it, then be sure I will call you to account.’
For a moment their mutual hostility flared as sharply as if a blow had been struck. When the Marquis shifted slightly in his seat and took more wine.
‘I protest you are too soft-hearted, Derwent. These youngsters need an occasional trimming to keep them in shape.’
‘And Miss Honeywell?’
‘You need not fear for her safety. I will expect you at Mount Trennick before six o’clock tomorrow evening.’ He held out a hand. ‘That—confession, if you please.’
Mr. Derwent knew he had gone his length, but still he played for time.
‘Why did you pick upon me to be your adversary in all this, Wayleigh?’
‘Simple, my dear fellow. You are as rich as a nabob, you are a first-class whip and I knew you’d not resist my challenge. As for the girl, she was, I allow, an additional windfall.’
Slowly Mr. Derwent drew Lord Francis’s letter from his pocket and handed it over. Wayleigh glanced at it and nodded as if well satisfied.
‘One thing more, my lord,’ Lysander said. ‘I would wish it put about that our wager is cancelled. Many people stand to lose a deal of money if it is known that I have conceded the race.’
The Marquis looked amused. ‘A sop to your conscience?’
‘Rather a sop to yours, I should have thought, my lord!’
‘My dear Derwent!’ Wayleigh stood, one hand resting on the back of his chair, smiling down upon him. ‘I cannot afford the luxury of a conscience, but do as you please. Goodnight to you.’
Mr. Derwent forced himself to finish his meal in a leisurely way, ignoring the curious glances directed at him from every side. Then, after a quiet word with Lord Sefton, he left the club to return to Charles Street. There, after giving a few curt instructions to Bates, he again mounted into his curricle and drove to Albemarle Street. Lady Harveston was at home and saw him at once.
‘Ma’am, I would ask you to accompany me to Bow Street,’ he said when he had laid the facts before her. ‘It may do little good, but if I can persuade them there that I know Wayleigh to be holding Miss Honeywell against her will, then they must proceed against him.’
‘I’ll come at once,’ she said. ‘But where is she hid?’
Mr. Derwent had to confess that he did not know, and the unhappiness was so apparent in his face that she forbore to question him further.
Had he delayed his departure from Charles Street for another ten minutes, his apprehensions would have been vastly alleviated. Bates, hearing a supper-tray upstairs to his stricken mistress, was startled by an imperious ring upon the street bell and, setting down the tray, opened the door to admit Miss Honeywell and Lady Sophia.
‘Is Mr. Derwent here?’
Bates, eyeing them with some concern, had to confess that his master had but left the house.
‘Have you any notion of where he might be?’
‘Not precisely, miss, but I got the impression that he was gone to make a call upon a Lady.’
Mr. Derwent’s actual words had been: ‘I must go at once to Lady—’ He had left the sentence unfinished, as he was merely expressing his thought aloud, but Miss Honeywell was in no mood to appreciate the significance of the capital letter. Her eyes flashed fire and her wilting form seemed to gather new strength.
‘Well!’ she remarked, one small foot tapping the floor in an ominous way. ‘I am afraid we cannot stay until he chooses to return. A carriage is our immediate need. I’ll speak to Harvey.’
Harvey, when informed of the ladies’ wishes, declared it to be more than his place was worth to drive them to Mount Trennick without his master’s permission, but when Miss Honeywell told him that she was quite prepared to harness up the tilbury and drive there herself if he would not, he came round to her way of thinking. Furious though Mr. Derwent might be at his falling in with her plans, in Harvey’s opinion he would be a deal more furious if she and Lady Sophia were permitted to undertake the journey unescorted. But pole up his master’s horses he would not, and the ladies had to be content with the Dowager’s travelling chaise and placid pair.
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
The next morning dawned warm and bright, promising to be one of those rare days of high summer that from time to time enliven the contrary English spring.
To the two gentlemen lying prone upon that same eminence that had provided Miss Honeywell with such a clear view of the Mount Trennick stable yard on a previous occasion, the sun came as a welcome relief.
‘This grass be mortal damp, Tobias,’ grumbled Mr. Jem Shoesmith, shifting his position to stretch his stiff limbs. ‘Ever since I jumped out o’ that gig when a-chasin’ that smugglin’ cove, I got the rheumatics in me ankle.’
Mr. Tobias Payne chewed a blade of grass ruminatively. ‘Couldn’t ha’ jumped out th’ proper way, Jem,’ he pronounced at last. ‘Many suppose it easy to jump a little forward and alight safe, but ‘tis not so. Th’ method o’ gettin’ out behind is th’ most safe of any.’ The sight of someone crossing the yard below drew their attention
and they craned their necks to peer down. ‘That’ll be the young brother, I take it.’
‘Aye, and seemin’ly in good health, though the Markiss has been here a good hour and more.’
‘Would we’d been closer on his heels.’ Mr. Payne threw away his blade of grass and with much deliberation selected another. ‘He could’ve had most anythin’ hid in that chaise.’ Mr. Shoesmith, a pertinacious but slow thinker, considered before replying. ‘Like a young leddy, y’mean? Aye, true enough, Tobias.’
They lapsed into watchful silence while Lord Francis flung open a half-door and fed sugar to a gleaming chestnut mare that whinnied her delight at seeing him. Then he went into the harness-room and the attention of the two above was riveted upon another figure walking purposefully across the yard.
‘Good morning, Francis. A word with you, if you please.’
Lord Francis, in the act of lifting down his saddle, left it where it was and turned to face the Marquis. ‘When did you get here, Way?’
‘A little too soon for you, it would seem. Had you thought to spend the day in the saddle out of my sight?’
‘It is a beautiful day,’ sighed his brother.
‘A great pity you won’t be enjoying it.’ Wayleigh was drawing the lash of his heavy horsewhip through his fingers almost caressingly.
‘Are you going to kill me, Way?’ Lord Francis posed the question as if it were one of purely transient interest.
‘Can you supply me with a good reason why I should not?’
‘No.’ The young man shuddered involuntarily but stood his ground, giving the Marquis look for look.
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