Devil’s Cub

Remove it.”

The lackey was far too well trained to display emotion, but he was a little shaken. “Yes, my lord,” he said. “What does your lordship want done with it, if you please?”

“I have no idea,” said his lordship. “Charles, what do you want done with it?”

“Egad, what is to be done with a corpse in the middle of Hounslow Heath?” demanded Mr. Fox. “I’ve a notion it should be delivered to a constable.”

“You hear,” said his lordship. “The corpse must be conveyed to town.”

“Bow Street,” interjected Mr. Fox.

“To Bow Street—with the compliments of Mr. Fox.”

“No, damme, I don’t take the credit for it, Dominic. Compliments of the Marquis of Vidal, my man.”

The lackey swallowed something in his throat, and said with a palpable effort: “It shall be attended to, sir.”

Mr. Fox looked at the Marquis. “I don’t see what else we can do, Dominic, do you?”

“We seem to have been put to a vast deal of inconvenience already,” replied the Marquis, dusting his sleeve with a very fine handkerchief. “I do not propose to bother my head further in the matter.”

“Then we may as well go upstairs,” said Mr. Fox.

“I await your pleasure, my dear Charles,” returned his lordship, and began leisurely to mount the shallow stairs.

Mr. Fox fell in beside him, drawing an elegant brise fan from his pocket. He opened it carefully, and held it for his friend to see. “Vernis Martin,” he said.

His lordship glanced casually down at it. “Very pretty,” he replied. “Chassereau, I suppose.”

“Quite right,” Mr. Fox said, waving it gently to and fro. “Subject, Telemaque, on ivory.”

They passed round the bend in the stairway. Down in the hall the two lackeys looked at one another. “Corpses one moment, fans the next,” said the man who held Vidal’s coat. “There’s the Quality for you!”

The episode of the corpse had by this time apparently faded from Lord Vidal’s mind, but Mr. Fox, thinking it a very good tale, spoke of it to at least three people, who repeated it to others. It came in due course to the ears of Lady Fanny Marling, who, in company with her son John, and her daughter Juliana, was present at the drum.

Lady Fanny had been a widow for a number of years, and the polite world had ceased to predict a second marriage for her. Flighty she had always been, but her affection for the late Mr. Edward Marling had been a very real thing. Her period of mourning had lasted a full year, and when she reappeared in society it was quite a long time before she had spirits to amuse herself with even the mildest flirtation. Now, with a daughter of marriageable age, she was becoming quite matronly, and had taken to arraying herself in purples and greys, and to wearing on her exceedingly elaborate coiffure turbans that spoke the dowager.

She was talking to an old friend, one Hugh Davenant, when she overheard the story of her nephew’s latest exploit, and she at once broke off her own conversation to exclaim: “That abominable boy! I vow and declare I never go anywhere but what I hear of him. And never any good, Hugh. Never!”

Hugh Davenant’s grey eyes travelled across the room to where the Marquis was standing, and dwelled rather thoughtfully on that arrogant figure. He did not say anything for a moment, and Lady Fanny rattled on.

“I am sure I have not the least objection to him shooting a highwayman—my dear Hugh, do but look at that odd gown! What a figure of fun—oh, it is Lady Mary Coke! Well, small wonder. She never could dress, and really she is become so strange of late, people say she is growing absolutely English, Yes, Hugh, I heard it from Mr. Walpole, and he vowed she was mad—what was I saying? Vidal! Oh, yes, well, if he must shoot highwaymen, it’s very well, but to leave the poor man dead on the road—though I make no doubt he would have done the same to Vidal, for I believe they are horridly callous, these fellows—but that’s neither here nor there. Vidal had no right to leave him. Now people will say that he is wickedly blood-thirsty, or something disagreeable, and it is quite true, only one does not want the whole world to say so.” She drew a long breath. “And Leonie,” she said —“and yon know, Hugh, I am very fond of dear Leonie—Leonie will laugh, and say that her mechant Dominique is dreadfully thoughtless. Thoughtless!”

Davenant smiled. “I make no doubt she will,” he agreed. “I sometimes think that the Duchess of Avon will always remain, at heart—Leon, a page.”

“Hugh, do I beseech you, have a care! You do not know who may overhear you. As for Avon, I truly think he does not care at all what happens to Dominic.”

“After all,” Hugh said slowly, “Dominic is so very like him,”

Lady Fanny shut her fan with a snap. “If you are minded to be unkind about my poor Avon, Hugh, I warn you I shall not listen. Lud, I’m sure he has been a perfect paragon ever since he married Leonie. I know he is monstrous disagreeable, and no one was ever more provoking, unless it be Rupert, who, by the way, encourages Dominic in every sort of excess, just as one would expect—but I’ll stake my reputation Avon was never such a—yes, Hugh, such a devil as Vidal. Why, they call him Devil’s Cub! And if you are going to tell me that is because he is Avon’s son, all I can say is that you are in a very teasing mood, and it’s no such thing.”

“He is very young, Fanny,” Hugh said, still watching the Marquis across the room.

“That makes it worse,” declared her ladyship. “Oh, my dear Lady Dawlish, I wondered whether I should see you to-night! I protest, it’s an age since I had a talk with you .... Odious woman, and as for her daughter, you may say what you choose, Hugh, but the girl squints! Where was I? Oh, Vidal, of course! Young? Yes, Hugh, I marvel that you should find that an excuse for him. The poor Hollands had trouble enough with their son, not but what I consider Holland was entirely to blame—but I never heard that Charles Fox ever did anything worse than lose a fortune at gaming, which is a thing no one could blame in him. It is very different with Vidal. From the day he left Eton he has been outrageous, and I make no doubt he was so in the nursery. It is not only his duels, Hugh—my dear, do you know he is considered positively deadly with the pistols? John tells me they say in the clubs that it makes no odds to the Devil’s Cub whether he is drunk or sober, he can still pick out a playing card on the wall. He did that at White’s once, and there was the most horrid scandal, for of course he was in his cups, and only fancy, Hugh, how angry all the people like old Queensberry and Mr. Walpole must have been! I wish I had seen it!”

“I did see it,” said Hugh. “A silly boy’s trick, no more.”

“I dare say, but it was no boy’s trick to kill young Ffolliot. A pretty to-do there was over that. But as I say, it is not only his duels. He plays high—well, so do we all, and he is a true Alastair—and he drinks too much. No one ever saw Avon in his cups that I ever heard of, Hugh. And worse—worse than all—” she stopped and made a gesture with her fan.

“Opera dancers,” she said darkly.

Davenant smiled. “Well, Fanny, I deplore it as much as you do, but I believe you cannot say that no one ever saw Avon—”

He was interrupted. “I am very fond of Justin,” said Lady Fanny tartly, “but I never pretended to approve of his conduct. And with all his faults Justin was ever bon ton. It is no such thing with Vidal. If he were my son, I should never have consented to let him live anywhere but under my roof. My own dear John scarce leaves my side.”

Hugh bowed. “I know you are very fortunate in your son, Fanny,” he said.

She sighed. “Indeed, he is prodigiously like his poor papa.”

Hugh made no reply to this but merely bowed again. Knowing her ladyship as he did, he was perfectly well aware that her son’s staid disposition was something of a disappointment to her.

“I am sure,” said Lady Fanny, with a touch of defiance, “that if I heard of my John holding—holding orgies with all the wildest young rakes in town I should die of mortification.”

He frowned. “Orgies, Fanny?”

“Orgies, Hugh. Pray do not ask more.” Davenant had heard a good many stories concerning the doings of Vidal’s particular set, and bearing in mind what these stories were, he was somewhat surprised that they should have come to Lady Fanny’s ears. From her expression of outraged virtue he inferred that she really had heard some of the worst tales. He wondered whether John Marling had been her informant, and reflected that in spite of his excesses one could not but like the Marquis better than his impeccable cousin.

At that moment Mr. John Marling came across the room towards his mother. He was a good-looking young man of rather stocky build, dressed very neatly in Spanish-brown velvet. He was in his thirtieth year, but the staidness of his demeanour made him appear older. He greeted Davenant with a bow and a grave smile, and had