“I’ll spirit you away safe enough,” he said, smiling.
“How? Where must I meet you?”
“I will let you know. But, remember, no word of this to a soul, and when you hear from me do exactly what I shall tell you.”
“I will,” she promised, larger and more mercenary issues for the moment forgotten.
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 time 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
