Devil’s Cub

grasped her arm, and taken her throat in one of his shapely hands. He let her feel what strength lay in his fingers, and though for dignity’s sake she forced herself to be passive the blood drummed unpleasantly in her head, and she felt herself to be in danger of losing her senses.

“Like that,” the Marquis said, smiling mockingly down at her. He let her go, and she put up her hands to her bruised throat. “Unpleasant, eh?” he said. “If you force me to do it again you’ll find yourself unable to speak for quite a little while. Having throttled you — and I can do it in a flash, my dear — I shall carry you aboard, informing anyone who might chance to be about that you have swooned. Do you quite understand, wench?”

The muscles of her throat felt stiff. She managed to say: “Perfectly, sir.”

“I thought you would,” he said softly. “Now come!” He dragged her arm through his, and led her to the door. The pistol in the pocket of her cloak knocked against her knee, and she remembered its existence with a start.

She did not think that she could pull it out with one hand, with the Marquis holding her other in his. She was very much afraid that it might go off if carelessly handled, nor had she any intention of firing it, and creating thereby the very scandal she wished to avoid. When she took it from its holster she had been prompted by no more than a vague notion that it might be well to possess a pistol. No plan of using it had entered her head; she had not even foreseen the need of it. It was too late now, but at the first opportunity she would manage to extricate it from the coat pocket into which it fitted so tightly.

The Marquis led her out. He stopped in the coffee-room to pay his bill. The landlord was all obsequious attention. Miss Challoner made a mental resolve never again to set foot in Newhaven.

She accompanied the Marquis, willy-nilly, out on to the quay. White horses raised their crests in the troubled sea; Miss Challoner eyed them with inward trepidation. Then she saw the graceful yacht she had observed from the coach; it was heaving on the water even in the shelter of the quay. Miss Challoner began to feel squeamish, and glanced imploringly up at the dark face above her.

My lord paid not the slightest attention, but compelled her to walk down the gangway on to the deck of the Albatross. She was aware of a few curious looks from some rough-looking men who were busy with a maze of ropes, but his lordship marched her past these to a steep companion-way. Evidently feeling that she was incapable of negotiating it, he tossed her up over his shoulder, and so took her down it. On the lower deck she was set down, and thrust into a fair-sized cabin.

“Go inside,” he commanded. “You should be comfortable enough, I trust. Stay there till I come; I shall not be long.”

When he had gone Miss Challoner made her precarious way to the bunk against the bulkhead and sank down upon it. Now was undoubtedly the time to possess herself of the pistol, but curiously enough she made no attempt to do this. The cloak slipped from her fingers unheeded she put her hand to her head.

Outside men were shouting and stamping about the deck. The yacht heaved more than ever, and Miss Challoner was almost flung from the bunk. She decided to lie down; she had, at the moment, no interest in what was going forward on deck.

A little while later the Marquis entered the cabin, without ceremony. “Well, my dear, we’ve weighed anchor,” he said with that detestable smile of his.

Miss Challoner opened her eyes, marvelled to see his lordship so untroubled, and shut them again with a shudder.

“And now,” said Vidal silkily, “and now, Miss Mary Challoner ...”

Miss Challoner made a heroic effort, and raised herself on her elbow. “Sir,” she said, self-possessed to the last, “I do not care whether you go or stay, but I desire to warn you that I am about to be extremely unwell.” She pressed her handkerchief to her mouth, and said through it in muffled accents: “Immediately!”

His laugh sounded heartless, she thought. “Egad, I never thought of that,” he said. “Take this, my girl.”

She opened her eyes once more, and found that his lordship was holding a basin towards her. She found nothing at all incongruous in the sight. “Thank you!” gasped Miss Challoner, with real gratitude.

Chapter VII

Miss Challoner awoke with a long sigh, and lay for a moment with her eyes still closed. To open them would be to court disaster, and she had borne enough, she decided. Then she began to realize that the yacht was no longer pitching and tossing, but was, in fact, almost motionless. She opened her eyes and looked distrustfully at the furnishings of her cabin, but these no longer rose and fell before her indignant gaze.

“Thank God!” said Miss Challoner devoutly. She felt extremely weak, and her head when she raised it from the pillow swam unpleasantly. She lay still, therefore, trying to recollect the happenings of the past interminable hours. She found that her memory was somewhat blurred, but she remembered that Lord Vidal, having presented her with a basin, had retired. He had certainly come back later — hours later, when she was too exhausted even to speak, and he had forced something exceedingly fiery down her throat. With a vague fear of his threat to make her drunk she had tried to struggle, whereupon he had said, still apparently amused: “It’s only brandy, my dear. Drink it.”

So she had drunk it, and it had sent her to sleep. She supposed his lordship must have tucked her up; she had not suspected him of so much consideration.

In the middle of these reflections the door opened, and the Marquis himself came in. He was bright-eyed and a little dishevelled. “You’re awake, are you?” he said. “Up you get, then.”

“I don’t think I can,” said Miss Challoner candidly. “My head swims.”

“You must. We’re at Dieppe. What you want is food,” his lordship informed her callously.

Miss Challoner was impelled to sit up. “You can force your presence on me, I suppose,” she said bitterly, “but if you have any feeling at all you will not talk to me of food.”

“I haven’t,” said Vidal. “You don’t know it but you will be perfectly well when you have dined. Get up and come ashore.”

That last magic word brought Miss Challoner to her feet. His lordship offered his arm. “That’s better,” he encouraged her. “I’ve bespoken dinner and beds at the Coq d’Or.”

They came up on to the deck. Miss Challoner, having requested my lord to precede her, climbed up the companion as quickly as a swimming head would allow. Once on deck she observed that the sea was miraculously calm and blue, and blinked at it in surprise. Then she saw the long shadows on the quay, and asked what time it was.

“Close on six,” replied Vidal. “We met rough weather.”

Her brain refused to work. She kept on repeating to herself: “I’m in France. I can’t get home now. It’s of no avail to ask the time. I’m in France.”

The Marquis led her up the gangway and along the quayside until the Coq d’Or was reached. “Your gear has been taken up,” he said.

She looked at him, puzzled. “But I have none,” she said.

“You are forgetting,” he replied ironically, “I told Sophia to bring nothing, but promised I would provide her with what she might need.”

“Have you bought — dresses for Sophia?” she demanded incredulously.

He grinned. “Oh, not only dresses,” he replied. “You can teach me nothing of what a lady requires. Shifts, négligées, lappets, beads, perfume from Warren’s, Poudre a la Maréchale — you’ll find ’em all there. I have endless experience, I can assure you.”

“That I do not doubt,” she said.

He bowed. “I trust you will approve my taste,” he said, and handed her over to the waiting abigail.

Miss Challoner saw nothing for it but to go upstairs in the wake of this damsel. She had a very fair notion of what her appearance must be, and she felt quite unequal to the coming scene with the Marquis until she had tidied her person.

She spoke French prettily enough, and had no difficulty in making the maid-servant understand her wants. She washed her face and hands, did up her hair again, using the brush and comb of his lordship’s providing, and very gingerly withdrew the pistol from the pocket of her cloak. She thought she would be able to hold it so that the panniers of her gown concealed it from view, and practised this in front of the mirror. Deciding that it was hardly