Devil’s Cub

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 begun to inquire politely after the older man’s health, when his mother interrupted him.

“Pray, John, where is your sister? I was put out to see that young Comyn was present here to-night I do trust you have not let her slip off with him?”

“No,” John said. “She is with Vidal.”

“Oh!” A curiously thoughtful expression came into her ladyship’s face. “Well, I make no doubt they were glad to see each other.”

“I don’t know,” John said painstakingly. “Juliana cried out: ‘Why, my dear Dominic, you here?’ or some such thing, and Vidal said: ‘Good God! Have I stumbled on a family gathering?’”

“That is just his way,” Lady Fanny assured him. She turned her limpid gaze upon Davenant. “Vidal has a great kindness for his cousin, you know, Hugh.”

Davenant did not know it, but he was perfectly well aware of Lady Fanny’s ambition. Whatever might be the imperfections of Vidal’s character, he was one of the biggest prizes on the matrimonial market, and for years her ladyship had cherished hopes which she fondly believed to be secret.

John seemed disposed to argue the matter. “For my part I do not believe that Vidal cares a fig for Juliana,” he said. “And as for her, I very much fear this Frederick Comyn has taken her fancy to an alarming degree.”

“How can you be so teasing, John?” Fanny demanded petulantly. “You know very well she is nothing but a child, and I am sure no thought of — of marriage, or love, or any such folly has entered her head. And if it had, it is no great matter, and when she has been in Paris a week, she will have forgotten the young man’s very existence.”

“Paris?” said Hugh, foreseeing that John was going to try and convince his mother for her own good. “Is Juliana going to Paris?”

“Why yes, Hugh. Have you forgotten that my dear mamma was a Frenchwoman? I am sure it is no matter for wonder that the child should visit her French relatives. They are quite wild to know her, so John is to take her next week. I don’t doubt they will make so much rout with her she will hardly wish to come home again.”

“But I do not feel at all hopeful that it win answer the purpose,” said John heavily.

“Pray, John, do not be so provoking!” implored Lady Fanny, somewhat tartly. “You make it sound as though I were one of those odious scheming females whom I detest.”

Hugh thought it time to withdraw, and tactfully did so, leaving mother and son to argue in comfort.

Meanwhile, Miss Juliana Marling, a charming blonde dressed in blue lustring with spangled shoes, and her curls arranged a la Gorgonne, had dragged her cousin into one of the adjoining saloons. “You are the very person I wished to see!” she informed him.

The Marquis said with conspicuous lack of gallantry: “If you want me to do something for you, Juliana, I warn you I never do anything for anybody.”

Miss Marling opened her blue eyes very wide. “Not even for me, Dominic?” she said soulfully.

His lordship remained unmoved. “No,” he replied.

Miss Marling sighed and shook her head. “You are horridly disobliging, you know. It quite decides me not to marry you.”

“I hoped it might,” said his lordship calmly.

Miss Marling made an effort to look affronted, but only succeeded in giggling. “You needn’t be afraid. I am going to marry someone quite different,” she said.

His lordship evinced signs of faint interest at that. “Are you?” he inquired. “Does my aunt know?”

“You may be very wicked, and quite hatefully rude,” said Miss Marling, “but I will say one thing for you, Dominic: you do not need to have things explained to you like John. Mamma does not mean me to marry him, and that is why I am to be packed off to France next week.”

“Who is ‘he?’ Ought I to know?” inquired the Marquis.

“I don’t suppose you know him. He is not at all the sort of person who would know your set,” said Miss Marling severely.

“Ah, then I was right,” retorted my lord. “You are contemplating a mésalliance.”

Miss Marling stiffened in every line of her small figure. “It’s no such thing! He may not be a brilliant match, or have a title, but all the men I have met who are brilliant matches are just like you, and would make the most horrid husbands.”

“You may as well let me know the worst,” said my lord. “If you think it would annoy Aunt Fanny, I’ll do what I can for you.”

She clasped both hands on his arm. “Dear, dear Dominic! I knew you would! It is Frederick Comyn.”

“And who,” said the Marquis, “might he be?”

“He comes from Gloucestershire — or is it Somerset? Well, it doesn’t signify — and his papa is SirMalcolm Comyn, and it is all perfectly respectable, as dear Aunt Léonie would say, for they have always lived there, and there is an estate, though not very large, I believe, and Frederick is the eldest son, and he was at Cambridge, and this is his first stay in town, and Lord Carlisle is his sponsor, so you see it is not a mésalliance at all.”

“I don’t,” said his lordship. “You may as well give up the notion, my dear. They’ll never let you throw yourself away on this nobody.”

“Dominic,” said Miss Marling with dangerous quiet.

My lord looked lazily down at her.

“I just want you to know that my mind is made up,” she said, giving him back look for look. “So that it is no use to talk to me like that.”

“Very well,” said my lord.

“And you will make a push to help us, won’t you, dearest Dominic?”

“Oh certainly, child. I will tell Aunt Fanny that the alliance has my full approval.”

“You are quite abominable,” said his cousin. “I know you dislike of all things to bestir yourself, but recollect, my lord, if once I am wed you need not be afraid any more that mamma will make you marry me.”

“I am not in the least afraid of that,” replied his lordship.

“I declare it would serve you right if I did marry you!” cried Miss Marling indignantly. “You are being quite atrocious and all I want you to do is to write a letter to Tante Elisabeth in Paris!”

His lordship’s attention seemed to have wandered, but at this he brought his gaze back from the contemplation of a ripe blonde who was trying to appear unconscious of his scrutiny, and looked down into Miss Marling’s face.

“Why?” he asked.

“It’s perfectly plain, Dominic, I should have thought. Tante Elisabeth so dotes on you she will do whatever you wish, and if you were to solicit her kindness for a friend of yours about to make his debut in Paris — ”

“Oh, that’s it, is it?” said the Marquis. “Much good will a letter from me avail you if my respected Aunt Fanny has already warned Tante against your nobody.”

“She won’t do that,” Miss Marling replied confidently. “And he is not a nobody. She has no notion, you see, that Frederick means to follow me to Paris. So you will write, will you not, Dominic?”

“No, certainly not,” said my lord. “I’ve never set eyes on the fellow.”

“I knew you would say something disagreeable like that,” said Miss Marling, unperturbed. “So I told Frederick to be ready.” She turned her head and made a gesture with her fan, rather in the manner of a sorceress about to conjure up visions. In response to the signal a young man who had been watching her anxiously disengaged himself from a knot of persons near the door, and came towards her.

He was not so tall as Vidal, and of a very different ton. From his moderate-sized pigeon’s-wing wig to his low-heeled black shoes, there did not seem to be a hair or a pin out of place. His dress was in the mode, but not designed to attract attention. He wore Lunardi lace at his throat and wrists, and a black solitaire adorned his cravat. Such usual adjuncts to a gentleman’s costume as quizzing-glass, fobs, and watches, he