Devil’s Cub

Lord Rupert kicked the door to. “Let’s hope that’s the last we’ll see of that fellow,” he said. “Now what’s all this about Vidal’s wench? Gone off, has she? Well, that’s one problem off our hands.”

“That is just what I thought,” sighed the Duchess. “But Dominique is in love with her, and I fear very much he will try to find her, and if he does he says he will marry her, which is a thing I find very worrying.”

“Marry her? What does the boy want to marry her for?” asked his lordship, puzzled. “It don’t seem sense to me. First the girl’s off with him, then she has a fancy for young Comyn — oh, are you there, my boy? Well, it makes no odds — and now I’ll be pinked if she hasn’t gone off again, though whom she’s gone with this time is beyond me.”

Mr. Comyn said gravely: “Your lordship is mistaken in Miss Challoner. I can explain — ”

“No, no, don’t do that, my boy!” said Rupert hastily. “We’ve had enough explanations. What we want is dinner. Where’s that rascally landlord?” He went to the door, but as he opened it he bethought himself of something, and looked back. “Burn it, if we do get rid of Vidal’s wench there’s still that silly chit Juliana. What’s to be done with her?”

Juliana said in a small, dignified voice: “I am here, Uncle Rupert.”

“Of course you’re there. I’ve eyes in my head, haven’t I?” said his lordship testily. “Though why you’re here the Lord only knows. Well, there’s naught for it: you’ll have to marry young Comyn here, unless Vidal will have you, which I don’t think he will. Lord, was there ever such a family?”

Mr. Comyn was regarding Juliana fixedly. She did not look at him, but blushed, and stammered: “I do not want to — to marry Mr. Comyn, and he does not want to marry m-me.”

“Now don’t start to make a lot more difficulties!” begged his lordship. “You can’t go chasing all over France with a man, and leaving silly letters for a born fool like Elisabeth, and stay single. Why, it’s unheard of!”

“I did not go with a — a man!” said Juliana, blushing more deeply still. “I went with my cousin.”

“I know you did,” said Rupert frankly. “That’s what’s bothering me.”

The Duchess was pondering over her own worries, but this caught her attention, and she fired up. “It is perfectly respectable for Juliana to go with my son, Rupert!”

“It ain’t,” said Rupert. “She couldn’t have chosen a worse companion. Now don’t be in a heat, Léonie, for God’s sake! I don’t say the chit wasn’t as safe with Vidal as with that devilish dull brother of hers, but there ain’t a soul will believe that. No, we’ll have to set it about that she went off with Comyn, and you can tell Fanny, for I’ll be damned if I do.”

Léonie glanced from her niece’s hot face to Mr. Comyn’s intent one, and drew her own conclusions. “Juliana shall not marry anyone at all if she doesn’t want to, and no one will make a scandal because I am here, and so it is quite convenable,” she said. “Go and order dinner, Rupert. Me, I must at once find Dominique before he does anything dreadful.”

She pushed his lordship, protesting, out of the room, and looked back to say with her roguish smile: “M. Comyn, I think it would be a very good thing if you gave this foolish Juliana a big shake, and then perhaps she will not be foolish any more. Au revoir, mes enfants.” She whisked herself out of the room, but before she had time to shut the door she heard Mr. Comyn say in a low voice: “Miss Marling — Juliana — I implore you, listen to me!”

Léonie took Rupert’s arm confidingly. “That goes very well, I think. We are doing a great deal, you and I, n’est-ce pas?” She gave a gurgle of laughter. “We have made Juliana a mésalliance, which will enrage poor Fanny, and perhaps Monseigneur too, and now perhaps we shall keep Dominique away from that girl, and that will please Monseigneur, and he will forgive us. Let us find Dominique.”

Lord Rupert professed himself to be utterly without desire to find his nephew, and went off to the kitchens to order and inspect his dinner. Léonie heard her son’s voice raised in the courtyard at the back of the house, and looked through a window to see him giving instructions to his groom. She promptly hurried out to him, and demanded to know what he was doing.

He looked at her with a trace of impatience in his face. He was rather pale, she thought, and there was a frown in his eyes. “Madame, Mary has run from me to hide herself in France with naught but an odd guinea or two in her pocket. I must find her. It touches my honour, not my heart alone.”

“Do you know where she has gone?” Léonie asked. “I do not want any girl to be ruined by you, but — ” She stopped, and sighed.

“I don’t know. She was not seen to leave the inn, unless by one of the abigails, who, curse the wench, is gone off to visit her mother. She can’t be far.”

“It seems to me,” Léonie said slowly, “that this Mary Challoner does not at all wish to marry you, mon enfant. What I do not know is why she does not wish it. If it is because she loves you, then I understand very well, and I am infinitely sorry for her, and I think I will help you — unless I do not like her. But perhaps she does not love you, Dominique, which is not incomprehensible if you have been unkind. And if that is so, then I say you shall not marry her, but I will arrange something. You see?”

“Good God, madame, what arrangement is possible now? In the eyes of the world I’ve ruined her, though I swear to you I did not seduce her. What can I do but give her my name?”

“It is very difficult,” admitted the Duchess. “But you cannot force her to marry you, Dominique.”

“I can, and I will,” he replied grimly. “After — it shall be as she wishes. I am a fiend and a brute, no doubt, but not such a fiend that I would force more than my name on her, be sure.” His groom came out of the stables, leading a riding-horse. He caught his mother’s hands in a tight clasp. “Forgive me, maman!” he said. “I must marry her.”

Her fingers clung to his. “Oh, my dearest dear, you shall do anything you like, but when you have found her bring her to me, and I will arrange it, and then perhaps Monseigneur will not be so very angry with you.”

He hesitated. “I’d do it, but I don’t desire his wrath should fall on you, maman.”

She smiled, and shook her head. “He will be angry with me a little, perhaps, but he will forgive me because he knows that I am not at all respectable, au coeur, and I cannot help doing outrageous things sometimes.”

“I wish you had not come,” he said. He released her hands, and turned away from her to order the groom to lead his horse round to the front of the inn. He glanced back at Léonie to say briefly: “I must get my riding- whip,” and disappeared into the house.

She followed him down the passage to the private parlour. He went in quickly — too quickly for Juliana and her Frederick, who were seated hand in hand on the settle by the fire.

The Marquis cast them a cursory glance, and picked up his whip and greatcoat. Juliana said radiantly: “It was all a mistake, Vidal! We do love each other, and we have been monstrous unhappy, both of us, but we shall never, never quarrel again.”

“You affect me deeply,” said Vidal. He nodded to Comyn, and there was a glint of humour in his eyes. “Do you expect me to felicitate you? My God, I had her on my hands for three days. I should beat her if I were you.”

He turned to go out again, but the way was blocked by his uncle, who came in with a dusty bottle in one hand, and a glass in the other.

“Is that you, Vidal?” he said jovially. “’Pon my soul, I’m devilish glad we came to this place, though I’ll admit I was against it. That fat rogue there has six dozen bottles of this in his cellar. I’ve bought the lot, and as good a port as ever I tasted, too. Here, wait till you roll this round your tongue, my boy.” He poured out a glass of the burgundy, and gave it to his nephew.

The Marquis tossed it off, and set down the glass. “Quite tolerable,” he said.

“God bless the boy, that’s no way to treat a wine like this!” said Rupert, shocked. “We’ll broach the port after dinner, and if you throw that down your throat as though it was nothing in particular, I’ll wash my hands of you, and so I warn you.”

“I’m not dining,” the Marquis replied. “Out of the way, Rupert, I’m in a hurry.”

“Not dining?” echoed his lordship. “But Vidal, there’s a capon and a trifle of veal, and as sweet a game-pie in the oven as you could wish for.” His nephew put him firmly aside, and strode out, leaving him to shake his head in great disapproval. “Mad!” he said. “Stark staring crazy!”

“It is you who are mad,” said Léonie with conviction. “You have bought all those bottles of wine, which is a great madness, for how in the world can you take them to England? I will not sit in a chaise with six dozen bottles of burgundy. It is not at all comme il faut.”