There was no aunt to play dragon, for the elder Miss Grayson had joined the rest of the dowagers in the card-room. Even Miss Merriot was away at the other end of the long room, flirting outrageously with Sir Anthony Fanshawe. Letitia, unskilled in the dealing of snubs, blushed fiery red, hesitated, stammering over a refusal to dance, and found that the kindly hostess had gone away to supply other young ladies with eligible partners. Very cross, Letty blurted out: “I do not want to dance with you, sir!”
It seemed that Mr. Markham had no desire to dance either. He wanted to talk to Letitia.
“You know very well I don’t want to have anything to do with you,” said Letty, still very red.
“Don’t be so unforgiving,” Mr. Markham said. “I have something of very great importance to say to you. It can’t be said here. It is a secret and a dangerous matter.”
That sounded prodigious exciting to be sure, but Letty was still suspicious. “You will lure me out and abduct me,” she said.
“All I ask of you is that you should come into the little anteroom, across the passage, with me. How could I abduct you here? If you don’t come you will regret it all your life. You do not know how weighty a matter it is I have to disclose.”
Letty reflected that Mr. Markham would indeed find it hard to carry her off from a crowded ball against her will, and rose undecidedly to her feet. Anything in the nature of a mystery intrigued her at once. She intimated graciously that she would hear what Mr. Markham had to say. Unobserved of the Merriots or of Sir Anthony Fanshawe, she went out with Mr. Markham.
She had leisure to repent her action when Mr. Markham made his startling disclosure. He allowed her but a glimpse of her father’s incriminating letter, and sat back in his chair watching her with a satisfied smile.
Her big eyes grew round in horrified wonder. “B-but my papa is not a Jacobite!” she exclaimed.
“Do you suppose anyone will believe that if I show this letter?” Mr. Markham inquired.
“But you won’t, sir! You won’t, will you?”
Mr. Markham leaned forward. “Not if you will marry me, Letty,” he said softly.
She recoiled instinctively. “No, no!”
“What, you had rather see your father’s head adorning London Bridge?”
Letty’s cheeks grew pale at that, and she shuddered. It was impossible not to feel sick horror at the thought. All who lived in London had seen those ghastly sights in the past months. The picture conjured up was terribly real to her. “You would not! You would not do such a cruel, wicked thing!”
“I would do anything to win you, Letty!” Mr. Markham said, with fine lover-like ardour.
“Papa will never let me marry you!” cried Letty, cowering away.
“But could you not fly with me again? We set out once, did we not, my little Letty? It can be done again—this time with a difference.”
“No, no, I won’t!”
“Not even to save your father?” persuaded Mr. Markham.
Miss Letty’s bosom rose and fell quickly. “If you forced me—if you did such a wicked thing, sir—I should hate you all the rest of my life! Do you want a wife who loathes you?”
Mr. Markham laughed indulgently. “You’ll soon get over that when we are married, my dear. Won’t you care for me a little when I give you this letter to burn?”
She stretched out her hand. “Give it to me now, sir, and indeed, indeed, I shall never think hardly of you again!”
“On our wedding day,” said Markham. “Not before, but just as soon as my ring is on your finger.”
“It will never, never be there,” she declared, bursting into tears.
It took Mr. Markham twenty minutes to convince her that she was sending her papa to the gallows-tree by such unreasonable behaviour. She struggled and wept; she cried that she would tell papa all about it, and he would talk to my Lord Bute, and all would be well. Mr. Markham said that it would not be in my Lord Bute’s power to assist Sir Humphrey, even if he wanted to, which was hardly possible. Sir Humphrey had written treasonable matter in this letter. Surely Letty knew what that meant?
She did; the very thought of it drove the blood from her face. Desperately she cast around in her mind for some source of help.
Mr. Markham thought it well, since she struggled so, to extemporise a little. “When I leave this ball tonight,” he said, “this letter goes into a friend’s keeping. If anything were to happen to me it would be published at once, and if, in a week from now you and I are not on the road to Scotland I myself shall take it to the proper quarters. You will be sorry then that you would not lift a finger to save your father!”
It seemed she was a monster of selfishness. Where, oh where was the Unknown in the Black Domino, who had said that he would come again in her hour of need? Nothing but a dream. Here was herself only, and Gregory Markham, who had become hateful to her. She could see no road out of the trouble, saving the one he pointed out to her. Almost she went down on her knees to him, imploring his mercy. He used some endearing terms in his reply, but she could see that behind all his soft address he was quite adamant.
She declared she would tell papa; Mr. Markham pointed out the immediate and evil consequences of such an action. She saw them; she was induced to believe that to tell anyone would bring disaster upon the house of Grayson. She capitulated, and while he outlined a plan of flight to her, she sat wondering whether
