Frances started.
“Heavens! Is Monmouth to rise?”
“I should not be surprised. He planned once—why not again?”
“He could never be King!”
“Of course he could not. He has not the head.”
“And Jasper would never support him.”
“Then all is well.” Roxhythe glanced round the room. “I counsel you, Fanny, to remark Mrs. Challis. The fair woman with the roguish smile. Yes, with Birchwood.”
Lady Frances looked, obediently.
“What of her?”
“She is rather piquante, is she not?”
“Am I to believe that you are once again in love?”
“Oh, no! She serves to distract me for the time.”
Frances tapped his arm with her fan.
“David, I am sure you have some dark scheme in mind! What do you purpose doing?” She found it quite impossible to read his face.
“You are so inquisitive,” sighed Roxhythe.
“Belike I am. Do you intend to win James his favour?”
“If you were a man, my dear, I should offer you my comfit-box.”
She stared.
“What am I to understand by that?”
“I forgot. You do not know. It was an old joke of Saint-Aignan’s. He used to aver that when I wished to turn the subject I offered him a sweetmeat.” He smiled a little, remembering. She pouted.
“Then I am snubbed. How hateful of you! I don’t want you to go over to James.”
“Tut-tut! I suppose you would like me to join the Orange?”
“Well! … Why not?”
“Cordieu, I could name an hundred reasons! Have you ever spoken with him?”
“No. What is he like?”
“He resembles nothing so much as an iceberg. And his Court is composed of Puritanical gentlemen who give themselves the airs of small sultans. I wish you had met him; it would have amused you.”
Fanny laughed.
“I think it would have depressed me! I was never Puritanical, David!”
“No,” he said. “Certainly not that. Do you remember the little Vicomte, I wonder?”
Fanny was not yet too old to blush.
“David, how dare you? I’ll not be reminded of my youthful indiscretions! How frightened I was to be sure! Papa was so strict for all his wickedness.”
“You were perturbed. So was the Vicomte.”
She chuckled behind her fan.
“Luckily you were in Paris at the time. I was so thankful!”
“So was not the Vicomte.”
“No. Dear me, how long ago it is! I cried when I heard that you had wounded him.”
“Did you? But then, you were young and foolish.”
“So I was. And now I am old and foolish. Very virtuous, however.”
Roxhythe nodded.
“Strange. …” he pondered. “I never thought Jasper would have held any fascination for you.”
“Like to unlike,” she retorted. “We are prosaically blissful.”
“You are. Quite depressing, in fact. Had you married me—pouf!” he snapped his fingers.
“Oh, I was never as foolish as that!” she said.
“Say rather that we were neither of us as foolish as that.”
“You are most objectionable,” she dimpled, and beckoned to Sedley who was passing.
My lord descended the steps of Lady Mitcham’s house, drawing on his gloves. As was always his custom, he was leaving the ball early. His coach awaited him.
It was a fine moonlight night, very still and beautiful. My lord stood for a moment on the steps, looking round. The door closed behind him. He walked to where his coach stood, and there he paused again, looking into the shadows by the wall. A little smile that was almost triumphant curved his lips. He turned his head.
“Shoot, my friend.”
The footman stared at him in amazement. My lord stood still.
Something moved in the shadows. There was a flash, a roar, and then smoke.
The Most Noble the Marquis of Roxhythe fell back into the footman’s arms.
“Touché!” he gasped. “No! Let him—go!”
The other footman stopped in his pursuit.
“Let—him go, my lord?” he asked, stupidly.
“What else, fool?” My lord’s hand was pressed to his side. “Take me home!”
“Sir, you are hurt! I’ll carry you into the house!” said William distractedly.
“No.” Roxhythe held fast to his consciousness. “I command—you—take—me—home!”
XI
The Great Roxhythe
“My lady, there is a lackey from Bevan House who desires speech with you.”
Lady Frances was surprised.
“So? I’ll come.” She went downstairs. When she saw John she smiled. “Well John? You’ve a mess—” She stopped short, staring at him. “John! What is it?”
The man’s face worked.
“My lady—my master—” he choked.
Lady Frances drew nearer.
“Quickly, John! What—what is it?”
“He is—dying!” John’s voice trembled. “He—desires to see you.”
All the colour ebbed slowly from her face.
“Good—God! No, no!”
“He was—shot—last night.” John’s head was bowed. “I cannot tell you, madam. He wishes you to come.”
“Shot! Oh, heaven, ’twas that we heard, then! Yes, yes, I’ll come at once! Only wait one moment!” She turned, and flew upstairs.
In three minutes she was back again, seated in the coach. She had commanded John to sit with her. Her eyes were wide.
“It was last night? When he left the ball?”
“Yes, my lady. They—brought him home—unconscious.”
“Dolts! Fools! Why did they not take him back to the house?”
John brushed his hand across his eyes.
“It—was not—my lord’s will, madam,” he said simply.
Lady Frances burst into tears.
“Can’t they—save him? Surely, surely, it is not mortal?”
“Dr. Burnest was with him through the night, madam. Nothing—can be done.”
Lady Frances wept.
Outside the door of my lord’s room she met the surgeon. Eagerly she caught at his arm.
“Tell me he will live! Oh, he cannot die! He cannot!”
Burnest took her hand.
“I beg you will be calm, Lady Frances. The bullet entered a vital part. Don’t grieve my lord!”
She wiped her eyes.
“I will be calm. Is he—is he conscious?”
“Yes, madam, but very weak. He commanded that you should be sent for. You’ll not excite him?”
She drew herself up.
“Of course I shall not.”
Burnest opened the door for her.
My lord lay in bed, raised slightly on pillows. He was wrapped in an elegant bed-gown, and he wore his wig. His eyes were closed, but he opened them as Frances entered.
He smiled.
“My dear Fanny—all my difficulties are solved.”
She bent over him.
“Dear, wicked Roxhythe!” In spite of herself, tears stole down her cheeks.
Up went his brows.
“I thought you knew that I could not bear a weeping woman?” His voice was full of mockery.
“Since you cannot weep for yourself, David. …”
