“Oh!” said Christopher.
Ashley slewed round in his chair so that he faced him.
“Why is he in Paris?” he asked abruptly.
Christopher set down his glass.
“He is in Paris because he is in love with Madame. What else would you like to know?”
Some of the worried lines were smoothed from Ashley’s forehead.
“Is that true?”
The colour was mounting to Christopher’s cheeks. His eyes sparkled dangerously.
“I am not in the habit of lying, my lord.”
“No, no,” soothed Ashley. “I know you at least are honest. And I know you are no plotter. Well, well! You then can vouch for what you tell me?”
“Yes, I can!” cried Christopher, carried away. “My lord is at Madame’s feet! That is his reason for going so frequently to Paris! None other!”
“I may have been wrong.”
“Do you suspect everyone of plotting, sir?”
“Everyone!” replied Ashley, quickly. “Everyone!”
“Even Roxhythe!” Christopher laughed derisively. “Why, I tell you no thought is farther from his head!” He spoke with unbounded confidence. Ashley read the transparent honesty in his eyes, and leant back in his chair.
“And you know him as well as anyone, I suppose. Oh, do not be angry, Chris! It is part of my office to guard against possible intrigue. You say Roxhythe is in love with Madame. I had not thought of that. Yes, it is very likely. He must ever be in love with some woman.” He sneered.
“Suppose we talk of something else?” suggested Christopher, controlling the fury in his voice.
Ashley leant forward.
“Ah, Chris! Don’t speak like that! I had no thought to offend you. I wish you so well.”
Christopher was mollified.
“I am not offended, my lord. Indeed, I am sorry if I spoke rudely. But I do not relish adverse criticism of my Lord Roxhythe.”
“Then we are friends, Chris?”
Christopher took his outstretched hand.
“Of course, my lord!”
The heavy curtain hanging across the open doorway parted noiselessly. A tall figure stood there, all in black and gold, with thick chestnut curls framing his face. One white hand rested on his sword-hilt; the other fingered the lace at his throat. Calm brown eyes surveyed the two by the fire.
The Most Noble the Marquis of Roxhythe swept a bow to Lord Ashley-Cooper.
Christopher was on his feet in a flash.
“My lord!” he cried joyfully, and hurried forward.
Roxhythe held out his hand. He spoke to Ashley.
“I intrude. I apologize. I thought Chris was alone.”
Ashley watched Christopher kiss my lord’s fingers and saw the quick pressure of Roxhythe’s hand on his. He too rose.
“I think ’tis I who am the intruder,” he said. “I have been visiting Christopher, whom I have not seen for some time. I will now withdraw.”
Roxhythe disengaged his hand.
“I beg you will not!” He went to the door.
Ashley stayed him with a gesture.
“I was on the point of taking my leave,” he assured him. “I have been here too long already. I am a busy man, Lord Roxhythe. Chris!”
Christopher accompanied him out.
When he came back, Roxhythe had shed his long gold-lined cloak, and was seated on the edge of the table, swinging one booted leg.
“Well, Chris? Everything is as it should be?”
“Yes, sir. There are one or two letters from the bailiff at Bevan. I do not think him honest. Will you see them?”
Roxhythe nodded.
“And for the rest?”
“Nothing untoward has happened, sir. You are returned sooner than I expected.” He turned over a pile of papers, searching for the letters.
“Sooner than I expected myself. I found I was tired of Paris.” He took two sheets of parchment from Christopher, and started to read. “I did not know you were on speaking terms with Ashley,” he remarked, not lifting his eyes from the paper. “A reconciliation?”
“Something of the sort,” acknowledged Christopher. “I have barely spoken to him since he counselled me to leave your service. Today he came to visit me. A kindly intention, but he contrived to ruffle me the more.”
“Oh?” Roxhythe turned the sheet over, and went on reading.
“Yes.” Christopher knitted his brows. “He wanted to know why you were in Paris; why you went so often, and a lot more beside. I am sick to death of being questioned concerning your movements!”
Roxhythe stopped swinging his leg. Still he did not raise his eyes.
“I hope you satisfied him?”
“Well—yes! I think now that I spoke hastily, and had no right to say what I did. But I was angered, and the words slipped out.”
Roxhythe laid down the paper.
“What did you say?”
“I confirmed the popular tale, sir. Ashley had some fool’s notion of intrigue. I told him you were at the feet of Madame.” He spoke rather nervously.
Roxhythe picked the paper up again.
“Truthful boy,” he said.
Christopher was silent for a moment, still frowning.
“My lord,” he said, at last. “Ashley is not the first who has sought to suck me of news concerning you. I dined with Harcourt the other night, and he talked of you until I had perforce to snub him. Everyone wants to know what you do, and why you do it. Even Lady Frances has questioned me! And I do not know! I—I can only fall back on gossip, and I have been so harried and worried that I too am beginning to wonder: why did you go to Paris?”
Roxhythe went on reading.
“You told me yourself a moment ago.”
“I only told you what gossip says. You have never confided in me—indeed, I did not expect it. I thought nothing of these sudden comings and goings. But other people seem suspicious. Why are they suspicious? Why do they think you—are not what you seem to be?”
“Heaven knows!”
Christopher moved an agitated hand.
“My lord, you know I am not inquisitive. But—but—is there any truth in Ashley’s suspicions?”
At last my lord looked up.
“What precisely are his suspicions?”
“He told me he mistrusted you; he said you were a complex character. He hinted at intrigue. I know—I thought I knew—that such a thing would never enter your head. I said so; I laughed the
