Lady Frances looked quickly from one to the other.
“Why should I?” asked my lord blandly.
“ ’Twere in the interests of the country.”
“Um,” said Roxhythe profoundly. “But I never meddle in what concerns me not.”
Fanny saw the colour rise to her husband’s cheeks. She gave a little gurgle of laughter.
“There’s for you, Jasper! And now we’ll talk of something else, an it please you.”
“I’ll not stay then,” answered Montgomery brusquely. “I am like to cast a blight on my Lord Roxhythe’s conversation.” He left the room with a slight bow to Roxhythe.
Lady Frances looked troubled. Roxhythe regarded her amusedly.
“I seem to have upset your worthy husband,” he remarked.
V
The Most Noble the Marquis
’76 dawned softly. In England there was no Parliament, for in November of ’75 it had refused Charles a grant of money; had even dared to insinuate that he should be in possession of a surplus. It was importunate, and it was straightway prorogued.
On the continent Louis still waged war on Holland, but Turenne was dead at Saltzbach, and De Ruyter dead in Italy. A congress was held at Nimeguen, but the war continued, the Prince of Orange doggedly holding his enemy in check. Seldom was he successful in battle. At St. Omer he suffered great losses, but ever he managed just to hold back the French. So Louis approached his cousin Charles tentatively.
Negotiations were opened and carried on through M. Barillon, the French ambassador; the Duchess of Portsmouth; and my Lord Danby. Into the negotiations strolled my Lord Roxhythe.
Charles was dissatisfied. Louis showed a tendency to meanness. Charles held counsel with his favourite.
“David, it is like squeezing money from a stone.”
“Is it, Sir?”
Charles was petulant. He repulsed one of the spaniels which was trying to leap on to his knee.
“It is unsatisfactory, trafficking through Barillon. I do not know King Louis his real mind. As before, we are fenced round with vague terms. I’ll do the thing direct or not at all.”
“Ah!” Roxhythe sighed, for he perceived whither this led.
Charles shook back his curls. In his eyes was a brooding melancholy look that the favourite knew well.
“Barillon speaks me fair and offers little. Louise—” he shrugged. “She leaves me in the dark. Before I enter into a second treaty with Louis I’ll know where I stand. He seeks to trap me.”
“Naturally. So the whole matter lies in one short sentence:—Roxhythe must go to France.”
The King half smiled.
“It seems so, David.”
“To discover King Louis his mind?”
“Ay. Roxhythe, I have no notion how much I may with safety demand. I would ask—the same as before. Louis would try to beat me down. If I know not what is the maximum sum he will pay I dare not stand adamant. I must know. And there is none like unto you for discovering these matters. I want the thing done quickly; I am tired of all this haggling and bargaining.”
Roxhythe nodded.
“And when I have discovered this: what then?”
“I will have you take a letter to King Louis setting forth my mind.”
“But, Sir, why not negotiate then through Barillon?”
“Because I dislike the oily-tongued rascal! I’ll lay the matter bare before Louis—he shall know my wants from me alone; not as translated and modified by his own servants.”
“Very well, Sir.”
“You must go to Monmouth. You have been a-many times, so it will not give rise to suspicion. And from thence to Paris.”
Roxhythe cast up his eyes.
“Have a little mercy, Sir! Employ one of the Duchess her creatures.”
“No. I trust no one save you.”
“I am flattered, Sir, of course.”
Charles stretched himself, laughing. Some of the shadows had gone from his eyes.
“David, ye grow ungallant!”
“I grow weary, Sir, and old,” retorted my lord.
“Nevertheless, ye will go?”
“I suppose I must, Sir.”
Charles smiled, full of affectionate understanding.
So Roxhythe went again to Paris.
During his absence Lady Crewe came one evening to Bevan House, closely veiled. She was ushered into the library where Christopher received her. When he saw who it was who had come to see Roxhythe at such an informal hour, he was horrified.
My lady moved agitated hands.
“Mr. Dart, I must see my Lord Roxhythe.” Her voice was carefully controlled, but Christopher could detect the flutter beneath her calm.
“I am very sorry, Lady Crewe, but—”
“Please—do not—make excuses! I must see him.”
“Madame, it is impossible. He is not here.”
She stared at him, blankly.
“Not—here! Oh—I—did not know! I—” She broke off twisting her hands.
Christopher watched her. He saw pride struggling with desire, and wondered. Suddenly she turned to him.
“Mr. Dart, I want so much to ask my lord not to—not to—go to Lady Claremont’s rout next week!”
Christopher looked at her steadily. The reason sounded much like an excuse. He bowed.
Millicent read the doubt in his face; she drew herself up proudly.
“Will you please deliver that message to my lord as soon as he returns?”
Christopher decided that his suspicions were unjust. He came forward, taking her hand.
“Will you not be seated, Madame? Of course I will deliver your message, but—forgive me—is it not rather a strange one?”
“I—yes, I suppose you must think so. Perhaps he—will not understand—I—oh, promise me you will tell this to—”
“Whatever you impart to me I shall treat as a strict confidence.”
“Thank you. It is just that—people are talking still about—my lord—and me. And last week—we—I was at Lady Bletchley’s and she presented—Roxhythe—to me, and we had to dance—and my husband was very angry. Now he watches my every movement. He heard my lord ask me if I was to be at the Claremont rout—next week. And then at a coffeehouse there was some vile talk—and oh, I don’t know how it is, but he hath it firmly fixed in his head—that we—that I have arranged to meet—my lord—there, because Henry is not going. He—he is mad with jealousy. He won’t believe—that it is not so. I feel he means to arrive at the rout—later in the evening—and—if my lord is there—and I am there—he—he—is so wild I fear a scene—or that he will challenge my lord. You
