He raised his quizzing glass and looked round the room with an air of surprised hauteur. Lord Avon, leaning back in his chair at one of the tables, shook a reproving finger at him.
“Belmanoir, Belmanoir, we have seen her and we protest she is too charming for you!”
“In truth, we think we should be allowed a share in the lady’th thmileth,” lisped one from behind him, and his Grace turned to face dainty, effeminate little Viscount Fotheringham, who stood at his elbow, resplendent in salmon-pink satin and primrose velvet, with skirts so full and stiffly whaleboned that they stood out from his person, and heels so high that instead of walking he could only mince.
Tracy made a low leg.
“Surely shall you have a share in her smiles an she wills it so,” he purred, and a general laugh went up which caused the fop to flush to the ears, as he speedily effaced himself.
He had been one of those who had tried to accost Diana, and gossip-loving Will Stapely, with him at the time, had related the story of his discomfiture to at least half-a-dozen men, who immediately told it to others, vastly amused at the pertinacious Viscount’s rebuff.
“What was it Selwyn said?” drawled Sir Gregory Markham, shuffling cards at Lord Avon’s table.
Davenant looked across at him inquiringly.
“George? Of Belmanoir? When?”
“Oh, at White’s one night—I forget—Jack Cholmondely was there—he would know; and Horry Walpole. ’Twas of Devil and his light o’ loves—quite apt, on the whole.”
Cholmondely looked up.
“Did I hear my name?”
“Ay. What was it George said of Belmanoir at White’s the night Gilly made that absurd bet with Ffolliott?”
“When Gilly—oh, yes, I remember. ’Twas but an old hexameter tag, playing on his name: ‘Est bellum bellis bellum bellare puellis.’ He seemed to think it a fitting motto for a ducal house.”
There was another general laugh at this. Markham broke in on it:
“Who is she, Tracy?”
His Grace turned.
“Who is who?” he asked languidly.
Lord Avon burst out laughing.
“Oh, come now, Belmanoir, that won’t do! It really will not! Who is she, indeed!”
“Ay, Belmanoir, who is the black-haired beauty, and where did you find her?” cried Tom Wilding, pressing forward with a glass in one hand and a bottle of port in the other. “I thought you were captivated by Cynthia Evans?”
Tracy looked bewildered for the moment, and then a light dawned on him.
“Evans! Ah, yes! The saucy widow who lived in Kensington, was it not? I remember.”
“He had forgotten!” cried Avon, and went off into another of the noisy laughs that had more than once caused Mr. Nash to shudder and to close his august eyes. “You’ll be the death of me, Devil! Gad! but you will!”
“Oh, I trust not. Thank you, Wilding.” He accepted the glass that Tom offered, and sipped delicately.
“But you’ve not answered!” reminded Fortescue from another table. He dealt the cards round expertly. “Is it hands off, perhaps?”
“Certainly,” replied his Grace. “It generally is, Frank, as you know.”
“To my cost!” was the laughing rejoinder, and Fortescue rubbed his sword arm as if in memory of some hurt. “You pinked me finely, Tracy!”
“Clumsily, Frank, clumsily. It might have been quicker done.”
The Viscount, who had been a second at the meeting, tittered amiably.
“Neatetht thing I ever thaw, ’pon my honour. All over in leth than a minute, Avon! Give you my word!”
“Never knew you had fought Devil, Frank? What possessed you?”
“I was more mad than usual, I suppose,” replied Fortescue in his low, rather dreamy voice, “and I interfered between Tracy and his French singer. He objected most politely, and we fought it out in Hyde Park.”
“Gad, yes!” exclaimed his partner, Lord Falmouth. “Why, I was Devil’s second! But it was ages ago!”
“Two years,” nodded Fortescue, “but I have not forgotten, you see!”
“Lord, I had! And ’twas the funniest fight I ever saw, with you as furious as could be and Devil cool as a cucumber. You were never much of a swordsman, Frank, but that morning you thrust so wildly that stap me if I didn’t think Devil would run you through. ’Stead of that he pinks you neatly through the sword-arm, and damme if you didn’t burst out laughing fit to split! And then we all walked off to breakfast with you, Frank, as jolly as sandboys. Heavens, yes. That was a fight!”
“It was amusing,” admitted Tracy at Fortescue’s elbow. “Don’t play, Frank.”
Fortescue flung his cards face downwards on the table. “Curse you, Tracy, you’ve brought bad luck!” he said entirely without rancour. “I had quite tolerable hands before you came.”
“Belmanoir, I will thtake my chestnut mare ’gaintht your new grey,” lisped the Viscount, coming up to the table, dice-box in hand.
“Stap me, but that is too bad!” cried Wilding. “Don’t take him, Devil! Have you seen the brute?”
The four players had finished their card-playing and were quite ready for the dice.
“Trust in your luck, Belmanoir, and take him!” advised Pritchard, who loved hazarding other men’s possessions, but kept a tight hold on his own.
“Ay, take him!” echoed Falmouth.
“Don’t,” said Fortescue.
“Of course I shall take him,” answered his Grace tranquilly. “My grey against your chestnut and the best of three. Will you throw?”
The Viscount rattled his box with a flourish. Two threes and a one turned up.
With a hand on Fortescue’s shoulder, and one foot on the rung of his chair, Tracy leaned forward and cast his own dice on to the table. He had beaten the Viscount’s throw by five. The next toss Fotheringham won, but the last fell to his Grace.
“Damnathion!”
