Richard distinguished Lord Andrew Belmanoir, one of a group of bucks gathered about the newest beauty, Miss Gunning, who, with her sister Elizabeth, had taken fashionable London by storm. Andrew wore a mask, but he was quite unmistakable by his length of limb and carelessly rakish appearance.
Wilding, across the room, beckoned to Richard, and on his approach, dragged him to the cardroom to play at lansquenet with March, Selwyn and himself.
Carstares found the Earl in great good-humour, due, so Selwyn remarked, to the finding of an opera singer even more lovely than the last. From lansquenet they very soon passed to dice and betting, with others who strolled up to the table. Then Carstares excused himself and went back to the ballroom. He presently found himself by the side of one Isabella Fanshawe, a sprightly widow, greatly famed for her wittiness and good looks. Carstares had met her but once before, and was now rather surprised that she motioned him to her side, patting the couch with an inviting, much be-ringed hand.
“Come and sit by me, Mr. Carstares. I have wanted to speak with you this long time.” She lowered her mask as she spoke and closely scrutinised his face with her bright, humorous eyes.
“Why, madam, I am flattered,” bowed Richard.
She cut him short.
“I am not in the mood for compliments, sir. Nor am I desirous of making or hearing clever speeches. You are worrying me.”
Richard sat down, intrigued and attracted by this downright little woman.
“I, madam?”
“You, sir. That is, your face worries me.” Seeing his surprise, she laughed, fanning herself. “ ’Tis comely enough, I grant you! I mean there is such a strong likeness to—a friend of mine.”
Richard smiled politely and relieved her of the fan.
“Indeed, madam?”
“Yes. I knew—this other gentleman in Vienna, three years ago. I should judge him younger than you, I think. His eyes were blue, but very similar to yours. His nose was almost identical with yours, but the mouth—n-no. Yet the whole expression—” She broke off, noticing her companion’s sudden pallor. “But you are unwell, sir?”
“No, madam, no! What was your friend’s name?”
“Ferndale,” she answered. “Anthony Ferndale.”
The fan stopped its swaying for a moment.
“Ah!” said Richard.
“Do you know him?” she inquired eagerly.
“Many years ago, madam, I was—acquainted with him. Can you tell me—was he in good spirits when last you saw him?”
She pursed her lips thoughtfully.
“If you mean was he gay, was he witty—yes. But sometimes I thought—Mr. Carstares, when he was silent, his eyes were so sad—! Indeed, I do not know why I tell you this.”
“You may be sure, madam, your confidence is safe with me. I had—a great regard for this gentleman.” He opened and shut her fan as he spoke, fidgeting with the slender sticks. “You, too, were interested in him, madam?”
“I do not think ever anyone knew him and was not, sir. It was something in his manner, his personality—I cannot explain—that endeared him to one. And he once—aided me—when I was in difficulties.”
Richard, remembering scraps of gossip concerning the widow’s past, merely bowed his head.
She was silent for a time, staring down at her hands, but presently she looked up smiling, and took her fan away from him.
“I cannot abide a fidget, sir!” she told him. “And I see Lord Fotheringham approaching. I am promised to him this dance.” She rose, but Richard detained her.
“Mrs. Fanshawe, will you permit me to call upon you? I would hear more of—your friend. You, mayhap, think it strange—but—”
“No,” she answered. “I do not. Certainly call upon me, sir. I lodge in Mount Street with my sister—No. 16.”
“I protest, madam, you are too good—”
“Again, no. I have told you, I like a man to talk as a man and not as an affected woman. I shall be pleased to welcome you.”
She curtsied and went away on the Viscount’s arm.
At the same moment a voice at Richard’s elbow drawled:
“Do I see you at the vivacious widow’s feet, my good Dick?”
Carstares turned to face his brother-in-law, Colonel Belmanoir.
“Is not all London?” he smiled.
“Oh, no! Not since the beautiful Gunnings’ arrival. But I admit she is a dainty piece. And Lavinia? Will she break her heart, I wonder?” He laughed beneath his breath as he saw Richard’s eyes flash.
“I trust not,” replied Carstares. “Are you all here tonight?”
“Our illustrious head is absent, I believe. Andrew is flirting with the Fletcher girl in the Blue Salon; I am here, and Lavinia is amusing herself with Lovelace. Yes, Richard, Lovelace! Be careful!” With another sneering laugh he walked on, bowing to Elizabeth Gunning, who passed by on the arm of her partner, his Grace of Hamilton, most palpably épris.
At that moment two latecomers entered the room and made their way towards their hostess, who appeared delighted to see them, especially the taller of the two, whose hand she slapped with good-humoured raillery. The shorter gentleman wore no mask, and the Colonel recognised Frank Fortescue. His eyes travelled to the other, who, unlike most of the men who only held their masks, had fastened his across his eyes, and they widened in surprise. The purple domino, worn carelessly open, revealed black satin encrusted with silver and diamonds. The natural hair was raven-black, the nostrils were pinched and the lips thin.
“The Devil!” ejaculated Robert, and strolled over to him.
Fortescue walked away when he saw who approached, and his Grace of Andover turned slowly towards his brother.
“I rather thought you were in Paris,” yawned the colonel.
“I am always sorry to disillusion you,” bowed his Grace.
“Not at all; I am transported with joy at seeing you. As is Lavinia, it appears.”
Lady Lavinia, on recognising his Grace, had dropped her partner’s hand and fled incontinent towards
