Devil’s Cub

Chapter VI

The Marquis of Vidal had not expected to enjoy his interview with Avon, but it turned out to be more unpleasant than he was prepared for. To begin with, his grace was writing at his desk when Vidal was ushered into the room, and although the lackey quite loudly announced his lordship, his fine hand continued to travel across the paper, and he neither looked up nor betrayed by even the smallest sign that he had heard the announcement.

The Marquis paused for a moment on the threshold, eyeing him; then he walked across to the fireplace and stretched one elegantly shod foot to the warmth. To all appearances he was thoughtfully observing the extremely high polish on his top boot, but once he put up his hand to the Mechlin lace round his throat, and gave it a tug as though it were too tight.

He was dressed with unusual care, possibly out of deference to his grace’s known views, but, as was his habit in the forenoon, for riding. His buff breeches were of impeccable cut, his coat of blue cloth with silver buttons was somewhat severe, but admirably became his tall person. His fringed cravat was for once very neatly arranged, the ends thrust through a gold buttonhole, and his black locks strictly confined by a thin black riband. He wore no jewellery save a heavy gold signet ring, and his face was innocent of the patches and powder affected by the Macaronis.

The Duke had finished writing, and was now reading his letter through with maddening deliberation. Vidal felt his temper rising, and set his teeth. Having made some slight alteration in his letter, the Duke folded it, and dipping his quill in the standish, began to write the direction. Without turning his head he said: “You may sit down, Vidal.”

“Thank you, sir, I’ll stand,” replied his lordship curtly.

The Duke laid his letter aside, ready for sealing, and at last turned, shifting his chair so that he could survey his son. Vidal found himself wishing, for perhaps the hundredth time in his life, that it was possible to read his father’s expression.

The eyes, faintly disdainful, travelled from Vidal’s boots to his face, and there stayed. “I suppose I should count myself honoured that you have been able to visit me,” said his grace gently.

There did not seem to be anything to say in answer to this. After a moment’s uncomfortable silence the Duke continued: “Your presence in England is extremely — shall we say enlivening? — Vidal. But I believe I shall survive the loss of it.”

At that the Marquis spoke. “Is he dead then?”

Avon’s brows rose in polite surprise. “Is it possible that you don’t know?”

“I don’t, sir.”

“I envy you your light-heartedness,” said Avon. “So far, as I am aware the gentleman still lives. Whether he continues to do so or not is a question that does not at the moment concern me. It will make very little difference to you. Three months ago I warned you that your next killing would prove serious. You will allow me to point out that it is never wise to disregard my warnings.”

“Certainly, sir. I take it I may have to stand my trial?”

“Not at all,” said his grace coldly. “I am still somebody. But you may take it that for some appreciable time to come your residence will be upon the Continent. An affair of honour, conducted honourably, might have been condoned. A pot-house brawl can only be — one trusts — eventually forgotten.”

The Marquis flushed. “One moment, sir. My affairs, whether settled at Barn Elms or in a pot-house, are still honourably conducted.”

“I make you my apologies,” replied Avon, slightly inclining his head. “You must forgive my declining years, which make it difficult for me to appreciate the manners of your generation. In my day we did not fight in gaming-hells, or when we were in our cups.”

“A mistake, sir, I admit. I am sorry for it.”

The Duke looked at him sardonically. “I am not in the least interested in your emotions, Vidal. What I object to is that you have had the impertinence to disturb your mother. That I do not permit. You will leave England at once.”

Vidal was very pale, and a muscle at the corner of his mouth twitched. “I’ll stand my trial, I believe.”

The Duke put up his glass and surveyed Vidal through it. “You do not appear to have much understanding of the situation,” he remarked. “You will leave England, not to save your neck, nor because it is my will, but to spare your mother any further anxiety concerning your safety. I trust I make myself plain?”

Vidal looked at him with hard defiant eyes. Then he strode restlessly to the window and back again. “Quite plain. Yet if I say I’ll not go, what then?”

“I should regret the necessity of course, but I should — er — contrive your departure willy-nilly.”

The Marquis gave a short laugh. “Egad, I believe you would! I’ll go.”

“You had better bid your mother good-bye,” recommended his grace. “You will reach the coast quite easily by to-night.”

“Just as you please, sir,” Vidal said indifferently. He picked up his hat and gloves from the table. “Is there anything more you desire to say to me?”

“Very little,” Avon answered. “Your restraint is quite admirable. I applaud it.”

“I thought it was my lack of it that had offended your sensibilities, sir,” said Vidal grimly. “You go too fast for me.”

Avon smiled. “You must not think me witless, my dear boy. I am perfectly aware that you would like to throw my extremely reprehensible past in my teeth.”

“I confess, sir, I find your homily a little ironic.”

“Quite amusing, is it not?” agreed his grace. “I am perfectly sensible of it. But the road I travelled is not the road I should desire my son to take. And you will no doubt agree that a liberal experience of vice gives me some right to judge.” He rose and came to the fire. “Concerning more immediate matters, you may draw upon Foley’s in Paris, of course.”

“Thank you, sir, I have enough for my needs,” the Marquis said stiffly.

“I compliment you. You are certainly the first Alastair ever to say so. You will find your mother upstairs.”

“Then I’ll take my leave of you, sir,” Vidal said. “Accept my apologies for the inconvenience I may have caused you.” He bowed, unsmiling, and turned sharp on his heel.

As he jerked open the door, Avon spoke again. “By the way, Vidal, does my record still stand?”

The Marquis looked back over his shoulder, frowning. “Your record, sir?”

“Three hours and forty-seven minutes was my time,” said his grace pensively.

An unwilling laugh broke from Vidal. “No, sir, your record does not stand.”

“I thought not,” said Avon. “May I be permitted to know the new record?”

“Three hours and forty-four minutes. But the curricle was specially designed.”

“So was mine,” said Avon. “I am glad you bettered my time. If I were twenty years younger — ”

“I beg you will not attempt it, sir,” said the Marquis quickly. He hesitated; the stormy look was still in his face, but his eyes had softened.

“Pray do not do violence to your feelings,” Avon said. “You will find me remarkably hard to wound.”

The Marquis let go the door handle, and came back to his father’s side. “I beg your pardon, sir.” He took Avon’s thin hand in his, and bent to touch it with his lips. “Adieu, mon père.”

“Let us say, rather, au revoir,” Avon answered. “I will spare you my blessing, which I cannot conceive would benefit you in the least.”

Upon which they parted, each one understanding the other tolerably well.

Vidal’s interview with his mother lasted much longer, and was to him even more unpleasant. Léonie had no reproaches for him, but she was plainly unhappy, and the Marquis hated to see his mother unhappy.

“It’s my damnable temper, maman,” he said ruefully.

She nodded. “I know. That is why I am feeling very miserable. It is no good people saying you are a devil like all the Alastairs, because me, I know that it is my temper that you have, mon pauvre. You see, there is very black blood in my family.” She shook her head sadly. “M. de Saint-Vire — my father, you understand — was of a character the most abominable. And hot-headed! He shot himself in the end, which was a very good thing. He had red hair like mine.”

“I haven’t that excuse,” said her son, grinning.

“No, but you behave just as I should like to when I am enraged,” Léonie said candidly. “When I was young I was very fond of shooting people dead. Of course, I never did shoot anyone, but I wanted to — oh, often! I meant to shoot my father once — which shocked Rupert — it was when M. de Saint-Vire kidnapped me, and Rupert saved me — only Monseigneur arrived, and he would not at all permit it.” She paused, wrinkling her brow. “You see, Dominique, I am not a respectable person, and you are not a respectable person either. And I did want you to be.”

“I’m sorry, maman. But I don’t come of respectable stock, either side.”

“Ah, but the Alastairs are quite different,” Léonie said quickly. “No one minds if you have affaires. Of course, if you are a very great rake people say you are a devil, but it is quite in the mode and entirely respectable. Only when you do things that other people do not do, like you, and make scandals, then at once you are not respectable.”

He looked down at her half-smiling. “What am I to do, maman? If I made you a promise to become respectable I am very sure I should break it.”

She slipped her hand in his. “Well, I have been thinking, Dominique, that perhaps the best thing would be for you to be in love and marry somebody,” she said confidentially. “I do not like to say this, but it is true that before he married me, Monseigneur was a very great rake. A vrai dire, his reputation was what one does not talk about. When he made me his page, and then his ward, it was not to be kind, but because he wanted to be revenged upon M. de Saint-Vire. Only then he found that he would like to marry me, and do you know, ever since he has not been a rake at all, or done anything particularly dreadful that I can remember.”

“But I could never hope to find another woman like you, maman. If I could I promise you I’d marry her.”

“Then you would make a great mistake,” said Léonie wisely. “I am not at all the sort of wife for you.”

He did not pursue the subject. He was with her for an hour and more; it seemed as though she could not let him go. At last he wrenched himself away, knowing that for all her brave smiles she would weep her heart out once he was gone. He had given his word to her that he would leave London that night; he had much to do in the few hours left to him. His servants were sent flying on various errands, one to Newhaven to warn the captain of his yacht, the Albatross, that his lordship would sail for France next day, another to his bankers, a third to a quiet house in Bloomsbury with a billet, hastily scrawled.

This was delivered to an untidy abigail who received it in a hand hastily wiped upon her apron. She shut the door upon the messenger, and stood turning the heavily sealed letter over in her hand. Sealed with a crest it was; she wouldn’t be surprised if it came from the handsome lord that was running after Miss Sophy, only that it was directed to Miss Challoner.

Miss Challoner was coming down the stairs with her marketing-basket on her arm, and her chip hat tied over her curls. Miss Challoner, for all she was better educated than her sister, was not too grand to do the shopping. She had constituted herself housekeeper to the establishment soon after her return from the seminary, and even Mrs. Challoner admitted that she had the knack of making the money last longer than ever it had done before.

“What is it, Betty?” Mary asked, pulling on her gloves.

“It’s a letter, miss, brought by a footman. For you,” added Betty, in congratulatory tones. Betty did not think it was fair that Miss Sophy should have all the beaux, for Miss Mary was a much nicer-spoken lady, if only the gentlemen had the sense to see it.

“Oh?” said Mary, rather surprised. She took the letter. “Thank you.” Then she saw the direction, and recognized Vidal’s bold handwriting. “But this is — ” She stopped. It was addressed to Miss Challoner sure enough. “Ah yes! I remember,” she said calmly, and slipped it into her reticule.

She went on out of the house, and down the street. It was Vidal’s hand; not a doubt of that. Not a doubt either that it was intended for her sister. The scrawled direction indicated that the note had been written in haste; it would be very like the Marquis to forget the existence of an elder sister, thought Mary with a wry smile.

She was a little absent-minded over the marketing, and came back with slow steps to the house. She ought to give the billet to Sophia, of course. Even as she admitted that, she realized that she would not give it to her, had never meant to from the moment it had been put into her hand. There had been an air of suppressed excitement about Sophia all the morning; she was full of mystery and importance, and had twice hinted at wonders in store for her, but when questioned she had only laughed, and said that it was a secret. Mary was anxious as she had not been before; this letter — and after all it was certainly directed to herself — might throw a little light on Sophia’s secret.

It threw a great deal of light. Safe upstairs in her bedroom, Mary broke open the seal, and spread out the single thick sheet of paper.

“Love — ”the Marquis began — “It is for to-night. My coach will be at the bottom of your street at eleven. Join me there and bring nothing that you cannot hide beneath your cloak. Vidal.”

Miss Challoner’s hand crept to her cheek in a little frightened gesture she had had from a child. She sat staring at the brief note till the words seemed to start at her from the page. Just that curt command to decide Sophia’s future! Lord, but he must be sure of her! No word of love, though he called her by that sweet name; no word of coaxing; no entreaty to her not to fail him. Did he know then that she would go with him? Was this what they had arranged in that stolen interview last night?

Miss Challoner started up, crumpling the letter in her clenched hand. Something must be done and done quickly. She could burn the message, but if Sophia failed Vidal tonight, would there not be another to-morrow? She had no notion where Vidal meant to take her sister. A coach: that meant some distance. Doubtless he had a discreet house in the country. Or did he intend to cheat Sophia with a pretended flight to Gretna Green?

She sat down again, mechanically smoothing out the letter. It was of no use to show it to her mother; she knew from Sophia what absurd dreams Mrs. Challoner cherished, knew enough of that lady, too, to believe her capable of the crowning folly of winking at an elopement. Her uncle could do nothing, as far as she could see, and she had no wish to blazon Sophia’s loose behaviour abroad. When the idea first came to her she did not know; she thought it must have been hidden away in her brain for a long while, slowly maturing. Again her hand stole to her cheek. It was so daring it frightened her. I can’t! she thought. I can’t!

The idea persisted. What could he do after all? What had she to fear from him? He was hot-tempered, but she could not suppose that he would actually harm her, however violent his rage.

She would need to act a part, a loathsome part, but if she could do it it would end the Marquis’s passion for Sophia as nothing else could. She found that she was trembling. He will think me as light as Sophia! she reflected dismally, and at once scolded herself. It did not matter what he thought of her. And Sophia? What would she say? Into what transports of fury would she not fall? Well, that did not signify either. It would be better to bear Sophia’s hatred than to see her ruined.

She consulted the letter. Eleven o’clock was the hour appointed. She remembered that she was to spend the evening with her mother and sister at Henry Simpkins’ house, and began to lay her plans.

There was a table by the window with her writing-desk upon it. She drew up a chair to it, and began to write, slowly, with many pauses.

“Mamma — ” she began, as abruptly as the Marquis — “I have gone with Lord Vidal in Sophia’s place. His letter came to my hand instead of hers; you will see how desperate is the case, for it is plain he has no thought of marriage. I have a plan to show him she is not to be had so easily. Do not be afraid for my safety or my honour, even tho’ I may not reach home again till very late.”

She read this through, hesitated, and then signed her name. She dusted the sheet, folded it up with the Marquis’s note to Sophia, and sealed it, directing it to her mother.

Neither Mrs. Challoner nor Sophia made much demur at leaving her behind that evening. Mrs. Challoner thought, to be sure, that it was a pity she must needs have a sick headache on this very evening when Uncle Henry had promised the young people a dance, but she made no attempt to persuade her into accompanying them.

Miss Challoner lay in bed with the hartshorn in her hand, and watched Sophia dress for the party.

“Oh, what do you think, Mary?” Sophia chattered. “My uncle has contrived to get Dennis O’Halloran to come. I do think he is too dreadfully handsome, do you not?”

“Handsomer than Vidal?” said Mary, wondering how Sophia could prefer the florid good looks of Mr. O’Halloran to Vidal’s dark stern beauty.

“Oh well, I never did admire black hair, you know,” Sophia replied. “And Vidal is so careless. Only fancy, sister, nothing will induce him to wear a wig, and even when he does powder his hair the black shows through.”

Mary raised herself on her elbow. “Sophy, you don’t love him, do you?” she said anxiously.

Sophia shrugged and laughed. “La, sister, how stupid you are with all that talk of love. It is not at all necessary to love a husband, let me tell you. I like him very well. I do not mean to love anyone very much, for I am sure it is more comfortable if one doesn’t. Do you like my hair dressed a la Venus?”

Mary relaxed again, satisfied. When Sophia and her mother had left the house she lay for a while, thinking. Betty came in with her supper on a tray. Her appetite seemed to have deserted her, and she sent the tray away again almost untouched. At ten o’clock Betty went up the steep stairs to her little chamber, and Mary got out of bed, and began to dress. Her fingers shook slightly as she struggled with laces and hooks, and she felt rather cold. A search through one of Sophia’s drawers, redolent of cedar-chips, brought to light a loo-mask, once worn at a carnival. She put it on, and thought, peering at herself in the mirror, how oddly her eyes glittered through the slits.

She had some of the housekeeping money in her reticule; not very much but enough for her needs, she hoped. She hung the bag on her arm, put on a cloak, and pulled the hood carefully over her head.

On the way down the stairs she stopped at her mother’s room, and left the letter she had written on the dressing-table. Then she crept noiselessly down to the hall, and let herself out of the silent house.

The street was deserted, and a sharp wind whipped Mary’s cloak out behind her. She dragged it together, and holding it close with one hand, set off down the road. The night was cold, and overhead hurrying storm-clouds from time to time hid the moon.

Mary came round the bend in the street, and saw ahead of her the lights of a waiting chaise. She had an impulse to go back, but checked it, and walked resolutely on.

The light was very dim, but she was able as she drew closer to distinguish the outline of a travelling chaise drawn by four horses. She could see the postillions standing to the horses’ heads and another figure, taller than theirs, pacing up and down in the light thrown by the flambeaux burning before the corner house.

She came up to this figure soft-footed. He swung round and grasped at her hand, held out timidly towards him. “You’ve come!” he said, and kissed her fingers. They shook in his strong hold. He drew her towards the chaise, his arm round her shoulders. “You’re afraid? No need, my bird. I have you safe.” He saw that she was masked, and laughed softly. “Oh, my little romantic love, was that needful?” he mocked, and his hand went up to find the string of the mask.

She contrived to hold him off. “Not yet! Not here!” she whispered.

He did not persist, but he still seemed amused. “No one will see you,” he remarked. “But keep it if you will.” He handed her up into the chaise. “Try to sleep, my pretty, you’ve a long way to travel, I fear.”

He sprang down from the step, and she realized with a shudder of relief that he was riding.

The chaise was very luxuriously upholstered, and there was a fur rug lying on the seat. Mary drew it over her, and leaned back in one corner. He had said she had a long way to travel. Could this mean the Scottish border after all? She suddenly thought that if Gretna was his goal, she had done her sister the greatest disservice imaginable.

She leaned forward, peering out of the window, but soon abandoned the attempt to mark their route. It was too dark, and she lacked the sense of direction that would have told her whether she was travelling northwards or not.

She had never ridden in a chaise so well sprung as this one. Even over the cobbled streets she was not conscious of any peculiar discomfort. She could catch no glimpse of her escort, and supposed that he must be riding behind. Presently a gleam of moonlight on water caught her eye, and she started forward to look out of the window once more. The chaise was crossing a bridge; she could see the Thames running beneath, and knew then that she must be travelling south. Gretna was not his goal. She felt a paradoxical relief.

Once clear of the town the horses seemed to leap forward in their collars. For a little while Mary felt alarmed at the wicked pace, expecting every moment some accident, but after a time she grew accustomed to it, and even dozed a little, lulled by the sway of the coach.

A sudden halt jerked her awake. She saw lights, and heard voices and the trampling of hooves. She supposed the time of reckoning had come, and waited, outwardly calm, to be handed down from the coach. The moon was visible, but when she tried to discover where she was she could see only a signboard swinging in the wind, and knew that the equipage had merely stopped to change horses. The door of the chaise was pulled open, and she drew back into the corner. Vidal’s voice spoke softly: “Awake, little Patience?”

She stayed still, not answering him. If she had the courage she would disclose her identity now, she thought. She shrank from it, visualizing the scene, at night on a windy road, with sniggering ostlers to witness it.

She heard a low laugh, and the click of the door as it was shut again. The Marquis had gone, and in a moment whips cracked, and the chaise moved forward.

She slept no more, but sat bolt upright, clasping her hands in her lap. Once she caught a glimpse of a rider abreast of the coach window, but he drew ahead, and she did not see him again.

They halted for the second time presently, but the change of horses was accomplished in a twinkling, and no one came to the chaise door. A cold grey light informed her that the dawn was approaching. She had not anticipated that her imposture would remain undetected for so long, and wondered uneasily how far into the day it would be before she reached home again.

As the light grew the ulterior of the chaise became dimly visible. She observed a holster within easy reach of her hand, and with calm forethought, possessed herself of the pistol it contained. It was rather large for her small hand, and having very little knowledge of firearms she had no idea whether it was loaded or not. She managed to put it into the big pocket of her cloak. It made the cloak very heavy, but she felt safer. The quivering alarm that had possessed her from the start of this queer journey began to leave her. She discovered that her hands were now quite steady, and felt that she could face whatever was to come with tolerable composure. She began to chafe at the length of the journey, and wondered with a kind of detached interest whether she had enough money in her reticule to pay for her return. She hoped she would be able to travel by the stage-coach to London. The hire of a chaise would be beyond her means, she was sure. That Vidal might convey her to her door again, never entered her head. Vidal was going to be far too angry to consider her plight.

At the next halt she caught sight of Vidal for a moment, as he mounted a fresh horse, but he did not come to the coach door. Apparently the lover was forgotten in his desire to press on. She had heard from Sophia that he travelled always at a break-neck pace, springing his horses; otherwise, she reflected, she might well have supposed that he was flying for his life.

Pale sunlight began at last to peep through the clouds. Mary tried to calculate how far they had journeyed, but could arrive at no satisfactory estimate. Houses came into sight, and presently the chaise swept into a cobbled street, and slackened speed.

A corner was turned. Mary saw a grey tumbling sea, and stared at it in bewilderment. That Vidal meant to carry Sophia out of England had never entered her head. She began to realize that such really was his intention, and remembering his late duel she felt that this possibility ought to have occurred to her before.

The chaise drew up with a lurch. She turned quickly from her contemplation of a yacht lying in the harbour and waited for the door to be opened.

Somebody let down the steps; it was Vidal who opened the door. “What, still masked?” he said. “I shall call you Prudence, love. Come!” He held out his hands to her, and before she could lay her fingers on his arm, caught her round the waist, and swung her lightly down. She had a momentary sensation of complete helplessness, and was annoyed to find that she liked it.

“In with you, sweetheart,” he said gaily. “There is just time for you to drink some coffee before I must bundle you aboard ship.”

A stout landlord was bowing her into the inn. Looking at him through the slits of her mask, she thought that she detected a sly expression on his discreet countenance, and concluded with a stab of anger, that she was not the first female Lord Vidal had brought to this inn. He ushered her into a parlour overlooking the sea, and stood bowing and smirking while Vidal delivered his orders. Mary walked to the fireplace, and stood there with her back turned.

“Yes, my lord, yes!” the landlord said. “Some coffee for the lady, and a roll, and a tankard of small-beer for your lordship. Yes, my lord; on the instant!”

“Let it be on the instant,” Vidal said, “or I miss the tide.”

“My lord, it shall be!” the landlord assured him, and bustled out.

Mary heard the door shut, and turned. Vidal had thrown down his whip and gloves, and was watching her in some amusement. “Well, Mistress Discretion?” he said. “Do you take off that mask, or must I?”

She put up her hands to the strings, and untied it. “I think it has served its turn,” she said composedly, and put back her hood.

The smile was wiped from his face; he stood staring at her. “What the devil — ?” he began.

She took off her cloak and laid it carefully on a chair; she had quite forgotten her pistol, for she had a part to play. She tried to smile archly, as Sophia could, and hoped she did not boggle it.

“Oh, my lord, I vow you are too easy to trick!” she said, and tittered, quite in Sophia’s manner.

He strode up to her, and caught her wrists in a painful grasp. “I am, am I? We shall see, my girl. Where’s your sister?”

“La, where should she be but in her bed?” Mary answered. “Lord, how we laughed when she showed me your letter! She was all for playing some jest on you to punish you for your impudence. So we put our heads together, my lord, and hit on the very thing. Oh, she will die of laughing when I tell her how you never suspected ’twas I you had in the coach, and not her at all!” There was not a tremor in Miss Challoner’s voice as she spoke her part; she was all flippant vulgarity upon the surface. But under the surface, good God, is he going to murder me? she thought.

Murder certainly looked out of his eyes, his grip on her wrists made her wince. “A jest, is it?” he said. “Her jest — or yours? Answer me!”

Her rôle was hard to maintain, but she continued airily enough: “Oh well, to be sure ’twas I carried it through, and I dare say I should have thought of it if she had not.”

“She thought of it?” he interrupted.

She nodded. “Yes, but I did not at all like it at first, only when she threatened to get Eliza Matcham to go if I would not I consented.” She glanced up at him fleetingly, but dared not keep her eyes on his. “You need not think, my lord, that you can seduce Sophia so easily. She led you on finely, did she not? But when she found you’d no thought of marriage, she determined to teach you a lesson!”

“Marriage!” he said, and threw back his head and laughed. “Marriage! By God, that’s rich!”

Her cheeks were stained crimson. His laughter had a jeering, wicked ring; he looked like a devil, she thought. He let her go all at once, and cast himself down in a chair by the table. The murderous look had left his face, but in his half-closed eyes was a gleam that alarmed her more. The man meant mischief. His glance stripped her naked. Her cheeks grew hotter, and she saw that an ugly smile had curled his thin lips. His very attitude, while she still stood, was an insult. He lounged at his ease, one leg stretched out before him, a hand driven deep into his breeches pocket.

“You’ll forgive my amusement,” he drawled. “I suppose the truth is that Miss Sophia has found some other fool who offered more than I did, eh?”

She shrugged carelessly. “Oh, I tell no secrets, sir!”

The door opened and the landlord came in, followed by a serving-man with a tray. Miss Challoner walked over to the window while the cloth was laid. When they were alone again my lord said: “Your coffee — have I ever heard your name? Mary, isn’t it?”

She forgot her role, and said coldly: “I have not given you the right to use it, sir.”

Again he laughed. “My good girl, you’ve given me whatever rights I choose to claim. Sit down.”

She remained where she was, eyeing him.

“Obstinate, eh? Ill tame you,” Vidal said, and got up.

She had an impulse to run from him, and curbed it. She was swept off her feet and dumped down, none too gently, on a chair by the table. A heavy hand on her shoulder kept her there. “You elected to come with me,” the Marquis said, “and by God you’ll obey me, if I have to lay my whip about your sides!”

He looked so grim that she could not but believe he would do as he threatened. She sat still and he removed his hand from her shoulder. “Drink your coffee,” he said. “You’ve not much time.”

Her hands were no longer quite steady, but she contrived to pour some coffee into the cup.

“Shaking, eh?” said that hateful voice. “I shan’t beat you if you behave yourself. Let me have a look at you.” He turned up her face with a careless hand under her chin. “You’re not so bad-looking after all,” he remarked. “I dare say we shall deal extremely together.”

She drank a little of the hot coffee; it put heart into her; she replied calmly: “Unfortunately we shall have no opportunity of judging. I go back to London by the first coach.”

“Oh no, my dear,” said his lordship. “You’ll go to Paris with me, in Sophia’s stead.”

She pushed her cup and saucer away from her. “You’re talking wildly, my lord. You won’t expect me to believe that it is me you want to run away with.”

“Why not?” said his lordship, coolly. “One wench is much like another after all.”

She sat very upright, her hands lightly folded in her lap. “You’ve been worsted, sir, but need you insult me?”

He laughed. “We’ll see who’s worsted when we reach the end of the jest, my girl. As to insults, egad! I wish you would tell me how I may insult so bold a piece as yourself. Don’t put on that missish face, my dear. It won’t serve after this night’s escapade.”

“You can’t take me to France,” she persisted. “You think because Sophia was indiscreet — that I — that we are loose women, but — ”

“If you’re trying to make me believe in your virtue, you’re wasting your breath,” interrupted his lordship. “I knew what your sister was from the start, and as for you, whatever doubts I may have had you’ve set at rest. Virtuous young ladies, my dear, don’t lend themselves to these jests. I may not be very much to your taste, but if you contrive to please me, you won’t find me less generous than any other man.”

“You are unpardonable!” she said in a suffocated voice. She got up, and this time he made no effort to prevent her. “Have the goodness to tell me how far I am from London. What is this place?”

“Newhaven,” he replied, draining his tankard.

“Can I travel by stage-coach from here?”

“I’ve no idea,” said his lordship with a yawn. “It need not concern you. I meant what I said.”

“To take me to Paris? You’re absurd, my lord. Do you suppose I should make no outcry? In these days even a noble marquis could scarcely force a young female aboard his yacht.”

“Scarcely,” agreed his lordship. “But I can make you so damned drunk that you’ll be in no fit case to struggle, my girl.” He drew a flask from the pocket of his greatcoat and held it up. “Hollands,” he said briefly.

She was scandalized. “I think you are mad,” she said with conviction.

He got up and came towards her. “You can think what you like, Mary, but you’ll drink my Hollands.”

She moved back till the wall stayed her. “If you touch me, I’ll scream,” she warned him. “I don’t desire to make a scene, but I will.”

“Scream away,” he said. “You’ll find old Simon is very deaf — when he doesn’t want to hear.”

She was shrewd enough to know that the landlord would hesitate to interfere with his noble patron if he could avoid it, and felt suddenly very helpless. The Marquis towered over her, and it seemed likely that he really would force the contents of his flask down her throat. She said quietly: “Please do not make me drink that. I am not a shameless woman, my lord, though I must seem to be one. I can — I think I can make you understand, if you will listen to me.”

“I’ll listen to you later,” he replied. “There’s no time now.”

As though to corroborate him, someone knocked loudly at the door, and called: “My lord, we’ll miss the tide!”

“I’m coming,” he answered, and turned back to Mary. “Quickly, you!”

She held him off, both her hands clasping his wrist. “You need not make me drunk,” she said. “Since there’s no help for it I’ll come.”

“I thought you would,” said the Marquis with a grim little smile.

He turned away from her to the table, and picked up his tankard, and drained it. He never took his eyes off her, and she found herself unable to look boldly back at him as she would have liked to do. He set down the tankard as she came to pick up her cloak from the chair where she had laid it, and said with a drawling note in his voice: “You’ll see no one but my own fellows on the quay, but if you should be tempted to make a scene, remember I shall be beside you, and can throttle you before you’ve time to make more than one screech.”

He strolled over to her as she drew her cloak round her, and before she realized what he was about, he had grasped her arm, and taken her throat in one of his shapely hands. He let her feel what strength lay in his fingers, and though for dignity’s sake she forced herself to be passive the blood drummed unpleasantly in her head, and she felt herself to be in danger of losing her senses.

“Like that,” the Marquis said, smiling mockingly down at her. He let her go, and she put up her hands to her bruised throat. “Unpleasant, eh?” he said. “If you force me to do it again you’ll find yourself unable to speak for quite a little while. Having throttled you — and I can do it in a flash, my dear — I shall carry you aboard, informing anyone who might chance to be about that you have swooned. Do you quite understand, wench?”

The muscles of her throat felt stiff. She managed to say: “Perfectly, sir.”

“I thought you would,” he said softly. “Now come!” He dragged her arm through his, and led her to the door. The pistol in the pocket of her cloak knocked against her knee, and she remembered its existence with a start.

She did not think that she could pull it out with one hand, with the Marquis holding her other in his. She was very much afraid that it might go off if carelessly handled, nor had she any intention of firing it, and creating thereby the very scandal she wished to avoid. When she took it from its holster she had been prompted by no more than a vague notion that it might be well to possess a pistol. No plan of using it had entered her head; she had not even foreseen the need of it. It was too late now, but at the first opportunity she would manage to extricate it from the coat pocket into which it fitted so tightly.

The Marquis led her out. He stopped in the coffee-room to pay his bill. The landlord was all obsequious attention. Miss Challoner made a mental resolve never again to set foot in Newhaven.

She accompanied the Marquis, willy-nilly, out on to the quay. White horses raised their crests in the troubled sea; Miss Challoner eyed them with inward trepidation. Then she saw the graceful yacht she had observed from the coach; it was heaving on the water even in the shelter of the quay. Miss Challoner began to feel squeamish, and glanced imploringly up at the dark face above her.

My lord paid not the slightest attention, but compelled her to walk down the gangway on to the deck of the Albatross. She was aware of a few curious looks from some rough-looking men who were busy with a maze of ropes, but his lordship marched her past these to a steep companion-way. Evidently feeling that she was incapable of negotiating it, he tossed her up over his shoulder, and so took her down it. On the lower deck she was set down, and thrust into a fair-sized cabin.

“Go inside,” he commanded. “You should be comfortable enough, I trust. Stay there till I come; I shall not be long.”

When he had gone Miss Challoner made her precarious way to the bunk against the bulkhead and sank down upon it. Now was undoubtedly the time to possess herself of the pistol, but curiously enough she made no attempt to do this. The cloak slipped from her fingers unheeded she put her hand to her head.

Outside men were shouting and stamping about the deck. The yacht heaved more than ever, and Miss Challoner was almost flung from the bunk. She decided to lie down; she had, at the moment, no interest in what was going forward on deck.

A little while later the Marquis entered the cabin, without ceremony. “Well, my dear, we’ve weighed anchor,” he said with that detestable smile of his.

Miss Challoner opened her eyes, marvelled to see his lordship so untroubled, and shut them again with a shudder.

“And now,” said Vidal silkily, “and now, Miss Mary Challoner ...”

Miss Challoner made a heroic effort, and raised herself on her elbow. “Sir,” she said, self-possessed to the last, “I do not care whether you go or stay, but I desire to warn you that I am about to be extremely unwell.” She pressed her handkerchief to her mouth, and said through it in muffled accents: “Immediately!”

His laugh sounded heartless, she thought. “Egad, I never thought of that,” he said. “Take this, my girl.”

She opened her eyes once more, and found that his lordship was holding a basin towards her. She found nothing at all incongruous in the sight. “Thank you!” gasped Miss Challoner, with real gratitude.