The Convenient Marriage

Chapter Seven

Lady Massey, accepting Lethbridge’s snub with toler-able equanimity, had no difficulty in interpreting his last cryptic speech. Her momentary anger gave place immediately to a somewhat cynical amusement. She herself was hardly of the stuff that could plan the undoing of a bride for no more personal reason than a desire for revenge on the groom, but she was able to appreciate the artistry of such a scheme, while the cold-bloodedness of it, though rather shocking, could not but entertain her. There was something a little devilish in it, and it was the devil in Lethbridge that had always attracted her. Nevertheless, had Horatia been any other man’s wife than Rule’s she would have thought shame to lend herself even passively to so inhuman a piece of mischief. But Lady Massey, prepared before she set eyes on Horatia to resign herself to the inevitable, had changed her mind. She flattered herself that she knew Rule, and who knowing him could think for a moment that this ill-assorted union could end in anything but disaster? He had married for an heir, for a gracious chatelaine, certainly not for the alarums and excursions that must occur wherever Horatia went.

Something he had once said to her remained significantly in her memory. His wife must care for him—only for him. She had caught then a glimpse of steel, implacable as it was unexpected.

Rule, for all his easy going, would be no complaisant husband and if this loveless marriage of convenience went awry, why then, divorce was not so rare in these days. If a Duchess could suffer it, so too might a Countess. Once free of his tempestuous wife, with her hoydenish flights and her gaming excesses, he would turn with relief to one who created no scenes and knew to a nicety how to please a man.

It suited Lady Massey very well to permit Lethbridge to work his mischief; she wanted to have no hand in it; it was an ugly business after all, and her provocative words to Horatia had been the malicious prompting of the moment rather than a concerted attempt to throw her into Lethbridge’s arms. Yet finding herself beside Horatia at Vauxhall Gardens a week later, and seeing Lethbridge answer a beckoning gesture from a fair beauty in one of the boxes only with a wave of his hand, she could not resist the impulse to say: “Alas, poor Maria! What a fruitless task to attempt Robert Lethbridge’s enslavement! As though we had not all tried—and failed!”

Horatia said nothing, but her eyes followed Lethbridge with a speculative gleam in them.

It did not need Lady Massey’s words to spur up her interest. Lethbridge, with his hawk-eyes and his air of practised ease, had at the outset attracted her, already a trifle bored by the adulation of younger sparks. He was very much the man-of-the-world, and to add to his fascination he was held to be dangerous. At the first meeting it had seemed as though he admired her; had he shown admiration more plainly at the second his charm might have dwindled. He did not. He let half the evening pass before he approached her and then he exchanged but the barest civilities and passed on. They met at the card table at Mrs Delaney’s house. He held the bank at pharaoh and she won against the bank. He complimented her, but still with that note of mockery as though he refused to take her seriously. Yet, when she walked in the Park with Mrs Maulfrey two days later and he rode past, he reined in and sprang lightly down from the saddle and came towards her, leading his mount, and walked beside her a considerable distance, as though he were delighted to have come upon her.

“La, child!” cried Mrs Maulfrey, when at last he took his leave of them. “You’d best have a care—he’s a wicked rake, my dear! Don’t fall in love with him, I beg of you!”

“F-fall in love!” said Horatia scornfully. “I want to play c-cards with him!”

He was at the Duchess of Queensberry’s ball, and did not once approach her. She was piqued, and never thought to blame Rule’s presence for his defection. Yet when she visited the Pantheon in Lady Amelia Pridham’s party, Lethbridge, arriving solitary midway through the evening, singled her out and was so assiduous in his attentions that he led her to suppose that at last they were becoming intimate. But upon a young gentleman’s approaching to claim Horatia’s attention his lordship relinquished her with a perfectly good grace and very soon afterwards withdrew to the card-room. It was really most provoking, quite enough to make any lady determined to plan his downfall, and it did much to spoil her enjoyment of the party. Indeed, the evening was not a success. The Pantheon, so bright and new, was very fine, of course, with its pillars and its stucco ceilings and its great glazed dome, but Lady Amelia, most perversely, did not want to play cards, and in one of the country dances Mr Laxby, awkward creature, trod on the edge of her gown of diaphanous Jouy cambric just come from Paris, and tore the hem past repair. Then, too, she was obliged to decline going for a picnic out to Ewell on the following day on the score of having promised to drive to Kensington (of all stuffy places!) to visit her old governess, who was living there with a widowed sister. She had half a notion that Lethbridge was to be at the picnic and was seriously tempted to bury Miss Lane in oblivion. However, the thought of poor Laney’s disappointment prevented her from taking this extreme step, and she resolutely withstood all the entreaties of her friends.

The afternoon dutifully spent in Kensington proved to be just as dull as she had feared it would be and Laney, so anxious to know all she had been doing, so full of tiresome gossip, made it impossible for her to leave as soon as she would have liked to have done. It was very nearly half past four before she entered her coach, but fortunately she was to dine at home that evening before going with Rule to the Opera, so that it did not greatly signify that she was bound to be late. But she felt that she had spent an odious day, the only ray of consolation—and that, she admitted, a horridly selfish one—being that the weather, which had promised so well in the morning, had become extremely inclement, quite unsuitable for picnics, the sky being overcast by lunch-time, and some thunderous clouds gathering which made the light very bad as early as four o’clock. A threatening rumble sounded as she stepped into the coach, and Miss Lane at once desired her to remain on until the storm had passed. Luckily the coachman was confident that it would hold off for some time yet, so that Horatia was not obliged to accept this invitation. The coachman was somewhat startled at receiving a command from her ladyship to spring his horses, as she was monstrously late. He touched his hat in a reluctant assent and wondered what the Earl would say if it came to his ears that his wife was driven into town at the gallop.

It was, accordingly, at a spanking pace that the coach headed eastwards, but a flash of lightning making one of the leaders shy badly across the road, the coachman soon steadied the pace, which, indeed, he had some trouble in maintaining, both his wheelers being good holders and quite unused to so headlong a method of progression.

The rain still held off, but lightning quivered frequently and the noise of thunder afar became practically continuous, while the heavy clouds overhead obscured the daylight very considerably and made the coachman anxious to pass the Knightsbridge toll-gate as soon as possible.

A short distance beyond the Halfway House, an inn midway between Knightsbridge and Kensington, a group of some three or four horsemen, imperfectly concealed by a clump of trees just off the road, most unpleasantly assailed the vision of both the men on the box. They were some way ahead, and it was difficult in the uncertain light to observe them very particularly. Some heavy drops of rain had begun to fall, and it was conceivable that the horsemen were merely seeking shelter from the imminent downpour. But the locality had a bad reputation, and although the hour was too early for highwaymen to be abroad the coachman whipped up his horses with the intention of passing the dangerous point at the gallop, and recommended the groom beside him to be ready with the blunderbuss.

That worthy, peering uneasily ahead, disclosed the fact that he had not thought proper to bring this weapon, the expedition hardly being of a nature to render such a precaution necessary. The coachman, keeping to the crown of the road, tried to assure himself that no highwaymen would dare to venture forth in broad daylight. “Sheltering from the rain, that’s all,” he grunted, adding rather inconsequently: “Saw a couple of men hanged at Tyburn once. Robbing the Portsmouth Mail. Desperate rogues, they was.”

They were now come within hailing distance of the mysterious riders, and to both men’s dismay the group disintegrated and the three horsemen spread themselves across the road in a manner leaving no room for doubt of their intentions.

The coachman cursed under his breath, but being a stouthearted fellow lashed his horses to a still wilder pace in the hope of charging through the chain across the road. A shot, whistling alarmingly by his head, made him flinch involuntarily, and at the same moment the groom, quite pale with fright, grabbed at the reins and hauled on them with all his strength. A second shot set the horses swerving and plunging, and while the coachman and groom fought for possession of the reins a couple of the frieze-clad ruffians rode up and seized the leaders’ bridles, and so brought the whole equipage to a standstill.

The third man, a big fellow with a mask covering his entire face, pressed up to the coach, shouting: “Stand and deliver!” and leaning from the saddle wrenched open the door.

Horatia, startled, but as yet unalarmed, found herself confronted by a large horse-pistol, held in a grimy hand. Her astonished gaze travelled upwards to the curtain-mask and she cried out: “Gracious! F-foot-pads!”

A laugh greeted this exclamation and the man holding the barker said in a beery voice: “Bridle culls, my pretty! We bain’t no foot-scamperers! Hand over the gewgaws and hand ’em quick, see?”

“I shan’t!” said Horatia, grasping her reticule firmly.

It seemed as though the highwayman was rather at a loss, but while he hesitated a second masked rider jostled him out of the way and made a snatch at the reticule. “Ho-ho, there’s a fat truss!” he gloated, wresting it from her, “and a rum fam on your finger too! Now softly, softly!”

Horatia, far more angry than she was frightened at having her purse wrenched from her, tried to pull her hand away, and failing, dealt her assailant a ringing slap.

“How dare you, you odious p-person!” she raged.

This was productive only of another coarse guffaw, and she was beginning to feel really rather alarmed when a voice suddenly shouted: “Lope off! Lope off! or we’ll be snabbled! Coves on the road!”

Almost at the same moment a shot sounded, and hooves could be heard thundering down the road. The highwayman released Horatia in a twinkling; another shot exploded; there was a great deal of shouting and stamping and the highwaymen galloped off into the dusk. The next instant a rider on a fine bay dashed up to the coach and reined in his horse, rearing and plunging. “Madam!” the newcomer said sharply, and then in tones of the utmost surprise: “My Lady Rule! Good God, ma’am, are you hurt?”

“W-why, it’s you!” cried Horatia. “No, I’m n-not in the least hurt.”

Lord Lethbridge swung himself out of the saddle and stepped lightly up on to the step of the coach, taking Horatia’s hand in his. “Thank God I chanced to be at hand!” he said. “There is nothing to frighten you now, ma’am. The rogues are fled.”

Horatia, an unsatisfactory heroine, replied gaily: “Oh, I w-wasn’t frightened, sir! It is the m-most exciting thing that has ever happened to m-me! But I must say I think they were very cowardly robbers to run away from one m-man.”

A soundless laugh shook his lordship. “Perhaps they ran away from my pistols,” he suggested. “So long as they have not harmed you—”

“Oh, n-no! But how came you on this road my l-lord?”

“I have been visiting friends out at Brentford,” he explained.

“ I thought you were going to the p-picnic at Ewell ?” she said.

He looked directly into her eyes. “I was,” he answered. “But my Lady Rule did not join the party.”

She became aware that her hand was still reposing in his and drew it away. “I d-didn’t think you c-cared a rap for that,” she said.

“Didn’t you? But I did care.”

She looked at him for a moment and then said shyly: “P-please will you d-drive back with m-me?”

He appeared to hesitate, that queer twisted smile hovering round his mouth.

“Why n-not?” Horatia asked.

“No reason in the world, ma’am,” he replied. “If you wish it of course I will drive with you.” He stepped down into the road again, and summoned up the groom, telling him to mount the bay horse. The groom, who was looking shamefaced from his late encounter with the coachman, hastened to obey him. Lord Lethbridge again climbed into the coach; the door was shut; and in a few minutes the vehicle began to move forward in the direction of London.

Inside it Horatia said with the frankness her family considered disastrous: “I quite thought you d-did not like m-me very much, you know.”

“Did you? But that would have been very bad taste on my part,” said his lordship.

“W-well, but you p-positively avoid me when we meet,” Horatia pointed out. “You know you d-do!”

“Ah!” said his lordship. “But that is not because I do not like you, ma’am.”

“W-why, then?” asked Horatia bluntly.

He turned his head. “Has no one warned you that Robert Lethbridge is too dangerous for you to know?”

Her eyes twinkled. “Yes, any number of people. Did you g-guess that?”

“Of course I did. I believe Mamas all warn their daughters against my wicked wiles. I am a very desperate character, you know.”

She laughed. “W-well, if I don’t m-mind, why should you?”

“That is rather different,” Lethbridge replied. “You see, you are—if you will let me say so—very young.”

“D-do you mean that I am too young to b-be a friend of yours?”

“No, that is not what I mean. You are too young to be allowed to do—unwise things, my dear.”

She looked inquiring. “W-would it be unwise of me to know you?”

“In the eyes of the world, certainly it would.”

“I d-don’t give a fig for the world!” declared Horatia roundly.

He stretched out his hand to take hers, and kissed her fingers. “You are—a very charming lady,” he said. “But were you and I to call friends, ma’am, the world would talk, and the world must not talk about my Lady Rule.”

“Why should people think odious things about you?” asked Horatia, indignation in her voice.

A sigh escaped him. “Unfortunately, ma’am, I have made for myself a most shocking reputation and once one has done that there is no being rid of it. Now I feel quite sure that your excellent brother told you to have naught to do with Lethbridge. Am I right?”

She coloured. “Oh, n-no one pays the least heed to P-Pel!”

she assured him. “And if you will l-let me be a friend of yours I w-will be whatever anyone says!”

Again he seemed to hesitate. A warm hand once more clasped his. “P-please let m-me!” Horatia begged.

His fingers closed round hers. “Why?” he asked. “Is it because you want to gamble with me? Is that why you offer me your friendship?”

“N-no, though that w-was what I wanted, to begin with,” Horatia admitted. “But now that you’ve told me all this I feel quite d-differently and I won’t be one of those horrid p-people who believe the worst.”

“Ah!” he said, “but I am afraid Rule would have something to say to that, my dear. I must tell you that he is not precisely one of my well-wishers. And husbands, you know, have to be obeyed.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to retort that she did not care a fig for Rule either, when it occurred to her that this was scarcely a proper sentiment, and she replied instead: “I assure you, sir, Rule d-does not interfere with my f-friendships.”

They had come by this time to the Hercules Pillars Inn by Hyde Park, and only a comparatively short distance remained between them and Grosvenor Square. The rain, which was now coming down in good earnest, beat against the windows of the coach, and the daylight had almost vanished. Horatia could no longer distinguish his lordship with any clarity, but she pressed his hand and said: “So that is quite decided, isn’t it?”

“Quite decided,” said his lordship.

She withdrew her hand. “And I will be v-very friendly and set you down at your house, sir, for it is raining much too hard for you to ride your horse. P-please tell my coachman your direction.”

Ten minutes later the coach drew up in Half-Moon Street. Horatia beckoned up her groom and bade him ride his lordship’s horse on to its stable. “And I n-never thanked you, my lord, for rescuing me!” she said. “I am truly very much obliged.”

Lethbridge replied: “And so am I, ma’am, for having been granted the opportunity.” He bowed over her hand. “Till our next meeting,” he said, and stepped down on to the streaming pavement.

The coach moved forward. Lethbridge stood for a moment in the rain, watching it sway up the road towards Curzon

Street and then turned with the faintest shrug of his shoulders and walked up the steps of his house.

The door was held for him by the porter. He said respectfully: “A wet evening, my lord.”

“Very,” said Lethbridge curtly.

“I should tell your lordship that a—a person has called. He arrived but a short time ahead of your lordship, and I have him downstairs, keeping an eye on him.”

“Send him up,” Lethbridge said, and went into the room that overlooked the street.

Here he was joined in a few moments by his visitor, who was ushered into the room by the disapproving porter. He was a burly individual, dressed in a frieze coat, with a slouch hat grasped in one dirty hand. He grinned when he saw Lethbridge and touched his finger to his forelock. “Hoping all’s bowman, your honour, and the leddy none the worse.”

Lethbridge did not reply, but taking a key from his pocket unlocked one of the drawers of his desk and drew out a purse. This he tossed across the room to his guest, saying briefly: “Take it, and be off with you. And remember, my friend, to keep your mouth shut.”

“God love yer, may I shove the tumbler if ever I was one to squeak!” said the frieze-clad gentleman indignantly. He shook the contents of the purse out on to the table and began to tell over the coins.

Lethbridge’s lip curled. “You can spare yourself the pains. I pay what I promised.”

The man grinned more knowingly than ever. “Ah, you’re a peevy cull, you are. And when I works with a flash, why, I’m careful, see?” He told over the rest of the money, scooped it all up in one capacious paw, and bestowed it in his pocket. “Right it is,” he observed genially, “and easy earned. I’ll let myself out of the jigger.”

Lethbridge followed him into the narrow hall. “No doubt,” he said. “But I will give myself the pleasure of seeing you off the premises.”

“God love yer, do you take me for a mill ken?” demanded the visitor, affronted. “Lordy, them as is on the rattling lay don’t take to slumming kens!” With which lofty but somewhat obscure remark he took himself off down the steps of the house and slouched away towards Piccadilly.

Lord Lethbridge shut the door and stood for a moment in frowning silence. He was aroused from his abstraction by the approach of his valet, who came up the stairs from the basement to attend him and remarked with concern that the rain had wetted his lordship’s coat.

The frown cleared. “So I perceive,” Lethbridge said. “But it was undoubtedly worth it.”