The Double Wager

Chapter 10

Henry turned over in bed. She was only half-awake, but already the events of the night before had returned to her mind. She snuggled over to the side of the bed where Marius had held her in his arms after their lovemaking, only to find that he was no longer there.

Her eyes opened; she was instantly awake. It was light outside already, although the street sounds suggested that it was still early morning. Marius frequently rose early, she knew, to ride and refresh himself before going to the House for the morning business. She smiled smugly to herself and stretched luxuriously in the warm bed.

So this was what it felt like to be a wife, to be loved! She relived again, moment by moment, the whole of their lovemaking. Why had she always thought of physical contact as something repulsive? Last night had been wonderful. It had not been a case of the male taking and using her and making her feel like a weak woman with no worth beyond her sexual function. He had made her feel a partner in what had happened. She knew, inexperienced as she was, that he had taken the time to give pleasure to her as well as himself. And she knew that she had given him pleasure. There was that moment when he had murmured his release against her face.

If only he had not gone away so early… Henry would have liked to do again right then what they had done the night before. She felt a throbbing low in her womb at the very thought. Then she blushed with shame at her own desire. Maybe married people just did not do it that often!

But she was happy! She bounced off the bed, grasped the hangings of her bed in her arms, and pirouetted several times until she became so entangled in the heavy velvet that she had to stop and carefully unwind herself, giggling self-consciously though there was no one there to watch. She rang for Betty.

"I want the blue muslin dress today," she told her maid, and hummed tunelessly to herself as she washed, dressed, and had her hair brushed. "Is his Grace still at home?" she asked.

"I believe so-, your Grace," Betty 'replied. "He was coming through the door as I was coming upstairs."

"Good," said Henry, smiling into the mirror.

She dismissed Betty before going down to the breakfast room. She had some thinking to do. Now everything was changed between her and Marius. They were in love; they were truly man and wife; they could now speak openly and freely to each other. She would go down to breakfast and he would rise from his place and hold out his arms to her. He would kiss her and laugh when she glanced uneasily at the butler, who would probably be there too. They would talk about last night and tell each other how much in love they were. And then she would tell him all about Oliver Cranshawe and her awkward debt to him. She would not mention Giles, of course. She would tell him that she had gambled unwisely at some party and that her debt had embarrassed her. But-yes-she would tell him. He would understand and forgive her in the afterhaze of last night's passion. And then she would be free of Oliver and would be ready to begin living happily ever after.

Henry took a last peek into the mirror, adjusted a few curls around her face, and tripped lightly down the stairs to the breakfast room. Alas, it had two occupants. Mr. Ridley was sitting at the table with Marius. Henry found herself suddenly shy as both men rose from their places and Marius moved around the table to hold her chair for her. She smiled vaguely in the direction of his chin and beamed at Mr. Ridley.

"Good morning, my love," Eversleigh said in his usual tone of bored irony. "You are remarkably early this morning."

"I plan to go riding after breakfast, while the air is still cool," she replied.

"Ah," was his only comment. And to Henry's chagrin, lie turned his attention to Ridley and talked about some speech that he was apparently to give within the next few days. Obviously her entrance had interrupted this business.

"I suppose I must come and examine the morning mail," he said at last. "Is there anything important, James?"

"Some bills and some invitations, your Grace," Ridley replied.

"Ah, but I asked if there was anything important, James, his employer repeated, fixing him with a sleepy stare.

"A letter from Kent and one from your Norfolk estate, your Grace." Ridley said in his long-suffering voice.

"Then I must come," said Eversleigh with a sigh. "Will you excuse us, Henry?"

"Of course," she replied bleakly.

"And would you give me the pleasure of your company in the library before you ride, my love? Say in half an hour?" he asked.

"Yes, Marius," she said, spirits soaring again. After the two men had left, she sat sipping her coffee, living again in her imagination the scene that would soon take place. Only the setting was different-it would be the library rather than the breakfast room. But all the better! The library was more private.

Henry found herself blushing as she tapped on the library door half an hour later and let herself inside. She closed the door and leaned against it. Her eyes shone and her lips were parted eagerly as she looked across at her husband. Disconcertingly, he was sitting formally at his desk, apparently engrossed in the papers that were spread out before him.

"Come and sit down, Henry," he said without looking lip.

Henry felt a twinge of unease. His voice was not the voice of last night's lover. She crossed the room' and sat uncomfortably on the edge of the chair that was across the desk from him.

Eversleigh carefully put down the quill pen he was using, pushed together the pile of papers in front of him, and finally looked up at his wife. His eyes were hooded behind half-closed lids.

"I owe you an apology," he said stiffly.

Henry was too shocked to reply. But her hands were suddenly cold. She clasped them together in her lap.

"I made you a promise on our wedding night," Eversleigh continued, "and I broke that promise quite shamefully last night. I had been worried about your safety and wished to punish you, I suppose. I regret the lapse, ma'am, and assure you that it will not happen again."

"But Marius, I didn't… " she began.

He held up an imperious hand to silence her. "I told you that you would be expected to perform the duties of a wife as soon as we retire to Kent for the summer," Eversleigh continued. "I find, on reflection, that it is distasteful to force my attentions on an unwilling partner. I wish you to know, Henry, that you may retain my name and my protection for as long as you wish, but you owe me nothing in return. Until you say the word, I shall not touch you again."

"Oh," said Henry, leaping to her feet and putting her hands on her hips, "so I do not measure up to the standard set by Mrs. Broughton, do F'

Eversleigh's body became completely motionless; his eyes became icy. "Would you care to explain that remark, Henry?" lie asked softly.

"You thought I did not know, did you not?" she said, eyes flashing. "You thought me naive. I am not a child, Marius. I know she is your mistress and has been for a long time. I have seen you with her on several occasions. She is very feminine, with that tiny waist and large bosom."

"Who has told you all this, Henry?" he asked, still in the maddeningly calm and soft voice. "Cranshawe?"

"Oh, I do not need hire to point out the obvious to me," Henry said. "I know that, with my figure, I cannot compete." She held her arms out and looked down on her own slim body. "You must have found me very disappointing last night."

"Must I, my love?" he asked, the old gleam showing in his eyes for a moment.

"Yes. And do you know what?" she asked. rhetorically. "I am glad! You know I hate to be touched. When you kiss me, I feel like rushing to the nearest washbasin and plunging in my face. And what you did to me last night was quite repulsive. I think I should run away if I felt that I would have to be subjected to that at your pleasure. Keep your Mrs. Broughton. Perhaps she will help keep your lecherous hands off me!"

Eversleigh put his palms on the desk and rose to his feet, keeping his eyes on her. He came around the desk. For one moment Henry thought he was coming to her and she did not know whether she would spit in his face or ignominiously grab his lapels and soak his neckcloth with her tears. But he walked across the room to pour himself a brandy. He stood silently, with his back to her, while he drank it.

"Am I dismissed, your Grace?" she asked tauntingly.

"No, Henry," he replied, turning to face her. His expression was impassive, almost mocking. "I wished to ask you one more question, though now is perhaps not the best time." He put his empty glass down on the table and walked over to the fireplace. He rested one elbow on the mantel and looked steadily across at her. She was still standing in front of the desk.

"Are you in any kind of trouble, Henry?" he asked.

"Whatever do you mean?" Henry said with an artificial little laugh.

He pondered. "I have a feeling that there is something you will not tell me," he said carefully, "something that worries you.

She laughed again. "What would worry me?" she asked.

He watched her steadily. "I wish you would tell me, if I may help you," he said. "I know you feel bitter toward me this morning. You feel, and rightly so, that I have betrayed you. But believe me, Henry, when I tell you that I have the highest regard for you. And you may trust me, you know."

Henry stared, her mind churning in confusion. Her brain was telling her that here was the perfect opportunity to unburden herself, to get herself out of a fix. Her heart was reminding her that her husband had used her the night before and found her wanting. He cared nothing that he was leaving her emotions bruised and raw this morning. She did not doubt that he would help her. But she would not be beholden to such a man. She would fight her own battles, as she always had. She lifted her chin and looked directly into his eyes.

"What nonsense you speak, Marius!" she said. "May I leave now, please, or it will be too late to ride."

Eversleigh's mouth relaxed into what for him passed for a smile, Henry supposed.

"Run along, my love," he said. I have taken enough of your time for one morning, it appears."

Henry considered slamming the door behind her when she left, but decided that doing so would be a childish gesture. She closed it quietly and stood outside the library for a few. moments, head and heart thumping. What had happened in the last few minutes had been so totally unexpected and so completely agonizing that she did not know quite how to cope at present.

The butler approached her before she moved away. He held a letter on a salver. "This was delivered a few minutes ago, your Grace," he said deferentially. "I was to deliver it into your hands."

"Thank you," she replied absently, taking the letter and climbing the stairs wearily to her room. She sat down in front of the mirror and stared disconsolately at her own image. Strange! She looked the same as she had when she went down to breakfast-how long ago? Was it only little more than an hour ago that she had left this room so full of hope and happiness? She had not dreamed that her newfound love would be so effectively shattered in such a short time. How she hated him! He had spoken to her once about his "animal instincts." And that was all they were. He must have been delighted the night before when she had started to cry and been so vulnerable. He had certainly been very quick to take advantage of the situation. And while she had held him and opened to him and called his name, because he was Marius and the man she loved, he had merely been using her as almost any man would use a woman who was so obviously available But he certainly did not consider her worth a repeat performance. Henry ground her teeth in mortification. Would she never learn not to trust any man-at least not with her emotions?

She crushed into a wad the letter that she still held in her hand, then realized what she was doing. She smoothed it out again on top of the dressing table and broke the seal. The letter was from Oliver, she saw when she glanced down to the signature. She read:

My dear Henry,

I cannot tell you how deeply I regret my behavior of last evening. I can only plead the effects of overindulgence in wine. You must know that I hold you in deep regard. Surely I have proven my devotion to you. But I do not intend to remind you of any obligation.

Please meet me in the park this morning. I shall ride there until noon. I must speak with you. I should regret having to call at the house, as I know you would be distressed should Marius find me there.

I shall be awaiting the pleasure of your company.

Your obedient servant,

Oliver Cranshawe

Henry crumpled the paper again and threw it to the floor. The rat! Could he seriously believe that she would ever trust him again? After what he had said and done the night before? Was ever a girl so unlucky as to encounter two such unprincipled men on the same night? But she would have to go, Henry realized. The threat in the letter had not been so subtle. She knew that Oliver would come to the house if she refused to -meet him elsewhere. She crossed reluctantly to a closet and pulled- out her chocolate-brown riding habit and the matching hat with the gold and bronze plumes. At least she would look her best. She was not going to let Oliver Cranshawe know that he had her worried.

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Fifteen minutes later, Philip opened the door to Henry's room without knocking.

"She probably left it in here somewhere," he said over his shoulder.

"Unless she took it with her," Penelope added from directly behind him.

"Oh, dear, this does not feel right," Miss Manford wailed from the rear. "Whatever would we say if your sister unexpectedly returned or if his Grace appeared?"

"You know from what we told you this morning, Manny, that Henry needs help," Philip explained patiently, "and that letter this morning looked suspicious. It did not come by the regular mail."

"It's a good thing we were passing through the hall when it arrived," Penelope added.

"It is probably just an invitation or a notice from a dressmaker," said Miss Manford.

Brutus, meanwhile, galloped past the arguing trio and began to play with a ball of paper that was lying on the floor.

"Brutus, get away from there. That might be it," yelled Penelope, grabbing his hindquarters and hauling him backward, in vain.

"Woof!" replied the dog, enjoying the game and returning to the paper again.

"Good dog! Give!" Philip ordered, but when Brutus showed no sign of obeying, he grabbed the dog's muzzle and tried to force his jaws apart.

"Oh, bless my soul!" wailed Miss Manford. "We shall all be discovered."

Brutus solved the problem by spotting a slipper across the room. He abandoned the paper for more attractive prey.

Penelope pounced on the letter, which was damp but intact, and smoothed it out on the floor.

Philip knelt beside her to read it. "He's sorry for last night!" he cried indignantly. "After mauling Henry around as if she were a chambermaid."

"Oh, dear," said Miss Manford, "I don't believe you should speak like that, dear boy."

"He is as slippery as a snake," Penelope said, "reminding her that she is in his debt and then saying that he does not wish to mention it."

"Snakes aren't slippery," Philip added irrelevantly, and then jumped into action. "Come on," he said, "we must follow her."

"To the park?" Penelope asked, eyes shining.

"We must make sure that he does not abduct her," Philip said.

"The park is a very public place, dear boy," Miss Manford said. "I do not believe your sister will be in any danger there. But I do believe we should confide in his Grace."

"No!" Philip and Penelope chorused together.

"Then perhaps Sir Peter," their governess suggested.

"Peter!" Philip said scornfully. "He would run straight to his Grace and advise him to beat Henry."

"Mr. Ridley?" Miss Manford suggested hesitantly.

Neither twin answered immediately. "He is so loyal to the duke," Penelope said finally. "He would probably tell. But if worse comes to worst, Manny, and we need a man, we will go to him. But now, let's go!"

The twins collided in the doorway, Miss Manford was almost as eager to leave a room she felt she had no business inside, and Brutus, seeing his audience departing, charged out behind them, a pink slipper still dangling from his mouth.

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The Duke of Eversleigh was returning home from a short morning errand. He intended to change out of his riding clothes into an outfit more suitable for lunch at White's on St. James's Street. As his horse was cantering through the park, he became aware of a commotion ahead of him. There seemed to be a great number of persons and a great deal of noise involved. As he drew closer-an interested spectator, but one who intended to keep his distance he could see that someone was up in a tree, someone else on the ground below stretching up arms, someone lying in a mud puddle while a riderless horse danced skittishly around, someone holding with both hands the lead of a large and loudly barking dog, and someone else on horseback making no attempt to take command of the situation. These appeared to be the main players. There were several bystanders, all on foot, including a constable who was waving a club around but who appeared uncertain on whose head to bring it down.

It was the dog that gave away the identity of the group to the duke. He reined his horse to a walk as he drew closer, and approached the scene with all the nonchalance of one for whom such a scene is a daily occurrence.

"Down, Brutus,- old fellow," he commanded in a bored voice, and the huge canine, who had caused much of the commotion, according to the loud opinion of the bystanders, dropped on the spot and panted loudly, adoring eyes raised to its master. Miss Manford was released from the immediate danger of having her arms pulled from their sockets.

"Phil, are you planning to join the rest of us on terra firma some time this morning?" Eversleigh continued, raising his quizzing glass and gazing upward at his brother-in-law, who was clinging to a branch of a large oak tree.

"I'm not stuck, sir," Philip hastened to assure Eversleigh. "But that cat is." He pointed to a thin and scraggly little creature clinging pathetically to a branch. "I have to move carefully because the branch gets pretty thin out there. And, Pen, for the dozenth time, move away from there. If I fall, you won't help me at all, but I will, flatten you."

"I'm here to catch the kitten," Penelope explained indignantly.

"The little lad will fall for sure," a buxom woman carrying a large, covered basket warned, "and all for a stray cat. Call 'im down, sir.

Eversleigh ignored her. "Move back, Penny, until there is something to catch," he advised. "Go ahead, Phil. The branch is strong enough."

Most eyes were turned on the little drama. Eversleigh withdrew his; he did not feel that his brother-in-law was in any grave danger.

"Having a spot of trouble, Oliver?" he asked affably, swinging his glass in the direction of his cousin, who had already picked himself out of the mud, but who was gazing down at his thoroughly blackened cream buckskins with arms outstretched, not quite knowing how to clean himself up without; soiling his hands. He rounded on the duke in fury.

"If you do not keep that dog confined to the house, and if you do not exercise greater control over these totally undisciplined brats," he said, voice shaking, I shall shoot it."

"Dear me," replied his cousin mildly, I understand from your choice of pronoun that you mean the dog, not the twins, Oliver?"

Cranshawe glared. "You might make yourself useful and grab my horse, Marius," he said, "instead of sitting up there striking a pose."

"Ah," Eversleigh said, I take it you did not dismount voluntarily, then, Oliver?" He obligingly moved off to where Cranshawe's horse was now grazing quietly on the grass, and led him back to his heir, who was disgustedly slapping -it his mud-caked breeches.

Eversleigh turned his attention to his wife, who was staring intently into the tree where Philip was now little more than an arm's length from the shivering kitten.

"You are all right, my love?" he asked gently.

She turned a stony expression on him. "And why would I not be?" she asked.

"Ah, quite so," he agreed. "You need not worry, you know. Boys are almost invariably a great deal safer than they appear to be to adult onlookers."

"I know that!" she retorted scornfully, and dismounted suddenly after swinging her leg free of the sidesaddle. "Hang on, Phil!" she yelled. "You can't hold on to the cat and get back from there. I'll climb up and you can hand it to me."

Before the onlookers had a chance to dissuade her, she had swung up to the lower branches, long skirt and all, though she did tug impatiently at the plumed hat and send it to the ground.

" 'Ere, 'ere, lady, that's man's work," the constable remarked ineffectually when she was already well clear of the ground, but everyone ignored him.

When Henry came down again, five minutes later, clutching a mewing kitten in one arm, face smudged with dirt, hemline of her habit hanging down, it was to find Marius directly beneath her, on foot.

"Hand down the kitten, Henry," he ordered, and she obeyed before she had time to think of defiance. He took it and handed it immediately to an eager Penelope. Then lie turned back, raised his arms, and grasped his wife by the waist. He swung her down to the ground, so that her body slid down the length of his. She felt physically ill as she glared indignantly up into his gleaming eyes.

"I could have jumped," she said as Philip did just that right behind her.

"I don't doubt it for a moment, my love," Eversleigh agreed soothingly, the gleam in his eyes deepening. "I must look a fright," she said crossly.

"I think you look rather charming, my love, with it smudge on your nose and a twig in your hair," he commented languidly.

"Oh!" she said. "Well, you should be thankful for the twig, your Grace. At least I am not committing that mortal. sin of going hatless again."

"Your Grace!" Penelope was plucking at Eversleigh's sleeve, interrupting an interesting scene. "Please may we keep the kitten? I am sure the little thing is a stray, and Phil and I will look after it. Please!"

"Well," he said, "it would seem hardly charitable to rescue the poor thing from one danger only to let it starve on firm ground. Very well, Penny."

"Oh, thank you, your Grace," Penelope yelled. "I am going to call her Cleopatra."

Eversleigh blinked. "As you will," he said tolerantly, "but I fail to see the connection." He surveyed the thin, ugly ginger kitten through his quizzing glass. "I believe we have provided the city of London with quite enough entertainment for one morning," he continued quietly. "I see that Oliver agrees with me and has taken himself off already. Miss Manford, can you head this menagerie homeward? Phil, you take charge of Brutus, if you please. My love?" He stilled Henry's horse, and when she would have placed her booted foot in his hand so that she might mount, he grasped her by the waist again and lifted her effortlessly to the saddle.

Henry could feel the imprint of his hands all the way home as they rode side by side, making small talk. He made no reference to the fact that she had obviously been' with Oliver Cranshawe before the family farce had begun.

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The morning's activities were not forgotten by any of the actors in it. Henry spent most of the afternoon in her room, after canceling plans she had made to do a round of visiting. She had a very serious decision to make, and although she knew what that decision would have to be, there still seemed to be a great deal of thinking to do.

She had met Oliver in the park and had talked with him for five minutes before the arrival of the twins and Miss Manford on the scene. Oliver had taken on the tone of his letter, profoundly apologetic, disclaiming all responsibility for what he had said the night before on the grounds that he had drunk too much. But Henry had lost all faith in his words. He claimed to care for her deeply, to be worried about her marriage to "a man like Marius." He wished to see her again, alone, so that he might redeem himself in her eyes. Henry could see only the truth. Here was a man who hated her husband and who hated her for being the chief threat to his position as Marius' heir. He wished to ruin her so that Marius would divorce her or at the very least send her away. Either would suit Oliver's purposes. In either case, there would be no children to succeed the Duke of Eversleigh. And Henry, with childish naivete, had played right into his hands. Oh, why had she not seen through the hypocrisy of his charm? Why had she not gone straight to Marius with her worries over Giles?

Henry threw herself facedown across the bed. She racked her brain for some solution to the dilemma, apart from the one that she was trying not to face. She had managed to escape any commitment this morning, thanks to the strange appearance of the twins. And that was strange, now that site came to think of it. What were they all doing in the park at that time of the morning? Were they not usually at their classes? However it had happened, she had been very grateful for the distraction. But she did not have any hope that Cranshawe would be put off for long. It was only a matter of time before he again forced her into a clandestine meeting.

Henry considered talking to Giles, but she knew she would not be able to bring herself to destroy his peace of mind. She saw him frequently, and he seemed to be quite happy. He did the social rounds, but it seemed to her that he had learned his lesson. He no longer associated with the crowd of wild dandies that had led him into gambling and irresponsible spending. If be was in debt again, she would be surprised.At least there was no sign from him. He treated her with open affection. Henry had been close to her brother all her life. She would have known if something were troubling him. No, she could not go to him with her dilemma.

There was, in fact, only one way out, Henry admitted tp herself with a sigh. She propped her chin on her hands and stared gloomily down at the brocade coverlet of her bed. Somehow, she had to get the money to repay the loan to Cranshawe. Only then would she be free of that horrid man. And there was, alas, only one way to get the money, unless she applied to Marius for it. Since she would rather die than go to him now, she would have to go to a moneylender.

The very thought filled her with terror. She had heard many stories of the fate of young men who were unwise enough to get into the clutches of moneylenders. (It seemed that ladies never went to them.) The story was that once a man borrowed money, he never repaid it. All the money he could scrape together went toward paying off the crippling interest on their loans.

But Henry had to put these stories behind her. She really had no choice, unless she sold or pawned some of her jewels. She had considered doing that, but knew that any valuable item that she possessed would soon be missed. Marius, unlike many husbands, accompanied her to most evening functions. And he always noticed what she wore. He would frequently suggest the jewelry that would best complement her choice of clothes. She knew she would not be able to deceive him. No, she must go to a moneylender. She remembered the name and direction of the one that Giles had been planning to visit. It was ironic that she, who had been so adamant that he not borrow money in this way, was now deciding to do the same thing herself!

Henry scrambled resolutely off the bed. Since there was no alternative and since she had made up her mind, there was nothing to be gained by delay. She would go at once. She assumed that Marius was away from home at this time of day. She was sure that the twins must be in the schoolroom, especially after their escapade of the morning. She could accomplish her errand without anyone knowing.

She searched her closet hastily for the dullest clothing she possessed. Pushed far to one side she found a drab, gray cloak that she had worn for years at Roedean. She could not imagine how it had escaped the purge that Betty had made on her old clothes. She pulled it from its place and chose the plainest bonnet she could find, a brown one that looked quite dreary enough once she had removed the green ribbons that adorned it.

Henry glanced at herself in the mirror before leaving the room. She wrinkled her nose in some disgust at the very unpretty picture that she made, draped entirely in the gray and brown. She pushed an auburn curl farther under the brim of the bonnet, took up her reticule, and resolutely left the room. She descended the back stairs and let herself out of the side door and through a back gate that led to a narrow lane used by tradesmen.

Head bent, Henry hurried along until she came to a roadway. She walked briskly for some distance, mingling with crowds of people who did not afford her hurrying figure a second glance. Only one urchin seemed in any way interested. He appeared to be following her, ducking into doorways and behind other pedestrians to avoid being seen, though she did not look back even once. When she finally hailed a hackney cab and climbed inside, the urchin ran up behind. He clung to a bar at the back when the vehicle moved away.

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Henry was wrong. The Duke of Eversleigh was not away from home that afternoon. As she was making her escape from the house, he was closeted with James Ridley in his office. He had been there for some time, going over with his secretary a pile of business papers that had arrived from his estates by the morning mail. Finally he got to his feet, stretched, and walked over to the bookshelves, where he stood leaning his weight on one elbow.

"Ah, do you have my wife's bills here, James?" he asked languidly.

"From this week, your Grace?" Ridley asked, looking up startled.

Eversleigh mused. "Are they all paid, James?"

"Yes, your Grace," Ridley replied. "-You have instructed me always to do so."

"Quite so," Eversleigh said, inspecting his fingernails through half-closed lids. "Have any of them been excessively large?"

Ridley thought. "There was a dressmaker's bill for almost three hundred pounds last week," he said uneasily.

The duke looked at him steadily. "Nothing larger?" asked.

"No, your Grace."

Eversleigh stood, examining his boots.

After a few respectful moments, Ridley returned his attention to the papers spread before him. He looked up again when his employer spoke.

"Have there been any gambling debts, James?"

"You mean by her Grace?" asked Ridley. "No."

"Hmm." The duke was again silent. Then he looker closely at his secretary. "You spend too much time in this office, James," he said kindly. "It is not good for your health, dear boy. Take yourself out and do something for me."

"Your Grace?"

"Find out if my wife owes or has owed a large sum of money to anyone in-ah, let me see-the last month or so."

Ridley looked aghast. "How am I to do that?" he asked.

Eversleigh looked hard at him. "You are an enterprising young man who likes a challenge, James," he said languidly. "I am sure you will find a way."

James Ridley did not reply.

"And James," the duke continued.

"Your Grace?"

"This is to be done discreetly and in the strictest confidence."

"Of course, your Grace."

Eversleigh picked a speck of dust from the sleeve of his coat and pushed himself upright. "I have seen quite enough of these four walls for one day," he said. "I am going to go out in search of some amusement. I suggest you do the same, dear boy."

James Ridley stared in dismay at the employer's back, which retreated unhurriedly through the doorway.

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Henry had been wrong about the twins, too. Although Miss Manford and Penelope were indeed in the schoolroom, Phil was not. The three of them had held a conference following their return from the park.

"Well, we certainly did not find out anything new, Philip said. "If it had not been for that stupid cat getting stuck in that tree, we might have got close enough to have heard something useful:"

"It is hardly likely, dear," Miss Manford said practically, since Mr. Cranshawe and your sister were on horseback and moving. They would have seen us for sure if we had tried to get close."

"We could have moved along behind the trees," Philip said, sighing over the lost opportunity.

"Well, I think it all worked well," Penelope said, stroking the back of the cat as it lapped up a saucer of milk. -We certainly saved Henry from whatever the teeth had planned for her. And besides," she added, "if Cleopatra had not got stuck in the tree, we would never have found her.

"Well, I think we had better keep an eye on Henry twenty-four hours a day," said Philip melodramatically. "I don't trust that man."

"I am sure you exaggerate, dear boy," Miss Manford said. "He is a gentleman, after all."

"Manny, do gentlemen kiss ladies in public?" asked Philip scornfully.

Miss Manford declined to answer. She blushed instead.

"I think everything will be well for today," Penelope said, gathering the cat into her lap and continuing to stroke its back. "His Grace is taking her to the opera tonight, is he not?"

"We must watch her until then," Philip insisted. "She went to her room after luncheon."

"We have not had our history lesson today," Miss Manford protested.

"Oh, Manny, I can take the book with me and read while I watch," said Philip. "Are you coming, Pen?"

"Who is to look after Cleopatra?" she asked. "The poor little thing is feeling so strange and Oscar has been so rude to her."

"Well, she does stink a little bit, Pen," her brother said. "I shall go alone, then."

Philip, in the true spirit of the drama of the situation, as lie saw it, went first to his room and changed into the urchin's clothes that he had worn the night before, and then tiptoed quietly into the empty room opposite Henry's. Ile settled himself in a chair from which he could see the handle edge of her door through the door of his room, which he left slightly ajar.

Thus it was that Philip saw Henry slip from the house and was all ready to follow her. He did so without hesitation. It was obvious to him as soon as he saw her unusually drab outfit and as soon as she turned in the direction of the back stairs, that she was on some secret errand. He held her very carefully in sight until she hired a hackney cab. For a moment Philip was alarmed. He thought he would lose her. Fortunately, there was time after Henry got into the carriage and before it moved away for him to run forward and swing himself up behind. The driver did not notice, and none of the passersby seemed to consider his actions strange enough to raise any alarm.