One of the inn servants came in looking rather scared, and firmly shut the door. “Milor’, there is a gentleman outside demands to see the English lady. I told him she was supping with an English milor’, and he spoke through his teeth, thus: ‘I will see this English milor’,’ he said. Milor’, he has the look of one about to do a murder. Shall I summon milor’s own servants?”

“Certainly not,” said milor’. “Admit this gentleman.”

Miss Challoner put out her hand impulsively. “Sir, I beg you will not! If my lord is in one of his rages I cannot answer for what he may do. I have a great alarm lest your years should not protect you from his violence. Is there no way I can escape from this room unseen?”

“Miss Challoner, I must once more request you to be seated,” said milor’, bored. “Lord Vidal will lay violent hands on neither of us.” He looked across at the serving-man. “I do not in the least understand why you are standing there goggling at me,” he said. “Admit his lordship.”

The servant withdrew; Miss Challoner, standing still beside her chair, looked down rather helplessly at her host. She wondered what would happen when my lord came in. A clock had chimed midnight somewhere in the distance not long since; it was a very odd hour at which to be found supping with a strange gentleman, however venerable he might be, and she feared that the Marquis’s jealous temper might flare up with disastrous results. There seemed to be no hope of making her host understand that the Marquis in a black rage was scarcely responsible for his actions. The gentleman was maddeningly imperturbable: he was even smiling a little.

She heard a quick step in the hall; Vidal’s voice said sharply: “Stable my horse, one of you. Where is this Englishman?’

Miss Challoner laid her hand on the back of her chair, and grasped it as though for support. The servant said: “I will announce m’sieur.”

He was cut short. “I’ll announce myself,” said his lordship savagely.

A moment later the door was flung open, and the Marquis strode in, his fingers hard clenched on his riding-whip. He cast one swift smouldering glance across the room, and stopped dead, a look of thunderstruck amazement on his face. “Sir!” he gasped.

The gentleman at the head of the table looked him over from his head to his heels. “You may come in, Vidal,” he said suavely.

The Marquis stayed where he was, one hand still on the doorknob. “You here!” he stammered. “I thought ...”

“Your reflections are quite without interest, Vidal. No doubt you will shut that door in your own good time.”

To Miss Challoner’s utter astonishment the Marquis shut it at once, and said stiffly: “Your pardon, sir.” He tugged at his cravat. “Had I known that you were here—”

“Had you known that I was here,” said the elder man in a voice that froze Miss Challoner to the marrow, “you would possibly have made your entrance in a more seemly fashion. You will permit me to tell you that I find your manners execrable.”

The Marquis flushed, and set his teeth. An incredible and dreadful premonition seized Miss Challoner. She looked from the Marquis to her host, and her hand went instinctively to her cheek. “Oh, good God!” she said, aghast. “Are you—can you be—?” She could get no further.

The look of amusement crept back into the gentleman’s eyes. “As usual, you are quite right, Miss Challoner. I am that unscrupulous and sinister person so aptly described by you a while back.”

Miss Challoner’s tongue seemed to tie itself into knots. “I can’t—I would not—there is nothing I can say, sir, except that I ask your pardon.”

“There is not the smallest need, Miss Challoner, I assure you. Your reading of my character was most masterly. The only thing I find hard to forgive is your conviction that you had met me before. I don’t pretend to be flattered by the likeness you evidently perceived.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the Marquis politely.

Miss Challoner walked away to the fireplace. “I am ashamed,” she said. Real perturbation sounded in her voice. “I had no business to say what I did. I see now that I was quite at fault. For the rest—had I known who you were I would never have told you all that I did.”

“That would have been a pity,” said his grace. “I found your story extremely illuminating.”

She made a hopeless little gesture. “Please permit me to retire, sir.”

“You are no doubt fatigued after the many discomforts you have suffered to-day,” agreed his grace, “but I apprehend that my son—whose apologies I beg to offer—is come here expressly to see you. I really think that you would be well advised to listen to anything he may have to say.”

“I can’t!” she said, in a suffocated way. “Please let me go!”

The Marquis came quickly across the room to her side. He took her hands in his strong clasp, and said in a low voice: “You should not have fled from me. My God, do you hate me so much? Mary, listen to me! I’ll force nothing on you, but I beg of you, accept my name! There’s no other way I can right you in the eyes of the world. You must wed me! I swear to you on my honour I’ll not hurt you. I won’t come near you unless you bid me. Father, tell her she must marry me! Tell her how needful it is!”

His grace said placidly: “I find myself quite unable to tell Miss Challoner anything of the kind.”

“What, have you been one hour in her company and not seen how infinitely above me she is?” the Marquis cried hotly.

“By no means,” said the Duke. “If Miss Challoner feels herself able to become your wife I shall consider myself to be vastly in her debt, but out of justice to her I am bound to advise her to consider well before she throws herself away so lamentably.” He regarded Miss Challoner blandly. “My dear, are you sure you cannot do better for yourself than to marry Vidal?”

A laugh escaped the Marquis. He drew Miss Challoner closer. “Mary, look at me! Mary, little love!”

“I am of course loth to interrupt you, Vidal, but I desire to inform Miss Challoner that there is no reason why she should accept your hand unless she chooses.” The Duke rose, and came towards them. The Marquis let Miss Challoner go. “You appear to be a woman of so much sense,” said his grace, “that I find it hard to believe you can really desire to marry my son. I beg you will not allow the exigencies of your situation to weigh with you. If marriage with Vidal is distasteful to you I will arrange matters for you in some other way.”

Miss Challoner gazed down into the fire. “I cannot ... I—the Duchess—my sister—oh, I do not know what to say!”

“The Duchess need not trouble you,” said his grace. He walked to the door, and opened it. He glanced back, and said languidly: “By the way, Vidal’s morals are rather better than mine.” He went out, and the door closed softly behind him.

The Marquis and Miss Challoner were left confronting one another. She did not look at him, but she knew that his eyes never wavered from her face. He made no movement to recapture her hands; he said slowly: “Until you ran away with Comyn, I never knew how much I loved you, Mary. If you won’t marry me, I shall spend the rest of my life striving to win you. I’ll never rest till I’ve got you. Never, do you understand?”

A smile trembled on her lips. “And if I do marry you, my lord? You’ll let me go my own road? You’ll not come near me unless I wish it? You’ll not fly into rages with me, nor tyrannize over me?”

“I swear it,” he said.

She came to him, her eyes full of tender laughter. “Oh, my love, I know you better than you know yourself!” she said huskily. “At the first hint of opposition, you’ll coerce me shamefully. Oh, Vidal! Vidal!”

He had caught her in his arms so fiercely that the breath was almost crushed out of her. His dark face swam before her eyes for an instant, then his mouth was locked to hers, in a kiss so hard that her lips felt bruised. She yielded, carried away half-swooning on the tide of his passion. But in a moment she struggled to get her hands free, and at once his hold on her slackened. She flung up her arms round his neck, and with a queer little sound between a sob and a laugh, buried her face in his coat.

Chapter XIX

miss challoner appeared at the breakfast hour next morning rather shy, her face delicately tinged with colour. She found both the Marquis and his father in the parlour, and an elderly dapper little Frenchman whom she discovered to be his grace’s valet.

The Marquis carried her hand to his lips, and held it there for a moment. His grace said in his bored voice: “I trust you slept well, child. Pray be seated. Gaston, you will take my chaise immediately to Dijon, where you will find her grace.”

“Bien, monseigneur.”

“You will bring her to this place. Also my Lord Rupert, Miss Marling, and Mr. Comyn. That is all, Gaston.”

There had been a day when Gaston would have been appalled by such an order, but twenty-five years in Avon’s service had left their mark.

“Bien, monseigneur,” he replied without the smallest sign of surprise and bowed himself out.

The Marquis said impetuously: “I’ll make that fellow Hammond marry us, Mary, at once.”

“Very well,” said Miss Challoner equably.

“You will be married,” said his grace, “in Paris, at the Embassy.”

“But, sir—”

“A little coffee, my lord?” said Miss Challoner.

“I never touch it. Sir—”

“If his grace wishes you to married at the Embassy, my lord, I won’t be married anywhere else,” stated Miss Challoner calmly.

The Marquis said: “You won’t, eh? Sir, it’s very well, but it will cause a deal of talk.”

“I rather think that it will,” agreed Avon. “I had no time on my way through Paris to arrange the details. But I have no doubt that my friend Sir Giles will have done so by this time.”