Джорджетт Хейер - Devil’s Cub

“Good God, it’s Vidal!” ejaculated Lord Cholmondley.

Mr. Fox, who was playing piquet with him, tranquilly dealt a fresh hand. “Why not?” he inquired.

“Cold-blooded devil!” marvelled Cholmondley.

Mr. Fox looked bored, and waved a languid hand at the Marquis.

Vidal was standing just inside the card-room, apparently surveying the company. There was just a moment when all play was suspended, and heads turned in his direction. The sudden silence was broken by an inebriated gentleman seated by the window, who called out: “Hey, Vidal, what time did you make? Laid a monkey you’d not do it under the four hours.”

“You have lost your stake, my lord,” said the Marquis. He perceived Mr. Fox, and began to make his leisurely way across the room to his table.

A hum of talk broke out. Many disapproving glances were cast at Vidal’s tall figure, but he seemed unaware of them and passed to Mr. Fox’s side, a picture of cool unconcern.

Cholmondley had laid down his cards. “Is that true?” he demanded. “You made it in the four hours?”

The Marquis smiled. “I made it in three hours and forty-four minutes, my dear.”

“Man, you were drunk!” Cholmondley cried. “I’d say it was impossible!”

“Ask the judges,” shrugged the Marquis. “I warned you that I drive best when I am drunk.” He was watching the next table as he spoke. Loo was being played, but someone was leaving, and the party was broken up. The Marquis raised his voice slightly, addressing one of the players. “A hand of piquet, Mr. Comyn?”

Mr. Comyn turned his head quickly. A flicker of surprise showed in his face. He bowed. “I shall count myself honoured, my lord.”

Vidal strolled over to his table and waited while a waiter put fresh cards and placed chairs.

“Cut, Mr. Comyn,” said the Marquis.

Mr. Comyn obeyed, and won the deal.

“The usual stakes?” drawled the Marquis.

Mr. Comyn met his eye firmly. “Whatever you will, my lord.”

Vidal laughed suddenly, and abandoned his drawl. “We’ll play for love, Mr. Comyn.”

Mr. Comyn paused in the middle of his deal. “I can scarcely suppose, my lord, that that would amuse you.”

“Not in the least,” grinned the Marquis.

“Or me, my lord.”

“I never gamble in the family,” explained Vidal.

Mr. Comyn jumped. “Sir?”

“Well, sir?”

Mr. Comyn carefully laid down the pack. “Do I understand you to mean that you favour my suit, my lord?”

“Devilish precise, ain’t you?” commented Vidal. “I suppose if Juliana wants you she’ll have you. Get it out of your head that I have anything to do with it. It don’t concern me.”

Mr. Comyn leaned back in his chair. “I apprehend, my lord, that to play piquet with me was not your object in singling me out to-night.”

“Oh, I’ll play,” said his lordship. “But I don’t fleece my relatives, and I don’t care to be fleeced by ’em. Call it ten shillings a hundred.”

“Certainly — if that satisfies you,” said Mr. Comyn.

The Marquis’s eye twinkled. “Oh, I’m quite sober to-night.”

Mr. Comyn completed the deal and said slowly: “Without wishing to be guilty of impoliteness, my lord, your temper is such that I should not wish to play with you were you not sober.”

“Much wiser not,” agreed Vidal, putting down his discard. “Four only. You think I might blow a hole through you?”

Mr. Comyn picked up the remaining four cards. “Oh, surely not — in the family, my lord?”

Vidal laughed. “Egad, I think you’d better make all speed to Paris and abduct Juliana. You will do very well in our family. If you want my advice, let me recommend you to better your acquaintance with my father. I’ve a strong notion he might approve your suit. A point of six, a quinte, and three aces. Six played.”

Mr. Comyn drew six cards from his hand with some deliberation. “Taking into consideration, sir, the unfortunate circumstances under which I made his grace’s acquaintance — if such I can call it — I cannot suppose that a further meeting with me could be anything but repugnant to him.”

“It is evident,” retorted his lordship, “that you don’t know much of my father.” He played the rest of the hand in silence, but as the cards were gathered up he said: “I have it from my uncle that you in some sort upheld me last night. I’m obliged to you. Why did you do it? Policy? You don’t exactly love me, do you?”

A smile disturbed Mr. Comyn’s gravity. “On the contrary, my lord, I was under the impression that I detested you, but I believe I have an innate passion for justice.”

“I thought as much,” said the Marquis. “But to-day you find that I can be quite agreeable, and you reserve judgment.”

“True,” said Mr. Comyn thoughtfully. “Yet I confess that from time to time I find your manner calculated to arouse feelings of animosity in my breast.”

“Alas!” said his lordship. “Let us again endeavour. Sir, you were kind enough to speak in my defence yesterday. I am probably your debtor, since I dare say my respected father may have believed you. At any other season I might have put in a word for you to his grace, but I don’t imagine my word will carry much weight with him at the moment. Failing that, I make you a present of my advice. Marry my cousin out of hand. You won’t get her else.”

Mr. Comyn’s brow wrinkled. “So I have been given to understand. Yet I fail to see why Lady Fanny should consider my suit so ineligible. I do not desire to make a brag of my estate, but though not noble I believe it is not disgraceful, nor is my fortune contemptible. I am heir to a baronetcy of — ”

“You may be heir to a dozen baronetcies,” interrupted Vidal, “but you can’t compete with the heir to a dukedom.”

Mr. Comyn looked a question. “Myself,” said the Marquis. “Failing me, some other — if I know my aunt. She’s looking high, you see, and she’s a damned obstinate woman.”

“But, sir, to persuade Miss Marling into a runaway marriage is a course savouring strongly of the dishonourable.”

“She won’t need any persuading,” said his lordship callously. “And she hasn’t a fortune, so you needn’t fear to be thought an adventurer. You’ll do as you please about it, but that’s my advice.”

Mr. Comyn gathered up his hand and began to sort the cards.. “I must thank you, I suppose, but anything in the nature of irregularity, or clandestine conduct, is distasteful to me — especially in this delicate affair.”

“Then you shouldn’t ally yourself with my family,” replied his lordship.

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.”