While he was performing this errand, the two ladies remained in the summer-house, Miss Laxton quite dazed by her unexpected rescue, and Miss Grantham weaving plans in her head which might have surprised, though possibly not displeased, her companion, had she been aware of them.

Adrian returned presently with Miss Grantham’s cloak, and his own roquelaure. Miss Grantham wrapped Miss Laxton up in the cloak, which was by far too big for her, and drew the hood up over her pale curls. She herself accepted the roquelaure, informing his lordship that knight-errantry entailed sacrifice. They then made their way out of the gardens, without encountering any acquaintances, took sculls across to Westminster, and there picked up a hackney, which carried them safely to St James’s Square. Here his lordship took leave of them, promising, however, to call early on the following morning. He kissed both their hands on the doorstep, and Miss Laxton said shyly that she did not know how to thank him for all his kindness. Miss. Grantham, who thought privately that if matters had been left to his lordship, Miss Laxton would have been allowed to sob her heart out in the summer-house while he beat a strategic and alarmed retreat, waited indulgently for this touching leave-taking to come to an end, and did not knock on the door until his lordship had said his last farewell.

Silas Wantage, opening the door to admit his mistress, looked with surprise at the muffled figure of her companion, and directed an inquiring glance at Deborah. “Now, what’s to do?” he asked.

“I have brought a friend home with me, Silas. Are there many here tonight?”

“There’s a few. Don’t tell me you’re not up to your tricks again, Miss Deb, for I wouldn’t believe you!”

“Never mind that!” said Miss Grantham, with the quiver of a smile. “You need not tell anyone that I am in the house. I don’t mean to go into the saloons tonight. Tell Betty I want her in my bedchamber immediately! Come, my dear. We will slip up the backstairs, and no one will see you. Oh, Silas, remember! There was no one with me when I came home!”

“No one with you,” repeated Mr Wantage obediently. “You’ll be happy when you end in gaol, I dare say, but I won’t, and that’s the truth! Oh well! Be off with you, missie, and trust old Silas!”

Miss Grantham then led her guest up to her room on the second floor, by the backstairs, and was very soon joined by her maid, who carried a taper, and lit the candles for her. This damsel seemed a little surprised to discover that the unexpected visitor had come without so much as a night-bag, but accepted her mistress’s involved story of trunks, bandboxes, and a fraudulent coachman, and made no demur at being requested, at this hour of the night, to prepare the spare bedchamber, and to slip a hot brick between the sheets.

Miss Laxton, meanwhile, had shed the cloak, and was trying to straighten her dishevelled locks. When Betty left the room, she turned, saying impulsively: “Dear ma’am, I know I am putting you to a shocking deal of trouble, and I ought not to be here, but oh, I do thank you so very much.”

“Nonsense, child!” said Miss Grantham. “I have had a grudge against Filey these many months. But whether I should have brought you to this house is another matter. Perhaps I ought to have explained that my aunt holds—well, gaming parties.”

Contrary to her expectations, Miss Laxton seemed to regard this circumstance as being romantic rather than deplorable. She asked a great many questions about the house, and said wistfully that she wished that she too could preside over an E.O. table. Nothing of that nature, she explained, had ever come in her way. She had had a very dull life, sharing a horridly strict governess with her sisters, and being bullied by Mama. She thought she might do very well in a gaming-saloon, for she was excessively fond of cards, and had very often played at lottery or quadrille for hours together. It was true that she knew nothing of faro, but she thought (hopefully) that she would soon learn. Only the information that Sir James Filey patronized Lady Bellingham’s house induced her to abandon the idea of offering her services in the saloons.

Miss Grantham, who had been searching in her cupboard, turned, with one of her own nightgowns over her arm. “I am afraid you will be lost in this,” she said, “but it must serve for tonight. Tomorrow I will see about procuring clothes for you.”

“Oh, I never thought of that!” exclaimed Phoebe. “To be sure I have nothing in the world now but what I stand up in, and how can I travel to Wales in my party dress? Oh dear, I shall be such a charge on you, dear ma’am! But indeed my aunt will pay you back, I promise!”

“I wish you will call me Deb,” said Miss Grantham. “As to travelling into Wales, do you know, I have been thinking it over, and I fancy I have a better scheme in my head than that?”

“What is it?” asked Phoebe, sitting down on the edge of the bed, and clasping her hands in her lap. “I will do anything which you and Lord Mablethorpe think right.”

“Well, it seems to me,” said Miss Grantham, “that if you go to your aunt your Papa will very likely fetch you back. It would be much better if he did not know where you were. In the morning, we will write him a letter between us. You will explain that you do not wish to marry Sir James—”

“But he knows that!”

“Very well, you will remind him of it. You will say that you have sought refuge with friends, who are taking you into the country, and that you won’t return to your home unless he inserts an advertisement in the Morning Post, signifying that he will not ask you to marry Sir James.”

Phoebe looked a little doubtful. “Yes, but my Papa is so obstinate that I don’t suppose he will do it.”

“Fiddle! If he cannot find you, and he will not, he must do so.”

“He will be dreadfully angry,” said Phoebe, with a shiver.

“No, he will be glad to have you restored to him. Besides, he would be just as angry if you went to your aunt, would he not?”

“Yes, indeed he would! Oh dear, do you think I ought not to have run away at all? It happened so quickly that I had scarcely time to think, and now I see that whatever I do they will be angry with me. Besides, I have no friends, so where am I to go?”

“Nowhere, silly puss! You will stay here with me until your parents relent, or until I—until Lord Mablethorpe and I think what is to be done with you.”

“Oh!” cried Phoebe, jumping up. “If only I could! And then perhaps I could become a governess, or an actress, or something of that nature, and never, never go home again!”

“As to that,” said Miss Grantham diplomatically, “we shall have to consult Lord Mablethorpe.”

“Oh yes! He will know what I ought to do!” agreed Phoebe confidently.

Miss Grantham, having no such faith in his lordship’s wisdom, mentally resolved to prime him well, and led Miss Laxton away to the spare bedchamber, helped her to undress, and tucked her up snugly for the night.

Chapter 8

When Lady Bellingham, sipping her early chocolate in bed on the following morning, was informed by her niece that she had brought home a guest to stay, she not unnaturally demanded to know who the visitor might be. When she learned that she was none other than the Honourable Phoebe Laxton, and that her visit would be for an indefinite time, she laid down her cup and saucer and regarded Deborah with real concern.

“Deb, my love, are you feeling quite the thing?” she asked anxiously. “You never told me that you were acquainted with the Laxtons, and why in heaven’s name should one of them wish to come and stay here, when they have a very good house of their own?”

“I am not acquainted with the Laxtons,” replied Miss Grantham, with a twinkle. “I never saw this child in my life until yesterday. I am helping her to escape from gross persecution, you must know.”

“Oh dear, as though we had not trouble enough!” groaned her aunt. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, you unnatural girl!”

Deborah laughed, and, sitting down beside the bed, gave Lady Bellingham an account of the events of the evening. Her ladyship was quite horrified, and told her that she was little better than a kidnapper. She then begged her to consider the danger she courted in offending a man of Filey’s standing in the world, not to mention Miss Laxton’s parents, and expressed herself as being fully satisfied now that she was out of her mind.

“Besides, Deb, what are we to do with the girl if her parents don’t relent?” she asked reasonably.

Miss Grantham’s eyes danced. “Well, dear ma’am, I have a little plan of my own for Phoebe’s future,” she said.

Lady Bellingham looked at her uneasily. “I don’t trust you, Deb. I know you have some dreadful scheme in your head when you look like that! What am I to say if Lady Laxton comes here demanding her daughter?”

“Dearest Aunt Lizzie, this must surely be the last house in London where Lady Laxton would think of looking for her daughter! While she remains with us, by the way, she is to be known as Miss Smith, in case the servants should talk.”

“Yes, but how long is she to remain with us?” asked her ladyship. “If it is not just like you, Deb, to fill the house with guests when there is no money to pay the coal-bill! And poor Kit is coming next week besides! We shall be ruined! And I must tell you that Ormskirk was here last night, and when he asked me where you were I declare I hardly knew how to answer him. But I dare say he guessed, for he said in a very dry voice that he saw Mablethorpe was absent too. Oh dear, what a tangle we are in, my love, and you making it so much the worse with all this nonsense about Miss Laxton, let alone enraging Ravenscar, and behaving so abominably at Vauxhall that I declare I feel quite ashamed to own you! Where is this girl?”