Ravenscar picked up the papers, and slipped them into the wide pocket of his coat. “Very fortunate,” he agreed. “You are fifteen hundred pounds in hand, my lord. Do you care to continue the game?”

Ormskirk raised his brows mockingly. “Had you not better count them? You will find there are six in all, for varying sums.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” replied Ravenscar. “Shall we continue?”

“By all means!” Ormskirk said, and sat down again. “We'll find that this—ah, transaction—has changed my luck.”

“We may,” agreed Ravenscar, cutting the cards towards him.

It seemed, in the next rubber, that the luck had indeed veered in his lordship’s favour. He played cautiously for while, grew bolder presently, won a little, lost a large rubber refilled his glass, and allowed all other considerations than the overmastering desire to get the better of Ravenscar too far from his mind. As the fumes of the brandy mounted to his brain, not clouding it, but exciting him, he ceased to keen an eye on the sum of his losses.

It was three o’clock when Ravenscar said: “It is growing late. I make it four thousand, my lord.”

“Four thousand,” Ormskirk repeated blankly. He looked at Ravenscar, not seeing him, wondering which of his horses he would be obliged to sell, knowing if he sold all he would be unable to extricate himself from his embarrassment. Mechanically he opened his delicate Sevres snuff box, and took a pinch. “You will have to give me time,” he said, hating the need to speak these words.

“Certainly,” Ravenscar replied. One of the candles was guttering; he snuffed it. “Or you might prefer to let me purchase from you the mortgage on Lady Bellingham’s house,” he said coolly.

Ormskirk stared at him for a moment. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. He said with an edge to his smooth voice, “What’s your object, Ravenscar?”

“I have told you.”

“The mortgage is for five thousand: it may be worth some thing over four.”

“We need not haggle over the figure, I suppose. I will give you five thousand for it.”

“You would appear to cherish an unusual degree of affection for your young relative,” Ormskirk said, his lips curling in faint sneer.

Ravenscar shrugged. “The boy is in some sort my responsibility.”

“It is gratifying to meet with such a sense of duty in these days. Yet it seems to me that you are paying high for hi salvation, my dear Ravenscar!”

“You are mistaken: I am acting for Lady Mablethorpe.”

“Do you know,” said Ormskirk softly, “I have the oddest idea in my head? I cannot rid myself of the notion that you have some other motive in acquiring this hold over Deb Grantham.”

“It is not love, if that is what you mean, my lord.”

“Indeed? Then what may it be?”

A smile flickered in Ravenscar’s eyes. “A strong dislike of being worsted in a fight.”

Ormskirk regarded him fixedly for a few moments, tapping the lid of his snuff box with one polished finger-nail. A short laugh broke from him; he rose from his chair, and once more trod over to his writing-table. “After all, why not?” he said, with one of his airy gestures. He pulled open the drawer, took from it a folded document, and tossed it to his guest. “Take it! You have it all now, have you not? I suppose you meant to have it from the start. Do not think me unkind if I say that I hope she worsts you again, my dear Ravenscar: it would do you so much good!”

Chapter 9

Miss Laxton’s letter having been delivered to her parents through the medium of the post, she had nothing to do but to await events, not omitting, of course, to scan the advertisement columns of the Morning Post. No intimation of surrender on her father’s part made its appearance there immediately, but this, Miss Grantham pointed out, was not surprising, as no doubt the Laxtons would first prosecute inquiries amongst their acquaintances. She was able to report, on the evening following Miss Laxton’s escape, that Sir James Filey was playing faro in the Yellow Saloon, and seemed to be in the devil’s own temper. Miss Laxton, curled up with an exciting novel from the lending library in Lady Bellingham’s boudoir, giggled, and said she did not care a button, and only wished that she could remain in St James’s Square for the rest of her life. Possibly out of regard for her aunt’s quite different wishes, Miss Grantham took what steps she could to prevent this from coming to pass by descending again to the saloons, and suggesting softly to Lord Mablethorpe that he might go upstairs to sit with the poor child for a while, to save her from dying of boredom. His lordship was perfectly ready to obey this, or any other behest, and slipped away presently, to spend a comfortable hour playing at cribbage with Phoebe. In between games he extolled Deborah’s virtues to Miss Laxton and Miss Laxton agreed with him that she was wonderful woman, and said that she was not at all surprised at his being determined to make her his wife. She was quite shocked to hear from him of his mother’s opposition, and in general showed herself to be so sympathetic that his lordship found himself confiding far more to her than he had meant to. Where the conversation veered towards Miss Laxton’s future, he found his part in it more difficult to sustain, for he could not think what was to be done if her parents remained obdurate He was firm, however, on three points: on no account must Phoebe marry Sir James, apply for a post as governess, to tread the boards. Phoebe said that if he thought it wrong of her to become an actress or a governess, she would not do it; because she knew well that he was more worldly-wise than she and she meant to be guided by his judgement. His lordship was conscious of a strong conviction that some well-disposed person ought to take Miss Laxton under his wing, and protect her from the buffets of the world, but try as he would he was unable to thing of anyone who would be at all suitable to fill the post. He made up his mind to consult Deborah on this point. Meanwhile, he assured Phoebe that while he remained in some part responsible for her well-being she had nothing to fear from Filey, or, indeed, from anyone else. Miss Laxton, looking up into his face with dewy eyes, said simply that she knew she was safe with him, had known it from the first moment of seeing him.

It was not to be expected that Lord and Lady Laxton would advertise their loss to the world, and as Deborah did not move in their circle she had no means of learning what their emotions might be upon receipt of their daughter’s politely worded ultimatum. Lady Mablethorpe was acquainted with the family, but a few casual questions put to her by her son merely elicited the information that she had always considered Augusta Laxton to be an odious woman, with an overbearing nature, and grasping ways, and that how she hoped to marry a pack of girls respectably was a mystery to everyone. Asked if she were in the habit of visiting the Laxton establishment, she replied that she never went there unless she was obliged to.

Lady Bellingham, although resigned, she said, to any conceivable folly on the part of her niece, wished to know what was to be done with her guest if her parents failed to insert the desired notice in the Morning Post. “For the girl cannot spend the rest of her days in hiding,” she pointed out, without the least hope of being attended to. “I am sure it must be very bad for her to walk out only at dusk, and then heavily veiled; and unless Augusta Laxton has changed since I knew her, which I cannot credit, she will very likely be glad to be rid of at least one of her brood of daughters, and not make the least push to discover her whereabouts.”

“Well, I hope you may be right,” said Miss Grantham. “My only fear is that she may have hired the Bow Street Runners to find Phoebe.”

This suggestion was so appalling that Lady Bellingham sank plump into a chair. “My love, don’t say such a thing! Oh dear, what have you done? Only think of the scandal if the law officers were to come to this house! We shall all be prosecuted!”

“My dear ma’am, there is not the least likelihood of such a thing happening. No one knows of any circumstance connecting me with Phoebe, and Adrian must be quite above suspicion.”

But the idea, once instilled into Lady Bellingham’s brain, took such strong possession of it that it might well have brought on her dreaded spasms had it riot been ousted by a far more pressing threat.

The following morning’s post brought Miss Grantham a curt communication from Mr Ravenscar.

It was handed to her as she sat at breakfast with her aunt and her protégée. She did not recognize the handwriting, which was very black and firm, and the crest on the seal was equally strange to her. She turned it over idly, broke open the seal, and spread out the single, crackling sheet of paper.

She was eating a slice of bread-and-butter as she ran her eye down the missive, and startled her aunt by choking suddenly. She let a hasty exclamation escape her, swallowed a stray crumb, which found its way into her windpipe, and fell into helpless coughing. By the time she had been restored by having her back briskly slapped by her aunt, all the impropriety of disclosing the contents of her letter in Miss Laxton’s presence had been recollected, and she sat with it in her lap throughout the rest of the meal. Lady Bellingham noticed that she was unusually silent, and saw that her eyes were smouldering and her cheeks unduly flushed. Her heart sank, for she knew these signs. “My love, I do trust you have not received some bad news?” she said nervously.

“Bad news, ma’am?” said Miss Grantham, sitting ver5 straight in her chair. “Oh, dear me, no! Nothing of that nature!”