She raised her eyes. He smiled faintly. “Obedient girl! If you had as much confidence in my integrity as you have in your cousin’s it would be no bad thing.”

“I do not mistrust you,” she answered in a low voice. “We shall be remarked. Please let me go, Lord Worth!”

He released her. “One of a guardian’s privileges is to be seen talking to his ward without occasioning remark,” he said. “I can assure you he has not many.”

She set her hand on the stair-rail, preparing to follow Lady Jersey. She looked a little arch. “Is your position as my guardian so painful, sir?”

“It is a damnable position,” he said deliberately, and turned away, leaving her staring.

Chapter XIII

Not altogether to Miss Taverner’s surprise, Peregrine’s stay in Hertfordshire was prolonged beyond the original week to a fortnight, and again to three weeks. She was warned four times through the medium of the post to expect him, only to receive a hasty scrawl next day postponing his return a little longer; and remarked humorously to her cousin that the sight of the postman’s scarlet coat and cockaded hat in Brook Street was beginning to mean nothing but another put-off. “But it cannot go on for ever,” she said with a twinkle. “Sir Geoffrey must grow tired at last of franking Perry’s letters to me, and then we may expect to see him in town again.”

Meanwhile, Miss Taverner’s days continued to be so fully occupied that she had little leisure for missing her brother. She received two more offers of marriage, both of which she civilly declined; sat to have her portrait taken by Hoppner at the earnest solicitation of her cousin, and twice went to the play in the company of her guardian. He said nothing to annoy her on either of these occasions, but on the contrary talked so much like a sensible man, and saw to her comfort in such a practised manner, that she was quite in charity with him, and could thank him for two pleasant evenings with perfect sincerity.

“You have nothing to thank me for,” he returned. “Do you think I have not had a great deal of pleasure in your company?”

She smiled. “I have not been used to hear you say things so prettily, Lord Worth.”

“No, nor have I been used to find my ward so amiable,” he replied.

She held up her finger. “Do not let us be recalling past differences, if you please! I am determined not to quarrel with you; it is useless to provoke me.”

He looked amused. “Ever, Miss Taverner?”

“Oh, as to that, there is no saying, to be sure! To-night I am your guest, and must accord you a little extraordinary civility, to-morrow I may abuse you with a clear conscience.”

“Indeed! do you mean to do so? Have you received another offer of marriage for me to refuse without consulting you?”

She shook her head. “I hold it to be a bad thing for any female to talk of the offers she may have received,” she said briefly.

“Your opinion does you honour; but you may confide in me with perfect propriety. I conjecture that you have received several. Why do you look so grave?”

She raised her eyes to his face, and found that he was watching her with a softened expression, which she might almost have believed to be sympathy, had she not been persuaded that he knew nothing of so gentle an emotion. She said in a desponding tone: “It is quite true. I have received numerous offers, but there is nothing to boast of in that, for I think not one of them would have been made had I not been possessed of a large fortune.”

He replied coolly: “None, I imagine.”

There was no vestige of sympathy in his voice. If her spirits stood in need of support this matter-of-fact tone was no bad thing. She was obliged to smile, though she said with a faint sigh: “It is a melancholy thought.”

“I cannot agree with you. Being born to a handsome independence you have all the consequence of being the most sought-after young woman in London.’”

“Yes,” she said rather sadly, “but to be sought after for one’s fortune is no great compliment. You laugh at me, but in this respect I must think myself most uncomfortably circumstanced.”

“Depend upon it, your fortune will not frighten away an honest man,” he replied.

“Why, no, that is left for you to do,” she said playfully.

He smiled. “I will not allow it to have been so. I have frightened away fortune-hunters, and you should be grateful to me.”

“Perhaps I am. But I am quite at a loss to know why, having said that you will not consent to my marriage while I am your ward, you raise no objection to Perry’s engaging himself.”

“Miss Fairford seems to be an unexceptional girl. I am indulging the hope that if I ever let Peregrine marry her she will relieve me of some at least of my responsibilities.”

“You should reflect that my husband would relieve you of them all,” she said.

The carriage had stopped in Brook Street by this time; as the door was opened the Earl said: “You are mistaken: I have no wish to be relieved of them all.”

It was fortunate that in the business of being handed out of the carriage the necessity of answering should be lost. Judith had no answer ready. Her guardian’s words argued an attempt at gallantry, yet his manner was so far removed from the lover-like, that she was quite at a loss to understand him. She stepped down from the carriage, remarking as she did so that it now seemed to be a certain thing that Peregrine would be in London again the following day.

He had apparently no objection to this change of subject. “Indeed! You do not fear another put-off?”

“No, I believe we may be sure of seeing him this tune. One of the children, Lady Fairford’s youngest, has the sore throat, and they fear it may be found to be infectious. Perry is to come home.”

“At what hour do you expect him?”

“I do not know, but I cannot suppose that he will be late.”

The footman was holding open the front door. The Earl said: “Very well, I must be glad for your sake. Good night, my ward.”

“Good night, my guardian,” said Miss Taverner, giving him her hand.

Peregrine arrived in London midway through the afternoon, in a glow of health and spirits. He had had a capital time, was sorry to have left; there was no place like the country, after all. He and Tom Fairford had made the journey in famous time, though not without adventure. Judith must remember that he had travelled into Hertfordshire in his own curricle, instead of going post. Well, as she might suppose, he had returned in the same way, and had engaged to reach town ahead of Tom Fairford, also driving a curricle-and-four.

“I was driving my bays, you know. Tom had a team of greys—showy, but a trifle on the large size: heavy brutes, very well for hilly work, I daresay, but no match for my bays. I drew ahead pretty soon, taking the Hatfield road, the Fairfords’ place being situated, as I believe I told you, considerably to the east of St. Albans. In going there I took the road through Edgware and Elstree, but found it to be in no good case.”

“No,” agreed his sister patiently. “You wrote as much to me: you were determined to come back by the Great North road. I remember my cousin being surprised at it, thinking the other way more direct.”

“Oh yes, I believe it may be, but a bad road: no chance of springing your horses on it. Worth told me as much, advised the North Road at the outset, but I thought I would try the other. However, that’s neither here nor there. We ran a ding-dong race to Hatfield, and drew level at Bell Bar, the turnpike man being deaf, as I suppose, and keeping me waiting a good three minutes before he would open the gate. But it may have been that new man of mine I had with me. He carried the yard of tin, you know, but he has no notion how to sound it—put me out of all patience. I daresay the pike-keeper might not hear it at first. So Tom drew level with me there, and we had a famous race of it to Barnet. His nags were blowing by that tune, and he changed them at the Green Man. Mine had got their second wind some way back; I pushed on to Whetstone, had a fresh team harnessed up there—small quick-steppers, capital for a flat stage—and was away before Tom came in sight. Well, as you remember, Ju, you come on to Finchley Common past Whetstone. You know how we saw Turpin’s Oak, and wondered whether we should be held up by highwaymen. No sign of highwaymen that day, but would you believe it, I was held up to-day!”

“Good God!” Judith exclaimed. “You were actually robbed?”

“No such thing. But I will tell you. I had not driven a great distance over the Common—had not reached Tally Ho Corner, in fact—when I caught sight of a horseman, half-hidden from me by some trees. I was travelling at a smart pace, as you may guess—nothing on the road beyond a post-chaise met with half a mile back—and I made nothing of this rider, hardly noticed him. Imagine my amazement when a shot came whistling by my head! I believe it must have killed me, only that that man of mine, chancing to catch sight of the rogue as he was about to fire, fairly knocked me out of my seat. So the bullet went wide, and there we were, Hinkson snatching at the reins, and one of the leaders with his leg over the trace. I thought we had been overset at any moment. I need not tell you it did not take me long to snatch my pistol from the holster, but I’d no luck; could not well see our man for the trees. I took my shot at a venture, and missed. Hinkson thrust the reins into my hands, and just as our man comes out of the thicket, what does Hinkson do but whip out a pistol from his picket, and fire it! Did you ever hear of a groom carrying pistols before? But so it was. He fired, and our man lets a squawk, claps his hand to his right arm, and drops his barker. By that time I’d pulled out our second pistol, but there was no need to use it. The rascal was making off as fast as his horse would carry him, and when Tom came up, as he soon did, we had the leaders disentangled, and were ready to be off again.”