... And The Chummery

34

… And The Chummery

    Midge had been amused at Corinna’s story of her husband’s disappearing to his club in the wake of their disagreement over her dinner party, but she was not, very naturally, amused at all to wake, rather late, and find that Jarvis had disappeared “on business”, according to Slight. There was no sign of Mr Crayshaw, so presumably he had gone, too, but Midge, frankly, was not interested. She ate breakfast silently, served attentively by the two Wynton House footmen who had competed eagerly to serve Miss Burden last autumn—yes, a lifetime ago—George and Frederick; and by, oh dear, Frederick from Maunsleigh. She had completely forgotten, when inviting him warmly to accompany them to the great metropolis, that that would make two footmen called Frederick in the town house!

    Eventually she said: “May I ask, where is John, this morning, Frederick?”

    There was a short silence. Finally Wynton-House Frederick looked at Maunsleigh Frederick and John’s brother explained: “Mr Slight is learning him up about silver this morning, my Lady: he do have a special receet, that he reckons will shine your silver like nothing.”

    “Glassy, my Lady,” explained Wynton-House Frederick.

    “I see: well, that is good. You know,” said Midge on a desperate note, “I really do not think I can continue to call the both of you Frederick: would one of you perhaps prefer to be Fred, or Freddy?”

    “Mr Slight wouldn’t like it, my Lady,” said Wynton-House Frederick.

    “No more would Mr Bates, neither, if I may make so bold, my Lady,” said Maunsleigh Frederick swiftly.

    “Oh, dear. No, of course they would not,” said Midge kindly. Relieved expressions appeared on both young men’s faces. “Well—um—well, it is difficult, is it not? Which of you is senior? I know you are head footman at Maunsleigh, Frederick,” she said, smiling at him, “but then, the situation is different here, for you are just visiting, of course.”

    “Yes, my Lady.”

    “George is head footman, my Lady,” explained Wynton-House Frederick respectfully.

    “Yes, of course he is,” agreed Midge, smiling warmly at George. “I wonder, would you have a suggestion, George?”

    “No, my Lady!” he gasped.

    The position of footman clearly did not encourage original thought: Midge cast a swift thought or two in the direction of “other ranks” and the problems of “command”, as swiftly closed her mind to the whole notion, and said on a weak note: “Well, whenever I say ‘Frederick’, you had best both respond; I shall not mind any—any confusion.”

    “Yes, my Lady,” said the Fredericks respectfully.

    Midge looked gloomily at the coffee-pot; whereupon they both sprang into action. Eventually she had to dispatch them both in quest of more coffee and, though she did not want any, more hot rolls.

    When they returned, each bearing his offering with, Midge did not think it was but her fancy, a militant look in his eye, it was with the message that Mr Harry Morphett had called, and if it was too early he would go away again, my Lady. Verbatim, apparently.

    “Oh. I suppose— Well, it is not really early, is it?” said Midge unthinkingly to Wynton-House Frederick.

    “No, my Lady,” he agreed respectfully.

    “Um—well, he is his Lordship’s cousin. What do you think, George?” she said desperately. “Might he come in?”

    “We could ask Mr Slight, my Lady,” he said respectfully.

    “Perhaps we had better: could you fetch him, please?”

    Slight thought, with a fatherly look in his eye, that it would be quite unexceptionable for her Ladyship to see Mr Harry.

    “Good morning, Cousin!” said Mr Harry with a laugh, coming in behind an immense bunch of flowers. “Deliberatin’ with old Slight over whether I was respectable enough to be seen at your breakfast table, was you?”

    “Yes; how sharp you are, Mr Harry. –Thank you,” she said limply as he presented the flowers with a low bow.

    “Oh, we is cousins now, y’know!” Gracefully Harry bent to kiss her cheek. “You may call me Harry,” he said in melting tones.

    “Stop that this instant,” replied Midge weakly. “I shall call you Cousin Harry, at the outside.”

    “People will think it odd,” he warned, pulling up a chair, unasked, and sitting down very close.

    “What? Why should they?”

    “Cousin Harry At The Outside is such a very strange appellation.”

    “Monster,” replied Lady Sleyven amiably. “Behave, or I shall not say how very glad I am to see you.”

    “Me, too. And warmest congratulations, of course!” he said with a laugh.

    “‘At last,’ do you mean?” replied Midge drily.

    “No, no, no, Cousin Midge! What a thought!”

    “Yes, isn’t it? –These warmest congratulations are of course from all of you,” she noted.

    “Oh, Mamma’s almost reconciled,” he replied cheerfully. “Given that the alternative is Cousin Josiah Wynton’s appalling descendants stepping into Cousin Sleyven’s shoes. –Out, is he?”

    “You would look very silly if he were not, and walked through that door in the middle of that last speech,” replied Midge drily.

    “No I shouldn’t, Cousin Midge, you know me: I should look frankly terrified; and probably hide beneath this table.”

    Midge broke down in giggles, shaking her head at him in a helpless manner.

    Very gratified, Mr Harry took her hand and kissed it lightly, remarking, a sparkle in his eye: “I have missed you: town is damned flat without you, Cousin.”

    “What a lie,” said Midge weakly, withdrawing the hand.

    “No, true: full of simpering débutantes and over-dressed hogget.”

    Midge gulped.

    “All my own,"” he said modestly, waving at his slim chest.

    “Mm, I am sure.”

    “I say, why did you not invite us to Maunsleigh for Christmas? We was fully expecting an invitation, y’know,” he said, taking a roll.

    “I had nothing to do with the Christmas arrangements at Maunsl— I think you are very probably aware of that,” realised Midge grimly. “Would you like some coffee?” He nodded cheerfully, and Midge said unguardedly: “Frederick, bring a cup for Mr Harry, please.”

   Harry watched with interest as the two Fredericks jostled, in a polite but determined fashion, to get out of the room.

    “Wynton-House Frederick, please,” said Midge feebly.

    Forthwith Mr Harry collapsed in horrible splutters: choking, indeed, on his roll. Midge bounced up and unceremoniously banged him on the back.

    “Thanks!” he gasped. “There ain’t another countess in London what would do that for a fellow!”

    “If that be good or bad,” said Midge with a martial light in her eye: “I cannot tell.”

    “But— Oh!” he said with a yelp. “You are a complete hand, Cousin Midgey!”

    “Don’t call me that,” said Midge hurriedly, turning crimson. “Cousin Midge, if you must.”

    Harry eyed her with great interest. “Oh? His pet-name, is it?”

    “Y— N— Um—it is a family name, I suppose.”

    “But I am part of the family!” he protested, opening his eyes very wide. “No, I'm sorry!” he said with a laugh, seeing she was beginning to glare. “Of course I shall not, if you do not wish for it.”

    “I really think he’d be annoyed,” admitted Lady Sleyven.

    Harry gave her a sharp look, but made no remark, only saying lightly: “Well! What are your plans for today?”

    “Um—oh, dear. I have to see Slight and Mrs Sharp and then the chef.”

    “Good, that will be interesting.”

    “You’ll be bored,” said Midge faintly.

    “Of course I shall not! Then should you care for a stroll?”

    “Um—well, yes,” admitted Midge, suddenly struck by a horrible vision of the emptiness of her morning, if she did not accompany him. What was the alternative? To put on a smart bonnet, order up the barouche, and trundle round the fashionable squares leaving cards? Ugh. “I should love to, but are you sure you don't mind waiting while I speak to the servants?”

    “No, of course not. Mamma will be most interested to hear me report,” he said outrageously.

    “Monster,” replied Midge cheerfully. “Good: that’s settled!”

    Harry nodded and beamed innocently. Midge was aware that he was not as innocent as he looked; but she was also aware that he was harmless—and he was, after all, her husband’s cousin. Added to which, he was here: a not inconsiderable point.

    A smart bonnet having been assumed, together with, it being a fine day with some high cloud, but not especially warm, a promenade outfit that coincidentally was much prettier than the print she had been wearing when her husband’s cousin arrived, the two set forth. Blefford Square being not far from the Park, they turned their steps in that direction.

    The Earl was at White’s, reading a newspaper, when his connection Viccy Grey lounged up to him. “Hullo, Jarvis: heard you was in town. Congratulations and so forth.”

    Jarvis got up hurriedly and shook his hand. “Thanks, Viccy.”

    The elegant Mr Grey sat down beside him, and called for a pot of coffee. “In m’father’s day, y’know, it was impossible to get anything weaker than a glass of claret here after noon.”

    “Given that they all appear to have been four-bottle-a-day men, in those days, I am not surprised.”

    “Six,” he murmured with a smile. “Saw your wife in the Park this morning: looking well.”

    “Oh?”

    Mr Grey relented and said: “Well, she was only with me idiot nephew, Harry. Harry Morphett, not Harry Grey—nor Harry Spedding, come to think of it.”

    “I am glad that it was not Harry Spedding, at all events,” he said evenly.

    “Mm.” Mr Grey looked at him out of the corner of his eye.

    “Don’t tell me that is your point, Viccy, I am not that slow.”

    “No, well, far be it from me, dear man: but ain’t this virtually your honeymoon, still? –Mind you,” he said, choking slightly, “about a week after Stamforth tied himself up to the little Portuguese Widow—” He related this story lightly but with considerable relish.

    Jarvis eyed him sourly. “Thanks: I’ll get round to Fioravanti’s and knock the stuffin’ out of some unfortunate, then.”

    “Understood fencing was not your sport?”

    “Is it his?” he replied drily.

    Mr Grey broke down in delighted sniggers. Recovering from them to murmur: “Dining in, this evening, are you?”

    “I believe we have an engagement,” he said levelly.

    Mr Grey shook his head. “Not a married man, but they say the onlooker sees most of the game, don’t they?’

    “Do they?”

    “Though personally I have never subscribed to the notion that because an idée is reçue, it must be credited.” Mr Grey sipped coffee. “I could tell you the rest of the Stamforth story, if you like.”

    “Don’t bother, thank you, Viccy. If you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment with my lawyer.”

    “In m’father’s day—not to say in your late cousin’s day—one merely ordered the lawyer fellow to attend at Wynton House,” he murmured.

    “I am very sure of it. For myself, I am not living in the last century,” said Jarvis grimly.

    Mr Grey merely smiled a little, flapped a hand at him, noted: “If this dinner engagement be at Hammond House, I shall see you there,” and returned to his  coffee.

    Jarvis replied as evenly as he could: “Good-bye for the nonce, then, Viccy,” and walked out, doing his damnedest not to scowl.

    He blinked, as the Countess came into the small salon in a blaze of diamonds with palest lilac watered silk and silver gauze.

    “It’s wrong, isn't it?” said Midge grimly.

    “Er—well, I think it is a trifle much, Midge,” he murmured.

    “May chose it. Do not say it: she is just a girl, and their taste does err,” she said heavily.

    “Er…” He rubbed his chin. “Perhaps not the diamonds?”

    “But it’s Hammond House!” cried Midge. “I asked you, and you said that the diamond set would be most suitable for Hammond House and so forth!”

    “Did I?” he said blankly. She had most certainly not asked him tonight: in fact, it was the first time he had set eyes on her all day. He did not, perhaps unfortunately, pause to ask himself if that were entirely Midge’s fault. “When?”

    “When you made me wear the diamonds for that stupid dinner-party at Maunsleigh! The first one!” she said impatiently.

    “Oh—yes, I probably did.”

    “You said Hammond House or Blefford House, or if Lady Frayn invited us to anything more than a family occasion, or—”

    “Yes. There is no need to tell the list over to me, Midge, I am sure I did. The diamonds in themselves are entirely suitable for Hammond House, it is just… Possibly that dress is too silvery for them. Or—remove the wrap, my dear.”

    Scowling, Midge laid it on a chair.

    “That is better,” he conceded.

    “But May assures me that ladies are wearing evening scarves or shawls, and this one is in the latest mode!”

    “Nevertheless it is too much with that gown and the diamonds…” He looked thoughtfully at her. Midge scowled and fidgeted. “Perhaps if you remove the bracelets.”

    She removed the twin bracelets.

    “That is quite a lot better: I think perhaps you are too short to wear the whole set, my dear.”

    “You made me, that other time.”

    “Yes, but I think I was wrong.”

    “I cannot grow another six inches merely in order to suit the Wynton diamonds!”

    “No. Pray try removing the breast-plate!” he said cheerfully.

    Carefully she unpinned the large brooch from her bosom. “Shall I take the necklace off?”

    “No-o… No, with the earrings and the diadem in the hair it is quite tasteful,” he decided.

    “I shall bear that in mind,” replied Midge grimly, avoiding his eye and wishing fervently that he did not appear so grand in his evening clothes. He was quite overpowering enough, in the ordinary way: but in dress clothes he was impossibly intimidating. Not that she intended to let that influence her conduct; but it would be so much easier to deal with the creature if her knees did not have this stupid habit of going all trembly at the sight of him! And being married had made it worse, not better: because sometimes his face would take on an expression—or he would smile, so, or just the turn of his head would call to mind— “Shall we go?” she said tightly.

    “Certainly, my dear.”

    In the carriage she was silent at first; then she said nervously: “They are Whigs, of course.”

    “Mm.”

    “Jarvis, I have entirely forgotten what she is!” burst out Midge.

    “I beg your pardon, Midge?”

    “The Marchioness of Rockingham! I know she has the slightest of accents; and Miss Partridge told me her history, I am very nearly almost sure of it; but there are so many Hammonds and Hammond connections, and—”

    “Oh!” he said with a smothered laugh. “What she is; I see. The little Marchioness is half-Spanish, my dear: her papa is a Sir Harry Ainsley and her mamma is a Spanish lady, and they live on the family estates in Spain.”

    “Oh,” said Midge, sagging. “Spanish: yes.”

    “Her hair is very much the same shade as yours, but very much curlier.”

    “I have met her.”

    “Yes. She is very young,” he said placidly. “I think it is three children they have.”

    “Yes: Miss Partridge said. The eldest two are twins, a boy and a girl!” said Midge eagerly. “Quite unusual, is it not?’

    “Mm,” he agreed with a smile in his voice. “They say twins run in her family; I think there are younger siblings who are twins.”

    “I see. So what is the youngest child, Jarvis?

    “Lord and lady Rockingham’s? I forget. You could ask her, Midgey,” he murmured.

    “Yes,” said Midge in a tiny voice. “I suppose I could.”

    Jarvis took her hand gently. “Midgey, I know I’ve put my foot in it, but I’m not sure how. What have I done? Or have you not forgiven me over the Little Jefford business?”

    Midge opened her mouth but at that moment the carriage drew up and the door was flung open for them. Jarvis had forgotten how very close Hammond House was. “Damn,” he muttered, releasing her.

    It was in the highest degree unlikely that the little Marchioness of Rockingham, who was as sweet-natured as she was pretty, had arranged her table that evening precisely in order to spite the Earl of Sleyven: but it felt very much like it. Jarvis had not hoped that Lady Rockingham would flout convention to the extent of putting him and Midge next each other: only, perhaps, within speaking distance. But they were widely separated: she was nearer to the Marchioness’s end of the table, while Jarvis was at one remove from his host. He both liked and respected Lord Rockingham, and since inheriting the title had begun to discover the scope of his Lordship’s charitable activities and knew that he was very far from the rather bluff persona that he presented to the world. Nevertheless he would have preferred not to have been so close to him this evening and rather closer to his own wife. The more so as the Marchioness had seen fit to place the Fürstin von Maltzahn-Dressen between the two men. The Fürstin was actually English by birth but that did not make it better. She was known as one of the wittiest women in London and was most certainly one of the two or three best-dressed; but with the wit and the charm went a marked taste for observing her victim squirm on her pin before the coup de grâce was delivered. She had a drawling, husky voice with an odd little break in it; as an unmarried man Jarvis would have found her enchanting, if damned irritating with it; and might have been in danger of succumbing to her charms, though her figure was rather on the slender side for his tastes. As it was, he felt merely irritated.

    Midge, on the other hand, had been favoured with Lady Rockingham’s own brother, a Mr Luís Ainsley, a single gentleman possessed of broad shoulders, laughing dark eyes and what Fanny von Maltzahn-Dressen did not fail to describe in Jarvis’s ear as “Pos-i-tive-ly Corsair-like good looks, no? Though while one is in the Byronic mode, it is to be hoped he does not have that other Romantick attribute, of coming down like a wolf on the…” Her malicious eyes lingered on Midge’s flushed face: “…fold.”

    The seat to Midge’s other side was adorned by that ornament of the Senior Service, Michael Foxe-Forsythe, Capt., R.N. Damn his eyes. Midge appeared thrilled to see him again and Jarvis was in very little doubt that she was.

    The interminable dinner was followed by a little chat and a lot of cards. No dancing. Jarvis at first was thankful for this and then realised he should not have been.

    “Go away, Sleyven: her La’ship’s teaching us écarté!” said Micky Fox with a laugh as Jarvis approached the table where his wife, having basely deserted young Mr Ainsley, was now sitting with Jarvis’s connection and damned Commodore Hallett: where in God’s name had he sprung from?

    “Doubtless you did not notice me at dinner, Sleyven: I was down by Miss Slingsby and the Mortimer female,” said the heavily handsome Commodore cheerily, apparently reading his mind.

    “From whose vicinity we have just rescued him in a naval sortie!” hissed Jarvis’s wife, giggling very much.

    Jarvis quietly removed her empty champagne glass. “I see. Funnily enough, Hallett, I was under the impression that it was you who taught Lady Sleyven écarté.”

    “Oh, was you, old man?” he said in surprise as Midge collapsed in gales of giggles, nodding helplessly.

    “Yes. Added to which I was not under the impression that you needed lessons,” he said pointedly.

    Micky Fox went into a spluttering fit. The Commodore grinned, acknowledging: “Don't think I do, no.”

    “Though of course I should be happy to oblige,” said Jarvis, giving him a hard look, “should you change your mind at any time.”

    “No, don't bother, Sleyven; we are all quite comfortable as we are,” said the Commodore smoothly.

    “So I perceive. I should be grateful if one of you would appoint himself in charge of the commissariat and see that my wife is not provisioned with any more champagne,” said Jarvis coolly, walking off with her glass and leaving them to it.

    Behind him, Micky Fox could be heard explaining: “That’ll be a military term,” and the Commodore and Jarvis’s wife could be heard dissolving in helpless hysterics.

    … “Did you have to play with those two Naval idiots, Midge?” he said tiredly as the carriage took them home.

    “Yes, for they would not accept a refusal!” said Midge with a giggle.

    “Mm. I hope at least they didn’t give you more champagne after I had asked them not to.”

    “Ordered them, you mean, Colonel, sir!” said Midge with a giggle.

    “Did they?”

    “No. Hic! Ooh, pardon. –No.”

    “Midge, what have you been drinking?” said Jarvis, very clearly.

    “I am not abs-loo-ly—pardon. Ab-so-lute-ly sure, but it was very sweet. Very, very, sweet. Very, very, very—”

    “I see,” he said grimly.

    “Not red,” said Midge helpfully.

    “Uh-huh.”

    “Or white!” she said with a loud giggle.

    “Yes. We shall speak of it later.”

    “I might have known.”

    “La’y Rock’s brother is Spanish, did you know?” she said, smiling at him muzzily.

    “Midge, in the carriage on the way here, I said— Why am I bothering? Never try to hold a conversation with a drunk,” he moaned.

    “Ooh, am I drunk?” said Midge with a loud giggle.

    “Yes. Almost entirely," he said coldly.

    “Ooh, goody! My h’izons— hor— Those whatch’mcallums have broadened. I never thought they would. Once I even thought of marrying Mr Butterworth to see if that would broaden them.”

    “God!” said Jarvis involuntarily and ignoring his own good advice to himself.

    “But between you and me, your Lor’ship," said his wife confidentially, laying a finger to her nose, “I did not find him preshisely mashculine.”

    “Glad to hear it,” he said limply.

    “Lady Frayn says you—” She broke off.

    “I have a fair idea,” he noted drily.

    “Pershon’ly I am pershuaded it is the proportions,” she said solemnly.

    “Midge, please!”

    “And the dimplesh. Pardon. Dimplesh.”

    “Eh?”

    Midge bared her gums in a mirthless rictus, and placed both forefingers to her round cheeks. “Shee? You have them, jus’ here. Only when you really, really smi’,” she said in a strained voice.

    “Y— Midgey, stop doing that, if you please, and just sit back quietly!” he said loudly.

    Midge stopped doing it, smiled muzzily, sat back, and closed her eyes.

    She was asleep when they reached Wynton House. Very possibly a gentleman of complete probity, not to say nicety of feeling, or true sensibility, or some such, would have dumped her in her bedroom and closed the door on her. Jarvis, on due consideration, did not do this.

    … “Hullo,” she said blearily the next morning, peering at him.

    “Hullo,” replied Jarvis evenly.

    “Did you sleep in my bed, then?” she said blearily.

    “As you see,” he replied evenly.

    “I can’t remember: what a waste,” confessed Midge muzzily.

    Jarvis’s lips twitched. Flattering. “Nothing happened, Midgey: you went to sleep.”

    “Did I? Well, obviously… I have the headache,” she said with a sigh. “I know you said that that is the customary ladylike excuse, only it is true. Anyway, I would not prevaricate,” she said, lying back on her pillows with her eyes closed.

    “Mm. I expect you’re thirsty, too. Do you remember anything of last evening?”

    “Lots. I played cards with those Naval gentlemen. Micky Fox wouldn’t let me bet the—” Midge broke off.

    Jarvis was pouring her a glass of water from the jug at her bedside. “Here you are, my dear. Bet the what?”

    “The Wynton diamond necklace.”

    “He has that much tact, then. Not to say good sense,” he noted, getting back into bed. “How much did you lose, then?” he asked idly, as she drank the water thirstily.

    “Oh, I didn't play for money. I was sure I would lose if I did, and it’s your money, not mine, isn’t it? Do you think Mrs Sharp might have a remedy for the headache?”

    Jarvis nodded and rang the bell. “What did you lose?”

    “Flowers. From my posy. Commodore Hallett was a heavy winner in flowers!” She laughed, and then put a hand to her head. “Help. This is a splitting headache, Jarvis.”

    “Yes. Actually, it is a hangover: caused by the consumption of too much unaccustomed alcohol.”

    “Not Romantick at all; and champagne is so delightful.”

    “Yes. Before we tackle that subject— Oh, there you are, May,” he said, smiling at her regardless of the fact that she had blenched at the sight of him in his wife’s bed. “Her Ladyship has the headache, and we were wondering if Mrs Sharp might have a very strong remedy for it?”

    “I’ll ask, my Lord.”

    “Thank you. And perhaps some morning coffee for us both?”

    “Yes, my Lord. Begging pardon, my Lord, but her Ladyship usually has chocolate.”

    Jarvis’s mouth twitched. “Not this morning, please, May. Coffee for us both.”

    “Yes, my Lord,” she agreed respectfully, bobbing and going out.

    “Nicely brought up. Old Mrs Horrocks never told her that a countess might have one of those overs, what you said,” sighed Midge with her eyes shut.

    “Mm.” Jarvis got out of bed again, and went to her wash-stand, where he dipped the towel in the water jug and wrung it out tightly. “Here,” he said, laying it on her forehead.

    ‘Thank you. A man of experience, I perceive,” said Midge in a doomed tone.

    Jarvis laughed, and got into bed. “Yes. I suppose it is too much to hope that you feel like— Mm?” Under the sheets, he tweaked a nipple.

    The Countess squeaked and jumped, but reported sadly: “I can’t take an interest. Why don’t you just do it, if you feel like it?”

    He laughed, and snuggled down beside her. “I may just, at that,” he said into her silken shoulder “Once Mays and Mrs Sharps and coffees have come and gone.”

    “Mm,” said Midge with her eyes shut. “Sorry.”

    “Oh, don't apologise! Some ladies,” he said, tracing a pattern on her soft upper-arm with his forefinger, “though I suppose I shouldn’t tell you this in case you get the wrong idea and decide it’s the done thing…”

    “I do know you know all about ladies,” she murmured.

    “Mm. Well, some ladies, indeed many ladies, in the case that they happen to—er—feel incapable of taking an interest, whether it be for a headache, or any other reason, feel that that justifies their forbidding their spouse to—er—take an interest at that precise moment, too.”

    “That seems unfair, to me.”

    Jarvis had rather thought it might. “Mm,” he said, kissing the shoulder.

    Midge thought it over. “I didn’t actually know that,” she said slowly, “but I think I had sort of guessed it. Mrs Somerton, I would think.”

    “Oh yes!” said Jarvis with a laugh. “And very probably Mrs Patterson, too, although she—” He broke off.

    “What?” said Midge, squinting at him from under the wrung-out towel.

    Jarvis laughed. “Hot type,” he said with a wink.

    “I suppose I ought to be shocked,” said Millicent Wynton faintly.

    “Not, though; are you?’

    “No, but I am amazed: how do you know?”

    “Oh—well… Combination of a ripe figure and the way she looks at her husband…? I’m not sure, I just know I know.”

    “Mm. Like I just know that Mr Butterworth is not very masculine,” she said cautiously.

    “So you said!” he said with a choke of laughter.

    “I thought I did,” admitted Midge. “I expect Mrs Patterson only does it to punish him.”

    “Eh?”

    “Have the headache: is that not what were are talking about?”

    “Uh—not entirely, I suspect!” he said with a laugh.

    “No,” agreed Midge mildly.

    Jarvis put his hand back under the sheet again and fondled one or two interesting appurtenances. Once the coffee had come he ventured: “Midge, were the flowers the only gage you lost last night?”

    “A ribbon,” admitted Midge glumly. “To Micky Fox.”

    “Pale lilac, was it?” said Jarvis on a fatalistic note.

    “Yes. Will he—um—show it around the clubs or something horrid?”

    “Well, no. He may, however, put it in his pocketbook and allow particular friends— or enemies, of course—to catch a glimpse of it, accidentally-on-purpose, as it were.”

    “Good Heavens,” she said faintly.

    “Yes, well, some men are like that.”

    “They won’t know it was mine, though,” she said after some thought.

    “Midgey,” said Jarvis with a groan: “perhaps you had better just drink your coffee, and not even attempt rational thought until your headache is gone. –Come in!” he cried loudly as there was a cautious tap at the door.

    Mrs Sharp came in trying to look quite unconcerned at the sight of her master in his wife’s bed.

    … “God,” said Jarvis, lying back against the pillows with his hands linked behind his head, when Midge had gulped down the remedy and gone back to sipping black coffee.

    “They are not used to having a master and mistress who—well, you know.”

    “Who what?” he said meanly.

    “Um—have a normal life, I suppose is what I mean,” she said, looking at him sideways.

    “Yes, well, they will have to get used to it!” said Jarvis with a laugh. “I have decided that we may leave the damned title outside our bedroom door, at the least! We shall be plain Mr and Mrs, and positively bourgeois, for the rest of our married lives. –How is the head, Mrs Wynton?”

    Midge was very pink. She smiled weakly at him. “About the same. Well, it has not got worse.”

    “Mm-hm; lie down again and put the cloth on your head, darling. Mrs Sharp’s remedy may take a little time to take effect.”

    She did so obediently. After some time she said, opening one eye: “You could do it, if you like. My headache is not nearly so bad.”

    “Mm.” Jarvis leaned on one elbow and looked down at her quizzically. “The thing is, if I take you at your word, will you ever forgive me for it, Midge?”

    After a noticeable interval the Countess said weakly: “You must have known some very odd ladies.”

    “No, no: they were typical; and that sort of—er—exchange: cut and parry, what you will—is typical, I think, of most relationships, married ones or otherwise, between the two sexes.”

    “I won’t blame you if I’ve said you may; if I do, please tell me I am unprincipled.”

    He hesitated.

    “I see;” said Midge wisely: “I am not being feminine enough.”

    “Something like that, perhaps; but please, don't try to change! –You must have had some training in these socially-sanctioned feminine ways: is it three older sisters you have? And then, all those years living with the delightful but not atypical Mrs Langford—how did you escape it, Midgey?” he said with a laugh in his voice.

    Midge removed the cloth from her head and sat bolt upright, staring at him. “You don’t like her!” she discovered in amazement.

    ‘What, the delightful Lettice? No, no: of course I like her, my dear: she is a charming and sympathetic woman. Merely, the thought of living with a woman of her type gives me a most sinking feeling!”

    “Possibly you are no more typical of the male sex, then, than I am of the female,” said Midge slowly.

    “Mm.”

    She lay down again. “On the other hand, you don’t approve of my playing cards with two charming but empty-headed Naval gentlemen: that is pretty typical, I think.”

    “Idiot,” he said heavily.

    “I don’t think I could have mistaken the expression on your face last night for one of approval, even though I do find you very hard to read.”

    He sighed. “No, it wasn’t approval. If anything, it was jealousy.”

    “I think that is ridiculous,” reported the Countess.

    “Thank you, Midge,” he said, reddening. “It is not something that one can help.”

    “Lady Frayn warned me that if we sit in each other’s pockets at these horrid parties, people will laugh at you. Those fools mean less than nothing to me, though I admit I had a pleasant evening: rationally, you must realise that, surely?”

    “I do,” he said glumly. “But recollect how irrational Othello became when the emotion was aroused in him; and he, need I remind you, was also a military man, whose customary occupation was gone.”

    Midge sat up again and goggled at him. “I have no intention of playing Desdemona—one of the silliest females in literature,” she noted by the by—“to your Othello. Unless you intend getting up, you had best lock the door.”  She lay down again.

    Shoulders shaking slightly, Jarvis got out of bed and locked the door. “I really do not think they would interrupt us: they have had sufficient shocks for one morning, not to say sufficient warning.”

    “One never knows. You’d best hurry up, I've just remembered I promised to call for Janey and the girls, to drive them in the stupid Park this morning,” she said glumly.

    Jarvis got back into his wife’s bed. “That is possibly the most unromantic speech I have ever been favoured with in my life.”

    “Then possibly we are even, for comparing yourself to Othello is certainly the silliest thing I ever heard!”

    “Kiss me, you unromantic horror,” he said with a groan.

    Midge kissed him briefly. Jarvis grabbed her, and kissed her very thoroughly. “Let me see if I can persuade you to ignore that headache. But I have to say it, I may go ahead without you if the persuasion has no result.”

    “That’s all right,” said Midge, hugging him tightly. “I always enjoy it.”

    Laughing, Jarvis went ahead.

    … “Thank you, Midgey,” he said, quite some time later.

    Midge dropped a shy kiss on his forehead. “That's quite all right. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

    “Mm… This need not prevent our trying again, tonight,” he murmured.

    “So long as I don’t do something to annoy you, you mean,” she said with a sigh.

    “I shall try not to be annoyed. Every time I feel myself becoming annoyed I shall say to myself: “Midge is only taking damned Corinna’s advice and avoiding sitting in my pocket.’”

    “Yes… ” said Midge vaguely, craning her neck.

    “What are you peering at?” asked Jarvis resignedly.

    “The clock,” she said apologetically.

    “If you are a little late you may tell the girls that domestic duties held you up,” he said sedately.

    “Yes, and you would just like to see me try to!” she said strongly, getting out of bed. “Go away, Jarvis, I’m about to ring for May and have my bath. She’ll be overcome if you’re still here.”

    Jarvis retreated to his dressing-room, grinning. As he was dressing, however, he found himself wondering drily if, pleasant though the preceding scene had been, it had, au fond, solved anything. Should he have told her to ignore damned Corinna’s advice? Or—well, had it out with her? Told her not to encourage Foxe-Forsythe and Hallett and their ilk? Uh—damn. It was not that he had thought marriage to Midge would be precisely easy; it was just that he had not thought it would be difficult in quite this way!

    “What are your plans for this morning, Midgey?” he asked mildly over the breakfast table, two days later.

    “Henri-Louis, Lord Geddings and Mr Charlie Grey have promised to come and give me their opinion on what might be done about the carved frogs in the drawing-room!” she replied cheerfully.

    Jarvis opened his mouth.

    “Mr Charlie is of the opinion that the case is hopeless, but Geddings’s very own sister lives in a house where it was found possible to de-Gothick—though possibly that is not an English word!— to de-Gothick an entire wing!”

    “I see. And H.-L.?”

    “Oh, he has impeccable taste.”

    “Midge, H.-L. is almost harmless, and Charlie Grey is pretty well harmless and to boot aware that I won’t stand any damned nonsense; but Geddings has a reputation as a gazetted ladies’ man,” he said on a grim note. “Town is said to be littered with his mistresses, past and present.”

    “Yes, is it not tremendous fun?”

    “Midge, please!”

    “Well, it is!” she said, laughing. “—Please don’t force me to drink that strong coffee, Jarvis.”

    “Er—oh, I beg your pardon.” He added hot milk to her cup.

    “Thank you. The thing is, I would never dream of seeing him alone, but it cannot be thought inappropriate to see him with the other two. And I need his experience.”

    Jarvis’s jaw sagged.

    “I’m so sorry! In the matter of de-Gothicking only!” gasped his wife, going into a paroxysm.

    There seemed very little else he could say at this point without making the most utter and complete fool of himself: so he refrained.

    The sun shone, the birds twittered in the garden of Blefford Square… The Earl hurried into his house, to be met by an apologetic-looking Slight. With a great effort, he said only: “Is her Ladyship ready, Slight?”

    “Er—I am afraid not, my Lord. Her Ladyship asked me to convey her regrets, but she was urgently called away.”

    “To what, may I enquire?”

    The butler cleared his throat. “An urgent message came to say that Captain Lord Vyvyan Gratton-Gordon had heard of a delightful suite of furniture that was to be auctioned and—er—if her Ladyship wished to acquire it, there was no time to be lost.”

    “She has gone with Vyv G.-G. to a furniture auction?’

    “Yes, my Lord.”

    “Thank you, Slight,” he said with tremendous restraint. “In that case, I shall not need the curricle this morning after all, you may tell them.”

    “No, my Lord. Thank you, my Lord.”

    Jarvis retired to his study, with great difficulty refraining from grinding his teeth.

    … “Where is it?” he said, coming into Midge’s room as she was dressing for dinner.

    “What?” she replied blankly.

    Jarvis looked thoughtfully from her Ladyship to little May, but perhaps his Wynton relations had not made the point that when one’s husband came into one’s room as one was dressing it was considered the tactful thing to ask one’s maid to exit. Taking a deep breath, he said: “The suite of furniture which you sallied forth to buy with Vyv G.-G. this morning.”

    “Oh, did you get my message? Good.”

    “Yes. Where is it?”

    Midge looked dubiously at a pearl necklace. “Mm? Pearls don't go with mauve muslin, or do they?”

    “The furniture,” said Jarvis grimly.

    “Mm? Oh. Well, Vyv—I mean, Captain Lord Vyvyan,” said his wife, swallowing loudly and turning very red, “promised that the auctioneers might be relied on utterly, so we just gave them the address.”

    “Slight informs me, however, that no furniture has been delivered,” he said with precarious politeness.

    “What? No, of course not,” said Midge mildly. She opened a large jewel case. “Ugh.”

    Jarvis bit his lip. “If you are intending to wear muslin, the Wynton set would not be suitable: no.”

    “No,” she agreed, closing the case. “I can’t find those pretty amethysts you gave me. When was it? Um—before that stupid dinner where you wouldn’t let me wear them, I think.”

    “Yes. –May, be so good as to find the amethysts for your mistress, please,” said Jarvis, as it became obvious that Midge wasn’t about to. May began scurrying about trying to be unobtrusive about opening drawers and jewel cases. “Midge, where is this furniture?” said Jarvis loudly.

    “We had it sent down to Maunsleigh, of course,” replied his wife mildly.

    “I see. You trust Vyv’s taste to that extent, do you?”

    “Yes, he has exquisite taste. Though as he is rather big and tall, he does not appear graceful or precisely elegant. But he has a wonderful eye for colour.”

    “Lady Sleyven, will you please be so good as to dismiss your maid? I wish to speak to you!” said Jarvis loudly.

    Midge blinked. “Um—of course! May, will you run along? I’ll ring when you may come back.”

    Bobbing and giving her master a terrified look, May shot out.

    “What in God’s name is all this Lady Sleyven rubbish?” demanded Midge, staring at him.

    “It appeared that nothing else was going to get your attention.”

    “I was listening!” she said indignantly.

    “Possibly. You were not, however, replying. What exactly is this furniture and for which room do you intend it?”

    “The drawing-room, I suppose. It is a suite composed of two sofas and eight matching chairs, plus two occasional chairs, all covered in the most delicious of striped brocades in a pale blue. Hadn't you better hurry up? We’re dining out tonight, had you forgotten?”

    “What? Damn. Where? –Never mind. You cannot seriously be contemplating blue, Midge, when you wear green so much. If Vyv G.G. advised you it would do, then he is a nincompoop. Well, he is, of course. Make that a nincompoop with no taste.”

    “Don’t be silly, it’s not for us, it’s for Katerina,” she said placidly.

    Jarvis experienced a very strange sensation in the knees. He tottered over to the bed and sank down upon it. “What?” he croaked.

    “I did tell you I was thinking of furniture for them.”

    “Yes, but— Let it pass,” he groaned.

    “Jarvis, we shall be late,” said Midge, ringing for May.

    “Where is it, again?”

    “Maunsleigh; are you deaf?” she cried.

    “No, no, not the damned furniture,” he groaned. “Tonight’s damned dinner.”

    “At your cousin Julia Morphett’s house. And this time, please try to smile at little Lucinda.”

    “Midge, the child looks at me like a frightened rabbit whether I smile or no,” he groaned.

    “Never mind that: smile. Anyone has a right to behave like a frightened rabbit at only seventeen with a mother like Lady Julia. And if you could tell her Ladyship without doing your conscience irreparable damage that Geddings is spoken for, pray do.”

    “Eh?”

    “I don’t care who you imply the lady may be, Jarvis, just do it! She is throwing the poor child at his head, and the horrid man thinks it’s funny!”

    “Er—I suppose it would be an unexceptionable match.”

    “Rubbish! He is years her elder and a sophisticated man of the word, and the poor little creature is terrified of him!” cried the Countess of Sleyven loudly. “Added to which, you said yourself, the town is filled with his mistresses, past or present!”

    Jarvis essayed a smile, which failed dismally. “True. Er—no lie from me would convince Lady Julia, I fear.”

    Midge turned her shoulder on him, scowling. “Very well, don’t. In that case, I have another plan, which I was hoping not to have to put into practice.”

    He swallowed. “What?”

    “Never mind,” she said tightly. “It is nothing that need concern a gentleman.”

    “Midge—”

    “Oh, there you are, May!” she said brightly as the little maid came back into the room. “If you cannot find the amethysts, don’t worry. As a matter of fact I think I might have forgotten to ask Janey for them back after she wore them to the opera.”

    Jarvis got up with a sigh and went out, quite forgetting to remind Midge that as the House was sitting again tonight he would be back very late.

    He was. She was fast asleep, lying on her back, snoring lightly. Jarvis did not disturb her: he just tiptoed through to his dressing-room.

    “Wednesday?” he said over the breakfast cups, rather late the next morning. “I am afraid that is impossible, my dear, I have a longstanding engagement that evening.”

    Midge’s mouth tightened. “The Lords again?”

    “No. It is for a small card party at old Hugh Throgmorton’s house. He is a bachelor, my dear, and the company—”

    “Will be all gentlemen and very select, do not tell me. Cousin Myrtle has given me the entire history of the Throgmortons and their connexions with the Hammonds on the one hand, and the Laceys on the other, and the Vanes on another hand. And somebody else—oh, yes, the Bon-Duttons, on yet another. I am aware that that makes four hands in all, but your cousin apparently was not. Unless she was designing a whist party of her own, possibly?”

    “Midge, that is neither witty nor kind,” he said, reddening.

    “True, though.” Midge took a roll and spread jam on it. “I will say this for being rich, it is delightful to have strawberry jam whenever one’s heart should desire it. Well, I am sure that I can find someone else to escort me to this masquerade ball, if you will not.”

    Jarvis hesitated. Then he said: “Midge, my dear, although it is not a public function, and of course Mr and Mrs G.-G. are unexceptionably connected and received everywhere, their balls—particularly the masquerade balls—have the reputation of developing into undesirable romps.”

   “Really? Good,” said Midge with satisfaction.

    His mouth tightened. “Must I forbid you to go?”

    Midge eyed him speculatively. “I don’t know. Must you?”

    “That is unworthy of you,” he said grimly, rising. “I shall merely say, I would very much prefer you not to go, my dear.”

    “Oh, pooh!” said Midge rudely as the door closed behind him.

    That particular Wednesday was still some way off, and although Jarvis was very cross with her, he had plenty of time to calm down and reflect that he had been too heavy-handed—and to tell her so. Reiterating that he would really rather she did not go, but that if she wished for the treat of a masquerade ball, he would not stand in her way, and would ask Charlie Grey to accompany her.

    Midge, for her part, had had time to reflect that he was not all bad, that a man should not be blamed for doing his duty, and that it was not his fault if the horrid Parliament sat so late that she fell asleep before he got home; and—frankly—to fall again under the spell of the rueful smile he used when he was being apologetic and the very masculine grin he used when he was simply happy. She conceded that if it was not quite the thing, then she would not go without him: only if there should be another masquerade, might they go together? Jarvis laughed, and agreed.

    It was, then, entirely unfortunate that Midge’s plan to open Lady Julia Morphett’s eyes to the entire unsuitability of Lord Geddings for her little Lucinda should have intervened.

    Jarvis walked into the salon, rather late for dinner, for he had been held up in a committee, and blinked. Lady Julia and Sir Derek, as stiff as ever, were sitting together on a sofa chatting graciously to Cousin Myrtle and Brother. Over in a corner Harry Morphett was flirting outrageously with Miss Lattersby. Major Lattersby was in another corner flirting outrageously with a lady whom Jarvis had certainly never expected to see under his roof. Angie Spottiswode? God. If she wasn’t married to one of Spotton’s younger brothers no-one would receive her at all. What was more, that was the martyred Lord Percy Spottiswode over there, chatting to… He blinked again. To his sister. Marianne Phillips, née Spottiswode, the youngest of Spotton’s tribe of sisters, was known to loathe her sister-in-law, and had done so long before Lady Percy had cut her out with… Geddings. Jarvis swallowed. On a vilely Gothick sofa sat his wife, glorious in palest lilac watered silk and diamonds, encouraging Lord Geddings in person to flirt outrageously with her. Could this be merely the most frightful of coincidences? …Er—yes, must be: Midge could not possibly have heard all the gossip about Lady Percy and Lady Marianne, it had been years and years back.

    Various other rufflers such as Vyv G.-G. were also to be seen, but they were negligible in comparison. Vyv’s awe-inspiring aunt, Lady Ariadne Pugh (of Wynde Abbey) was scarcely negligible, but she was most certainly in a different class altogether: why in God’s name had Midge invited her and the Morphetts at the same time as the Spottiswodes?

    Taking a deep breath, Jarvis went forward to greet their guests, mentally steeling himself for any sort of scene—Lady Percy had been known to throw actual food at Lady Marianne when the rivalry for Geddings had been at its height—and fully prepared to support his poor, misguided little wife to the very best of his ability throughout a frightful evening.

    Having finally managed to oust Geddings from her side he was able to murmur in her ear: “Are we all here, my dear?”

    Midge looked round the salon. “It’s hard to see, with all these troglodytes. Um—no, I think we are waiting for several more.”

    Jarvis nodded resignedly.

    “Actually, I’m not sure who they all are!” Midge then hissed.

    He smiled a little. “No? Who drew up the guest list?”

    “Well, partly me and partly Cousin Myrtle. A lot of them are people she said should not be overlooked.”

    Jarvis nodded, and smiled.

    “I think we might have mixed up Whigs and Tories!” she then hissed.

    They had done that, all right: Geddings was well known as Wellington’s mouthpiece, whereas the Pughs of Wynde Abbey were amongst our most prominent Whig families. “Mm. Never mind,” he murmured.

    Midge fluttered her eyelashes and gave him a grateful smile. It did not occur to his Lordship that the eyelash fluttering was somewhat overdone.

    The evening was not improved, in Jarvis’s opinion, by the arrival of the Prince Henri-Louis and M. le Vicomte d’Arresnes. However, he greeted them appropriately and determinedly pulled up a chair next to his wife’s sofa, as H.-L. accepted her smiling invitation to be seated beside her.

    They were still waiting, it appeared, for a few more. Midge was not sure of quite all the names, but certainly for Lady Frayn, her friend Mrs Hastings and Mrs Hastings’s daughter—citing Corinna’s encomium upon the latter. Jarvis avoided H.-L.’s eye: Amy Hastings Carthew was a delightful, witty creature, indeed; but she was also Geddings’s current mistress. And the object of the cordial loathing of both Lady Percy Spottiswode and Lady Marianne Phillips.

    After this distinctly inauspicious start the Earl was not at all surprised to see, when they at last sat down to dine, that his wife’s seating arrangements placed Geddings between Lady Percy Spottiswode and Mrs Carthew, with Lady Marianne directly opposite them. Her view unimpeded by so much as an épergne or candelabra. Minor matters such as Lady Julia Morphett’s having been placed next but one to Lady Marianne, the intervening body being Vyv’s, paled into insignificance, really. Jarvis himself had Lady Ariadne Pugh at his right and Corinna at his left but frankly he was past caring about it. He ate his dinner resignedly, to the accompaniment of a near-constant barrage of pointed remarks and giggles from the Corinna side, and remarks that were even more pointed, not to say verging on the unprintable, from the Lady Ariadne side. Normally he quite enjoyed Lady Ariadne’s company, in small doses: if she took an unending interest in all the scandals of the Upper Ten Thousand, at least she did so with a large grain of salt.

    The period passed by the gentlemen over the port and brandy was sufficiently hideous but at least it had the merit of not featuring Lady Percy and Lady Marianne glaring at Mrs Carthew like a couple of cats. In the intervals of glaring at each other—quite.

    When the gentlemen joined the ladies it was very evident that Lady Ariadne Pugh had been greatly enjoying herself; that Cousin Myrtle was in a state bordering on near hysteria: mixed ecstasy and horror, was about it; and that Lady Percy and Lady Marianne had made up their minds to ignore each other for the rest of the evening. All that could be hoped for, really. It was also very clear that Corinna thought the whole thing was hilarious, but Jarvis would not have expected less.

    His wife then proposing cards, or lottery tickets or spillikins for those who were more frivolously inclined, her very expression, the company duly divided into smaller groups. Well, it was probably better than sitting gossiping in huddles or listening to little Lucinda Morphett being forced to perform on the instrument in the Gothick salon. Jarvis was relieved to see Yoly Renwick taking the child under her wing. At least she would be safely out of the way of all gossip there. Miss Lattersby, on the other hand, was apparently proposing to sit down to a game of piquet with Harry Morphett: but as both of their fathers were present, not to mention his mother, Jarvis did nothing about it.

    “Now!” said his wife gaily, coming up to his side as he endeavoured to make conversation with the hideously correct Sir Derek Morphett: “you must make up a very serious whist table, Jarvis!”

    Jarvis did not particularly care for whist: he eyed her drily.

    “Of course, in terms of precedence possibly your table should include Henri-Louis, but he hates whist, poor lamb. –Sir Derek, I know you are famous for your whist: should you care to play with Jarvis?”

    As Morphett had not a humorous bone in his body he saw nothing at which to cavil in this speech, and bowed very properly in consent.

    “And perhaps you could suggest someone else with whom you would care to play?” added Midge, looking up at him docilely.

    Sir Derek electing to play with Sir Theodore Pugh and Lord Percy Spottiswode, Jarvis led them off to it, mentally raising an eyebrow or two: Pugh’s and Morphett’s politics were directly opposed, of course, and Percy S. didn't know what the word meant; but if that was what Morphett considered a serious whist table, so be it.

    It was not until a breathless hush had fallen over the smaller card room that it dawned on Jarvis that his wife had remained in the larger salon with the lottery tickets game and that H.-L., ably aided and abetted by Vyv G.-G. and Geddings, had organised a faro table at which both Mrs Carthew and—ye gods—Lady Percy Spottiswode were playing!

    A period of agony followed. Now and then Jarvis could hear Midge’s laugh from the large salon but could not see what she was up to: the small card room opened not into the salon but the larger card room. He did, however, have a very clear view of Janey Lattersby and Harry Morphett, though it was some consolation that Sir Derek’s back was to the pair. The faro table could be seen through the open door but as the spectacle was hideous he did his best not to glance that way. It could not have been said that his whist was up to Sir Derek’s exacting standards that evening. The baronet did not point this out, but he did most certainly look it.

    Eventually, a game having come to an end and Jarvis having been a heavy loser, Lord Percy remarked: “Cards runnin’ against you, this evening, Sleyven?”

    “What? Oh. I fear it was rather lack of concentration than lack of luck. I must beg pardon, gentlemen. If you will excuse me, I shall find you a fourth worthier of your steel.” Forthwith he made his escape.

    In the salon a charming scene met his eye. A crowd of persons, mainly young people but some not so young, was clustered at the lottery tickets table, where it was very evident that no-one was taking the game seriously. In a corner at a small table Miss Somerton, giggling terrifically, was engaging in spillikins with Major Vane-Hunter. Jarvis suppressed a sigh. The burly major was well enough connected but he had scarce a penny to bless himself with and the whole of Society knew he must marry money: Lacey’s parents would not care for their only child to make a match there, he was certain. There was nothing much to be done about it, unfortunately, unless he could manage to corner Lattersby and point out to him that having invited the girl up to London with them, he might be supposed to have some sort of duty to look after her as her parents would wish? Jarvis did not need to look for Lattersby: he had been aware from the moment he walked into the room that Janey’s father was at Midge’s elbow at the lottery tickets table and that it was doubtless this factor which was provoking the laughter he had heard during the evening. He took a deep breath and went up to them.

    “Oh, there you are, Jarvis!” said his wife cheerfully. “I hope you will observe that, even although certain persons who are old enough to know better suggested that we should enliven this harmless game by playing it for money, I have forbidden it utterly!”

    “I am glad to hear it,” replied Jarvis evenly. “Lattersby, I would like a word, please.”

    “On report, Major: at the double!” squeaked Midge, collapsing in giggles.

    Jarvis removed the champagne glass which stood at her elbow and, taking the Major’s arm in an ungentle grip, moved away with him.

    “No champagne: right you are, Colonel, sir!” said Major Lattersby with a laugh.

    “Not that, y’fool. Well, that, too: she has a head like a two-year-old straight from its mother’s milk. –No, I should merely like to point out to you that any consequences in the district resulting from that,”—he nodded at Miss Somerton and Major Vane-Hunter—“will not be laid at my door, I can promise you.”

    “Can a consequence be laid at a door, Sleyven?” returned the Major, grinning very much. “Dear little thing, ain’t she? Hasn’t got the—er—rounded attributes, let us call them, of the fair Amanda, but that ain’t everything—at least, not to all of us! Not as pretty, but she puts me in mind of Janey’s late mamma.”

    “In that case I suggest you do your duty by her and at the least get her out of a twosome with that imbecile and into a group!” returned Jarvis irritably.

    “Miss Amanda, attributes and all, yours truly, plus them two?” said the Major, raising a comical eyebrow at him.

    “Anybody. But oblige me by doing it, Lattersby.”

    “Yes, sir, Colonel, sir!” he gasped, saluting him. “But I warn you, that’ll leave Lady S. to Hallett’s tender naval clutches.” He wandered off, grinning.

    Jarvis took a very deep breath. Lattersby was not wrong: Commodore Hallett at this very moment was inserting himself at Midge’s elbow, to the accompaniment of gales of giggles from the Countess. He could make a damned fool of himself by going over to them, or— He went over to them.

    “Midge, my dear,” he said mildly, “if I might recall you to a sense of your responsibilities as tonight’s hostess, I should like a suggestion for a suitable fourth to make up Sir Derek’s table.”

    Midge opened her eyes very wide at him. “But I thought you were playing with them?”

    “Yes, but I have not proven a foe worthy of their steel.”

    “Oh. Well… Cheat!” cried his wife shrilly, rising and shaking her fist at a gentleman further down the table.

    The gentleman, the ladies at his either hand, and another two gentlemen who were standing behind him and—apparently—egging him on, all collapsed in laughter.

    Midge sat down again. “What was that, again?” she said to her husband.

    “Fourth at whist. For damned Morphett,” explained Commodore Hallett helpfully.

    “Well, I don’t know all the gentlemen, Jarvis,” she said weakly. “Um… Could you ask Cousin Myrtle’s advice, perhaps? Um—what about the gentleman who came with Lady Frayn?”

    “He is already playing.”

    “Well, I think most of them are.” Midge took a look at her husband’s face and got up. “Pray excuse me, Commodore. I think a rescue sortie is indicated, and must make up a scouting party on the instant. –Come along, Jarvis.” She grasped his sleeve strongly. Perforce, Jarvis followed her to the other side of the room.

    Midge looked round the salon. “Help. These all look drunk or hopeless.”

    “Quite. Come into the adjoining room, if you please.”

    They went into the larger card room. Midge looked round it blankly. “I don't even know half of them!” she hissed.

    “No, well, perhaps you are correct and we should ask Cousin Myrtle,” said Jarvis feebly, wondering why in God’s name he should feel mollified because his doubtless half-drunken wife should have abandoned her idiot naval companion and the rest of the fools at the lottery tickets table in order to help him look for a fourth at whist for damned Morphett. Besotted, very like, he concluded weakly.

    “Um…” Midge’s eye alighted on the faro table. “Geddings can play whist,” she announced.

    And had been known to play it, not inexpensively, in the company of such notable gentlemen as the Duke of York and his set. “Mm. Since you and Cousin Myrtle have mercifully refrained from inviting York in person, it had best be he,” he said drily.

    “Help, does he play very deep?” she gasped, clutching at him.

    “Yes. Midgey, darling, you are ruining this coat sleeve,” he said, putting his hand on hers as it mangled Mr Weston’s best efforts.

    “I dare say it can be pressed. Fonteroi will do it: he is bursting to be given useful tasks!”

    Jarvis sighed. Fonteroi had been foisted upon him by the joint efforts of Lady Sleyven herself, Corinna, and, apparently, though his Lordship had not appeared in the transaction in person, the Marquess of Wade, who had known his late master. Vyv G.-G. acting, not unwillingly, as his father’s deputy in the matter. The man’s real name was Foster and he was about as French as Jarvis’s left boot, but he was meek and willing and appeared to know his job. And why should the master of Maunsleigh, which, it might be remembered, featured a chef who was not French either, cavil at having a false-French valet?

    “Yes. Not ‘bursting’, I think, Midge. Very well, it had best be Geddings.”

    “And let’s hope Sir Derek drops a packet!” she hissed, beaming.

    Ladies did not use the expression ‘drop a packet’ any more than they used the expression ‘bursting’ but at about this point Jarvis gave up. “Yes; please ask him, Midge, I doubt if he would accept the suggestion from me.”

    “Help, have you had another disagreement in the Lords?” she hissed.

    “Several, but that was not my point,” said Jarvis levelly.

    Midge nodded, smothered a giggle, and rustled over to the faro table.

    “Oh, good: have you come to play with us, Lady S.?” said Geddings immediately.

    “No, because I am informed that faro is a very naughty game played by persons who might, if this were not a Wynton House salon, be described as dashing,” replied Midge, opening her eyes very wide at him.

   Geddings gave a smothered snigger and suggested: “Be dashing with us!”

    Midge looked prim. “Certainly not. I have come to ask you to give us the pleasure of trouncing Sir Derek Morphett roundly at whist.”

    “It requires more than two players, dear Lady S., though of course I am your slave to command,” he said, giving Jarvis a wary look out of the corner of his eye.

    “Well, I think Jarvis has found two others for him, unless they have run away. The thing is, he is a very good player, and we cannot think of anybody but you who might make up his table,” said Midge, looking soulful.

    Geddings at this gave in, rose and bowed very gracefully, said of course he would be delighted, and prepared to go off to his fate.

    Midge caught at his sleeve. “Only, don’t play as deep as you do with the Duke of York, will you?” she hissed.

    “Oh? Don’t you want a scandal in your house, Lady MacB.?” he replied outrageously.

    Midge went into gales of laughter, though shaking her head and gasping as she did so: “No! Thank you so much!”

    Grinning, Geddings bowed again and went off.

    “It is so refreshing to encounter someone with a smattering of an education!” Midge explained to her spouse, blowing her nose.

    “Mm. Well, thank you for that, Midge.” He looked around the room.

    “Come and be dashing at faro, Sleyven!” suggested a gentleman with a laugh.

    Jarvis eyed him drily. “I have not the waistcoat for dashing, Murray-Forde.”

    Mr Murray-Forde, who was known for his sartorial splendour, merely grinned.

    “You could play a nice hand of piquet, Jarvis,” suggested his wife helpfully.

    “Possibly. Come along, shall we take a tour of the room?”

    “Yes, but do you trust me not to mangle your sleeve?” she hissed.

    He tucked her arm into his and patted her hand. “Mm. Come along.”

    Very pink, Lady Sleyven accompanied her husband on a tour of the room.

    … “My God,” he concluded, drawing her into a little embrasure. From where they stood the smaller card room was clearly visible through the flung-back double doors. Mrs Carthew’s game had apparently finished. She was now leaning gracefully on the back of Geddings’s chair, watching the progress of the whist.

    “What is the matter?” asked Midge on an uneasy note.

    “Mrs Carthew,” he said in a very low voice in her ear, “is Geddings’s current mistress.”

    “Um—who?”

    “Midge! The lady in the pale blue, who is leaning on his chair as we speak! A daughter of the Mrs Hastings who is Corinna’s friend.”

    Midge looked dubious. “Oh, well, these things happen in Society: you have said so yourself.”

    “She is the sworn enemy of his two previous mistresses—that should more correctly be two of his previous mistresses—who are the faro table as we speak!” he hissed.

    “Really? Who?”

    Jarvis sighed. “Damned Angie Spottiswode, for one. The handsome lady in the gold satin, Midgey: Lady Percy,” he said heavily.

    “Ye-es… She is older than Geddings, I should have thought,” she said dubiously.

    “That apparently did not deter either of them, back in her day, which let us admit was not quite yesterday. Her sister-in-law, Lady Marianne Phillips, is the other. She is Spotton’s youngest sister.”

    “Ye-es… I know! The man with the elephant!” she cried, beaming.

    “And the famille verte tea-set, mm,” he murmured. “Well, that is she, in the dark green slashed with—uh—would you call that crimson?”

    “Yes. –Jarvis, are you sure? She is even older than the other! And—and she looks like a horse!” hissed Midge.

    “The Spottiswodes are known for their pronounced resemblance to the equine species,” said Jarvis levelly.

    Midge went into a spluttering fit. He waited until she was over it and added on an acid note: “One is told that back in the Dark Ages Lady Marianne was considered a handsome filly. She was dashing back then and has remained so, while never becoming as notorious as Lady Percy. Her capture of Geddings, who was a spring chicken, then, was the talk of the town for several years, and so was Lady Percy’s replacing her. Not to mention the scene at some unfortunate’s dinner-table where the ladies first hurled insults at each other and Lady Percy then hurled a plate of food.”

    “But—but she was not the injured party, was she?” ventured Midge limply.

    Jarvis replied evenly: “That apparently did not deter her.”

    Midge collapsed in giggles forthwith.

    “That liaison lasted for quite some years; Lady Percy, as you see, is a handsome creature, if no longer in the first blush. But eventually Geddings turned to pastures new. The latest of which is the lady in the blue. Very pretty, as you see, and very much younger than the Spottiswode sisters-in-law.”

    “Yes: guaranteed to rub salt in the wound,” said Midge limply. “Well, if nobody, um, provokes anybody, possibly there will not be a scene.”

    “No.” He looked uneasily at the table where Lady Julia Morphett was now to be seen at whist with Lady Ariadne Pugh, Brother Partridge, and the stout Mr Tobias Vane. The last was a harmless gourmet, known to be interested in nothing but food and varieties of tea, in the which he was a connoisseur. Brother, of course, was also harmless but he was most certainly very au fait with all the on-dits of the town—past and present. And Lady Ariadne… Was there any faint hope that she had not hold of the story that Lady Julia had been hurling little Lucinda at Geddings’s uncaring head? None, Jarvis concluded glumly, given that it had apparently been going on all Season and the Pughs had been in town all Season. And there was absolutely no hope at all that she did not know of the Mrs Carthew-Geddings-Lady Percy-Lady Marianne complication. But in that case was there a faint hope that she might not rub Lady Julia’s nose in it—

    By God! What a damned idiot he was!

    Jarvis’s lips tightened and he said in a very low and angry voice in his wife’s ear: “Lady Sleyven, I collect that none of this is news to you at all; and that in fact this whole evening is a plot engineered by you and about which gentlemen need not concern themselves.”

    Midge went very red. “So? You wouldn’t make a push to stop Lady Julia throwing poor little Lucinda at G., although I asked you. I warned you I had another plan! And don’t call me Lady Sleyven; you sound ridiculous!”

    “I not only sound it, I am being made to look it,” he said tightly. “This is the most undesirable combination of guests that the simplest-minded of new hostesses could possibly convene—”

    “Yes, isn’t it?” agreed Midge cordially.

    “And most of them have been sniggering over it half the evening!”

    “I’ve noticed that. Well, at least they are enjoying it.”

    Jarvis was now very red. He walked away from her, his lips tightly compressed.

    “Oops!” said Midge with a shrug. “What a fuss over nothing!”

    There was no doubt at all that she intended him to overhear. His fists clenched, but he returned to the small card room and, finding an elderly gentleman who lacked a partner, sat down to piquet with him.

    Midge went back into the salon with a mutinous look round her mouth.

    … “Spillikins with H.-L. was not so very bad, after all!” she said brightly, in the small hours of the morning when the guests had at last all gone.

    “Encouraging him to flirt outrageously with you over the spillikins was, however,” replied Jarvis tightly. “And may I venture to suggest that the game of piquet with Hallett was, if not positively bad, certainly calculated to give you the sort of reputation in Society which I would prefer my wife not to have?”

    “Oh, pooh! We were in full view of the room the entire time!”

    “During which you lost a diamond brooch which was not yours to lose, but part of the Wynton patrimony,” Jarvis pointed out, his nostrils flaring angrily.

    “Well, I had no money. An’ I didn’t think, for agsherly I was rather drunk!” said Midge with a loud giggle. “You must get it back from him, and you may take the cost of it out of that ridiculous pin-money that I cannot poss’bly spend! Jarvis, don’t be cross! It all worked wonderfully, and Lady Julia positively breathed fire and brimstone into my ear, for Lady Ariadne Pugh told her absolutely everything about Geddings and his lam’table am’rous hishtory—history—and the current involvement with Mrs Carthew! And she has gone off vowing he shall not have her little Lucinda an he lives to an hundred!”

    “The whole thing was unprincipled and underhand, and your conduct throughout was calculated to attract unfavourable comment,” said Jarvis coldly.

    “Pooh! Who was it who wanted me to come to London and be ladified and not sit in’s pocket and all that stuff?” shouted Midge, turning scarlet.

    “I do not intend to argue the point. You have had far too much to drink, in spite of my requests not to indulge your taste for champagne so freely.”

    “Your repea’ requests, you mean! And you drink it like a fish!” shouted Midge.

    “Very like. I am not, however, drunk.”

    “Rubbish! You are, underneath, I know that now; and Nessa Weaver-Grange was perf’ly right, horrid though she ish, an’ I hol’ no brief for her, but she said that col’ness of yours serves as a mashk—I mean a mashk—for anything that might once have been an emotion or being very drunk an’ SO FORTH!” shouted Midge, bursting into loud tears. “I’m going to bed, and don’t bother to shay you won't come in my room to punish me, for I shall lock the door in ANY case!” She rushed out, sobbing.

    Jarvis had been very angry indeed, but the anger had on a sudden evaporated. He sat down very slowly. “Hell,” he muttered. “What a damned fool.”

    The damned fool was not down betimes the following morning, but nevertheless there was no sign of her Ladyship. Jarvis did not go up to see if she was awake: he was in little doubt she’d have an appalling head, and he was quite glad of the respite, for he felt he needed time to think things out clearly. He was due at a sufficiently tedious committee: he went off to it. This afternoon would be time enough.

    The sun shone, the birds twittered in the garden of Blefford Square, and it was a lovely afternoon. Jarvis was met in the front hall of Wynton House by an apologetic-looking Slight. God! Not again!

    “Is her Ladyship in, Slight?”

    “I am afraid not, my Lord. Her Ladyship has gone on an expedition to Richmond. I understand a picknick was mooted.”

    Jarvis took a precarious breath. “With whom?”

    “I believe the barouche was to pick up Miss Lattersby and her two friends.”

    Jarvis eyed him coldly. “Indeed?”

    Slight smiled weakly. “It was the Prince Henri-Louis and his friend M. d’Arresnes who—er—called to invite her Ladyship—”

    “A spur-of-the moment thing, I collect?”

    “Very much so: yes, my Lord, or so I gathered. Then, er, as her Ladyship was not alone—”

    “Slight,” said Jarvis dangerously, “just cease any attempt to soften any blow I might be supposed to feel, and tell me who exactly went off to Richmond with my wife!”

    Midge had gone off to Richmond with Commodore Hallett and Lord Geddings, as well as H.-L. and d’Arresnes. And Richmond in conjunction with the last-named could only mean they intended to include Yoly Renwick in the expedition. As to whether (a) the barouche would call for Janey and the girls or (b) Janey and the girls might be at home, on a lovely day like this, to accept the invitation—

    “Thank you,” he said heavily. “I shall be in the study.”

    “Of course. I beg your pardon, my Lord, but have you eaten?”

    “What? Oh—no,” said Jarvis feebly.

    Promising in a fatherly way to have them send in a tray, Slight bowed himself out.

    Jarvis went into the study, trying not to grind his teeth. He had been unjust to her; he had put her in the wrong; he had not considered either his words or whether his reproaches to her had been justified, given that it was only his damned consequence that could possibly have suffered from the previous night’s idiotic proceedings; and he had, in short, taken the wrong tack with her almost from the first. Not coming in her room to punish her? Hell. Was that how she saw him? Well, yes, undoubtedly it was, and those who put themselves in the position of—of curmudgeonly mentors, to put it mildly, must expect to have their damned edicts flouted by any woman with spirit! Damnation. Well, he would try to do better, and not reproach her for going to Richmond with that crowd of imbeciles—and at least there was safety in numbers! But could he in all conscience overlook her encouraging d’Arresnes and Yoly Renwick to pursue the connection when there was little hope of its resulting in anything but heartbreak for the pair of them? Uh—no, on the whole, he couldn’t. No, well, he would speak to Midge about that, but he would overlook the rest. Act as if it had never happened, in fact.

    He spent an uneasy afternoon, his mind only half on the business he and Jonathon were supposed to be getting on with. By the time he should have been going up to change for dinner, there was still no sign of Midge. Trying not to let his mind dwell on horrid visions of carriage accidents, Jarvis went upstairs. He bathed and changed, and then sent Fonteroi to see if Midge was back. The valet reported that her Ladyship had just this minute come in, and was about to bathe. Jarvis sighed. They had an evening engagement: dinner and then the opera with the Rockinghams. He went downstairs slowly.

    “I’m sorry I’m so late!” gasped his wife, rushing in with ribbons flying. “We went to Richmond—did Slight tell you? It was the most delightful afternoon, and we found a field positively full of hawthorns in flower, and it was all very idyllic, and I completely forgot the time! And then I started to put on the new lilac gown, but May reminded me I had worn that shade before to Hammond House, so I had to change again!”

    “I see. That old-gold shade is very becoming on you, my dear.”

    “Is it?” said Midge uncertainly, peering down at herself in gold gauze over a deeper shade of satin. “It doesn’t make me look all pink and yallerish, does it?”

    “No, it is not yallerish at all. Though your cheeks are certainly very pink.”

    “Yes, I was hurrying. Is the Wynton set all right with this gold shade?”

    “Most becoming. That reminds me, I saw Hallett this morning and reclaimed the diamond brooch. He is not wholly a bad fellow.”

    “No, well, there you are,” said Midge ringing the bell vigorously, and avoiding his eye. “George, is the carriage ready? Oh, good,” she said as he agreed it was. “Come along, Jarvis, the Marquis will be rabid if we make him late for the opera.”

    Jarvis followed her out obediently. He did not make the mistake of trying to speak to her seriously on the short journey to Hammond House, merely let her rattle on about what the Marquis of Rockingham had told her about the piece they were to see this evening.

    The piece was probably everything the Marquis had promised, but Jarvis scarcely heard a note. The box was rather full, largely of Hammond connections, most notable amongst whom was Sir Lionel Dewesbury, a large, hearty individual whom Jarvis would never have suspected of being musical. But he was, as much so as his nephew-by-marriage: he and Rockingham favoured the box with an antiphonal dissertation on the merits and demerits of the singers, the orchestra, and the composition during the intervals. Little Lady Rockingham appeared to support this with equanimity; possibly she was used to it. Added to which, possibly Society was correct in its opinion that she was nigh as besotted about him as he was about her. Lucky them. Jarvis’s wife did not chat genteelly to her sweet little hostess: on the contrary, she sat next her hostess’s brother, the dashing black-eyed Mr Luís Ainsley, and encouraged him to flirt outrageously with her throughout.

    The opera was followed by supper, during which Mr Ainsley and Lady Sleyven continued their flirtation. The Marquis and Sir Lionel, in the intervals of dissecting some cold duck, continued their dissection of the piece. Jarvis found he was swallowing more yawns than duck.

    “I think we had best take our leave of you!” said his wife with a gurgle as he failed to swallow one of the yawns. “Jarvis has been having too many late nights at the House, and we had the most tedious card party last night, which went on until the small hours.”

    “So we heard, Lady S.!” said Mr Ainsley with a laugh.

    “Aye: all over White’s,” agreed Lord Rockingham cheerfully. “Eh?” he said, catching his wife’s eye. “Oh. Er—sorry, Sleyven. Mind you, could not possibly have been as bad as that time Gaetana had old Cousin Peregrine Jerningham along with that old Aunt Grantham of Micky Fox’s: she were a Foxe-Forsythe before she married Herbert Grantham,” he said to Midge.

    “Yes? I think I don't know her, Marquis.”

    “Vague old dame, terrifically high in the instep, only that ain't the point. Old Peregrine’s that way, too. Thing is, the old duck’s a fidgeter. Sort of old dame that fidgets with her bracelets all night: drives you crazy.”

    “I see,” she said uncertainly.

    “Took one off, eventually; very fine, y’know. Been in Grantham’s family for generations: gold strap work: Italian, sixteenth-century. Rubies and emeralds worked into the design. Old Peregrine pocketed it before you could say ‘knife’.”

    Midge gulped, even though she did now recall Miss Partridge’s having mentioned this gentleman.

    “He is notorious for it, my dear Lady Sleyven!” said Lady Rockingham with a laugh. “Usually one can rely on his valet to return the things. But Lady Grantham discovered her bracelet was missing before Giles could tactfully get it back, you see.”

    “Oh, dear,” said Midge feebly.

    “Kicked up a terrific fuss!” said Sir Lionel Dewesbury cheerfully. “Hysterics, an’ all. Old Giles, here, was at a loss.”

    ‘Thanks, Lionel,” said his nephew-by-marriage, grinning at him.

    “Well, you was. –He was,” he said to the company. “So I dragged old Peregrine off to the billiards room and made him turn out his pockets. Came over all stiff-rumped,” he said, shaking his head over it.

    “Sí; but dear Lionel was as brave as a lion, and got the bracelet back!” said Lady Rockingham, laughing a little. “And since then I have been very careful about the guest list whenever old Cousin Peregrine is due!”

    “That’s it,” said the Marquis cheerfully. “But it was a pretty disastrous evening, while it lasted!”

    “Oh,” said Midge limply. “Yes.”

    Jarvis got up. “So was ours. I think we must, indeed, take our leave.” He duly thanked the Rockinghams for their hospitality, and they took their leave of the party. Mr Luís Ainsley did not neglect, amidst the farewells, to remind Lady Sleyven that should she be in search of the odd chair or sofa, he was reckoned to be a man of taste, and wholly to be relied upon!

    “I suppose you will say that that was salutary or some such,” said Jarvis’s wife grimly during the journey back to Wynton House.

    Jarvis yawned. “What? Oh—the revelation that the story of last night’s disaster is all round the clubs already? Mm. Plus the fact that the story of Vyv’s efforts to assist you in choosing furniture is apparently also all round the clubs—or at least Boodle’s; I doubt if they’d let young Ainsley cross the threshold of White’s. Or certainly not in that coat he was wearing tonight. Don't tell me it is the latest mode, that is my point.”

    “Oh, not only that! That plus the fact that Lord and Lady Rockingham so kindly and tactfully let us know they are entirely on our side in the matter of disastrous dinner parties!” retorted Midge smartly. “I am sure it must do one so much good to be the object of such kindly charity!”

    “They are very decent people. If you did not wish for precisely that sort of reaction from the few who are like the Rockinghams, and precisely the other sort of reaction from the majority, who are not, might I suggest you should not have had the thing?”

    “I had to have it, because you would do nothing to stop Lady Julia!” she snapped.

    “Yes. I don't want to quarrel over it, Midge. But I will just say this: why did you not let me into the plot?”

    There was silence in the luxuriously appointed Wynton town coach.

    “Well?” said Jarvis in a languid tone.

    “Because I was very sure that you would do your best to stop me,” replied Midge grimly. “And I would much rather not discuss it, if you please.”

    “Very well,” he said mildly.

    Midge lapsed into a baffled and scowling silence.

    In the hall she picked up her candle and said, avoiding his eye: “I’m very sleepy. Good-night.”

    “Good-night,” said Jarvis with a sigh. He went slowly into the salon and poured himself a brandy. Damnation. Well—tomorrow?

    Her Ladyship did not come down for breakfast on the morrow. Jarvis crumbled a roll and drank coffee moodily, only half aware that the breakfast room seemed to be inordinately full of hovering footmen. Eventually, as Slight himself brought in a fresh pot of coffee, he said heavily: “What is all this, Slight?”

    “Did your Lordship not send George for more coffee?” replied the butler smoothly.

    “Yes. Forget it,” said Jarvis, passing a hand over his pate.

    Slight set the coffee-pot down before him. “Mr Crayshaw asked me to remind your Lordship that it is this morning that you are expecting a deputation of tenants from the South London properties.”

    “Oh—yes. Are they here already?” said Jarvis limply.

    “Yes, my Lord. I have put them in the small salon.”

    “Er—yes. Look, see if they want coffee or anything, would you, Slight? And if her Ladyship comes down—” He paused.

    “Yes, my Lord?”

    “Nothing. I think I’ll be tied up all morning. Perhaps you could just give her Ladyship the message that if she is free this afternoon, I would be glad to drive her anywhere she might wish to go.”

    “Of course, my Lord.” Delicately pushing the plate of rolls closer to him, Slight bowed and withdrew.

    Jarvis sighed. Was there the slightest hope that Midge would see this suggestion as the peace-offering it was meant to be? He very much doubted it.

    Quite some hours later, he emerged from the study to find Slight waiting for him in the hall. With a note. Now what?

My dear Jarvis,

    Just a note to remind you that it is today that I am promised to Janey for an expedition to her Uncle’s shop, to choose something exquisite as the Lattersbys’ wedding gift to Katerina and the Capt. Or not positively choose, as Janey ordered it up weeks back, but to inspect and approve. And possibly to stand in front of her when her Father finds out its price. She would not reveal what it was, so expect anything!

    Shall dine with the Lattersbys as we originally planned, I do hope you have not forgot it. Do not feel left out, for an I mistake not, this is the night you have an engagement for cards with Mr Hugh Throgmorton. Nota bene: I have remembered exactly who he is, he is the Marquis of Rock.’s maternal uncle, and expect to be mentioned in Dispatches on account of it.

In haste,

Midge.

    Jarvis reread this missive several times but could make nothing much of it. Well—at least she had remembered she had a husband, unlike the occasion of Polly’s having her baby, so that was an improvement. But as to whether that last sentence indicated a more charitable mood towards himself, or a veiled sneer… The more he read the valediction, the more sure he was that a veiled sneer had been intended. “In haste, Midge”? Not even “Yours, in haste, Midge”? Let alone “Your loving Midge.” Damnation. Added to which, she’d undoubtedly sit in Lattersby’s pocket all evening, and there was no hope of his, Jarvis’s, getting home before about four in the morning, old Hugh Throgmorton’s card parties usually lasted until the candles guttered. Hell and damnation, in fact!

    He reached home, yawning horribly, at three-thirty. George and the porter were on duty in the front hall, neither of them looking very awake. Jarvis thanked the footman as he took his cloak and hat, and told him he could run along to his bed; and that he was on no account to rise before eight-thirty in the morning.

    “Yes, my Lord. Thank you, my Lord. Begging your Lordship’s pardon, but should I not wait up for her Ladyship, then?”

    Jarvis’s jaw dropped. “Er—no,” he managed. “I think the porter will be sufficient,”—avoiding the man’s eye: he was about his own age.—“And I shall of course wait up for her myself. Good-night, George.”

    “Thank you, my Lord. Good-night, my Lord!” gasped the young man, exiting hurriedly.

    Upstairs, Jarvis looked into Midge’s room. Little May was asleep in a chair by the ashes of the fire. He shook her shoulder gently, woke her up, and sent her firmly off to bed. Then he rekindled the fire, sat down in the chair, and prepared to wait. It was just possible that the party at the Lattersbys’ had gone on this late: the three girls and Midge were perhaps immersed in happy plans over what they would wear to Katerina’s wedding. On the other hand, given that both Janey and Amanda were what could be fairly called crossed in love at this precise moment, a cosy confabulation until past three in the morning seemed unlikely. And given that today was the Wednesday of the threatened masquerade ball… He sighed, crossed his legs and prepared to wait.

    It was four-twenty by the gilt clock on the mantel when there was a clatter of hooves and carriage wheels in the street, the sound of considerable laughter and, possibly, what were merely merry, rather than actually drunken, farewells. Jarvis waited, trying not to condemn her unheard.

    Lady Sleyven hurried into her room on a waft of perfume and a rustle of silk skirts, and stopped short with a gasp.

    “Good evening, Midge. I thought I would wait up for you; I have not been home long myself,” said Jarvis evenly.

    “Yes,” replied Midge numbly. “What is the ti— Help!” she gulped, looking at the clock.

    Jarvis eyed her drily. Her Ladyship was clad in a pale green silk domino over one of her newest gowns: an exquisite thing of white spider gauze decorated with tiny lily-of-the-valley motifs: seed pearls forming the flowers, the leaves embroidered in pale green silk. A silver mask dangled from her right hand on long green ribbons and her glorious red hair was intriguingly twined with more green ribbons and tiny white flowers. “The spirit of spring?” he suggested politely.

    “Something like that,” said Midge limply.

    “Who was your escort?” he demanded bluntly.

    “Well, it was not so very bad, because—”

    “Who TOOK you?” he shouted.

    Scowling horribly, Midge replied: “I am trying to tell you. We made up a party, so I did not make myself conspicuous at all! Janey and the girls were very keen to go, so Major Lattersby volunteered to escort us all. And the others only came because they happened to be there the afternoon we were discussing it. I could hardly say we did not want them.”

    “Who?” he said tightly.

    “Only Commodore Hallett and Harry Morphett,” said Midge in self-exculpatory tones.

    “Of whom one is more than old enough to know better. Did he volunteer himself for this duty before or after I got that brooch back from him?”

    “What?” Midge counted on her fingers, looking confused. “Um—it must have been before.”

    Jarvis took a deep breath. “I see. Then I can only conclude he was laughing up his sleeve during the entire episode.”

    “I don’t see why. He must have known you wouldn’t let him keep the brooch.”

    “Never mind. Was that all?” he said grimly.

    “Ye-es… Well, all who were in our original party,” replied Midge uneasily.

    “And?”

    Pouting, she cried: “No-one encouraged them! They were already there when we got there, and they said it had been damned flat, and might they join our merry crew?”

    “WHO?” he shouted.

    “I’m telling you! H.-L. and Geddings!” said Midge crossly.

    “I might have known,” he said grimly.

    “There was nothing in it at all. H.-L. had come on from some horrid diplomatic thing, and he had only joined up with Geddings because his friend M. d’Arresnes was not there.”

    “I suppose that is one blessing. While I think of it, I know that your intentions are good, Midge, but I feel I must point out that given his family’s lukewarm reception of his feelings towards little Miss Renwick, your encouraging the pair of them is likely only to result in heartbreak.”

    Midge went very red.

    “Well?”

    “Yes, I do see that. –But there is no reason!” she cried. “The Renwicks are entirely respectable, and its perfectly true they have Plantagenet blood; and M. d’Arresnes is a nice boy who only wants to live an unpretentious country-house life!”

    “Yes. Unfortunately life as it is lived amongst the Upper Ten Thousand is not that simple.”

    “Mm, I do know that, really; I just thought…” Midge’s voice trailed off.

    “And I must add, that your own encouragement of H.-L., though scarcely in the same class, is not doing him a favour, either.”

    “No. Well, I just like him. I thought we might merely be friends.”

    “Yes, but people are beginning to talk,” said Jarvis without emphasis.

    “But if you know it is harmless, and I know it— Um, no. That was unprincipled of me,” said Midge in a small voice.

    “Yes.”

    There was a short silence.

    “All right! I went to the stupid masquerade ball to spite you, is that what you want to hear?” she cried.

    “No.”

    Midge gulped.

    “I have to admit that I am very angry,” said Jarvis levelly. “We shall not discuss it now. But I shall just say this: in spite of any advice that Corinna might have given, I find that I cannot support with equanimity your encouraging all the rufflers of the town to hang on your skirts. I know that everybody does it and that it is meaningless. Telling myself so has not helped, I find. We shall talk about it tomorrow. Good night.”

    “Help,” muttered Midge numbly as he went out, looking perfectly calm.

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