The Plot Thickens

25

The Plot Thickens

    Judicious peering through the peep-hole in the curtain had enabled Sid to ascertain just who was in the box of the unknown lady who had invited him to join her party. So he was prepared. Miss Burden, however, manifestly was not: as he entered she gasped, and pressed herself back in her seat.

    Roland Lefayne was not, of course, unaccustomed to invitations from ladies to join their parties: but he was considerably intrigued to find that, though he gave this Mrs Weaver-Grange the obligatory meaning look deep into the eyes as he took her hand and bowed over it, there was no spark of interest there. Lord. So what was she up to?

    “Delighted you could join us, Mr Lefayne,” drawled Nessa. “You know Miss Burden, I think?”

    Well, that was clearly one of the things the bitch was up to. “No, I do not believe I have had the pleasure,” said Sid, bowing very low and smiling kindly at Miss Burden. Delicious in fawn silk scattered with tiny gold-embroidered ferns: how Joe could ever have imagined that Lord Sleyven might prefer the Marsh hag to that—!

    “How do you do?” said Midge faintly. As himself, the actor was very unlike Richard III, but very, very like the Prince. The two striking wings of silver at the temples were gone: otherwise, however, he was identical. Help!

    Very fortunately Captain Lord Vyvyan came forward and wrung Mr Lefayne’s hand, expressing his congratulations on the performance and asking a great many questions about the details of the make-up and the hump, so she was spared the necessity of immediately making conversation, and had a little time in which to recover herself.

    There was a growing hubbub in the house as the audience realised who it was in the box: eventually Sid, appropriately clad for the occasion in a glowing gold brocade dressing-gown with a crimson Cashmere shawl tossed negligently over one shoulder, strolled forward and gracefully acknowledged his public. He was aware that Miss Burden was watching this performance numbly and that his hostess was watching it drily: he did not, however, permit his own amusement to show.

    Mrs Weaver-Grange had sent for champagne: as it arrived, she said airily: “And did you have a pleasant summer in Lower Nettlefold, Mr Lefayne?”

    “Why, no,” said Sid cheerfully, ignoring the fact that Miss Burden had audibly gulped: “I did have a pleasant summer, ma’am, I thank you: but on the coast near Whitby. Very quiet.”

    At this Mrs Weaver-Grange collapsed in a gale of giggles, which the experienced Sid recognized as entirely calculated. “Oh, is he not convincing, my dear Millicent?” she gasped. “But it will not do, dear sir: your disguise has been penetrated!”

    Sid and Harold had privily agreed, on spotting Miss Burden in the unknown lady’s box, that no matter what the provocation he would stick to his story of having been on the farm all summer: for once he admitted he had been the Prince Alexei, there was always the risk of that breach of promise case. He smiled calmly and shook his head.

    “You are among friends here, you know,” said Nessa, opening her big eyes very wide at him.

    “Nessa’s got this idea in her noddle,” said the Captain, clearing his throat, “—well, they all have, actually—that it was you what was down in Sleyven’s county this summer, pretendin’ to be a Russian prince and leadin’ Mrs Kitty Marsh round by the nose.”

    Sid gave a bewildered laugh.

    “Well!” said Nessa with a gurgle, as Miss Burden’s cheeks darkened, “we shall not teaze you! But I do assure you that Kitty Marsh is cordially loathed by all who know her: you will find no-one to condemn your masquerade, you know!”

    “No. Only thing is, why did you sheer off at the last moment?” asked Captain Lord Vyvyan with interest. “Well, understandable in a way. Mind you, I haven’t laid eyes on the woman for—must be twelve years since I was in India,” he recalled hazily. “Not that she were an antidote. But—uh—” He did sums on his fingers. “She’d be well over forty, now.”

    “My dear Captain, I am afraid I do not know what you are talking about,” replied Sid cheerfully. “I have never been to India.”

    “Eh? No, no!”

    Nessa gave a soft laugh. “Don’t try to explain, Vyv, it will be wasted breath! Come along, you may take me over to speak to Mme de Fontenay and the Vicomte.”

    The Captain got up, looking dubious. “D’Arresnes is moonin’ over little Miss Renwick, y’know.”

    “Precisely! I wish to see it at close quarters!” said Nessa, leading him off. “Do excuse me, Mr Lefayne!” she said over her shoulder with a charming smile.

    The door of the box closed behind them.

    Midge looked at him helplessly.

    “Miss Burden,” said Sid Bottomley thoughtfully: “without compromising the position that either of us might wish to take on the matter, may I caution you to be on your guard with that lady?”

    She bit her lip, and nodded numbly.

    “I cannot tell exactly what her game be, but it is clearly mischief,” he added calmly.

    She cleared her throat. “Yes.”

    Sid twinkled at her. “I’m sorry if this is embarrassing you. In my walk of life, when an unknown lady invites one to her box, one does not inevitably assume it is because she wishes to cause another lady a painful embarrassment.”

    “Y— N— Oh, I see,” she said limply. “No, it wouldn’t be.”

    Sid merely smiled a little, and nodded.

    After a moment Midge ventured: “I am not truly embarrassed. But I— Forgive me, but this close, I am sure everyone will recognise you.”

    “Mm,” he agreed mildly.

    There was a considerable silence.

    “But why didn’t you— No, I won’t,” she said, smiling at him.

    “Why did His Highness not—er—follow through?”—She nodded mutely.—“Let us just say, there were reasons not to.”

    “I—I will not ask questions,” said Midge. “But it is all rather a pity. If only you—um—he had married Mrs Marsh, Lord Sleyven would have asked if—if he could take little Jenny.”

    “Oh, Lor’,” said Sid, making a rueful face. “So, he wants her, does he?”

    “Yes. He has become terribly fond of her, this last year,” she said, trying to smile. “But he said that if Mrs Marsh ever knew he wanted her, she would never let her go.”

    Sid had to repress a shudder, but he said: “I see: the Earl thinks he might persuade a stepfather to give her up, does he?”

    “Yes. It sounds cruel to suggest taking a child away from her mother, but—”

    “Not in this instance. What a pity I could not have known.”

    “Yes,” agreed Midge simply.

    He laughed. “That is, given that I was not there at all, ma’am! But I will admit one thing to you: I do not speak a word of Russian!”

    Most gratifyingly, at this Miss Burden dissolved in a gale of helpless giggles.

    Sid was very tempted to tell her the whole. But perhaps fortunately, at this moment there was a tap at the door, and a crowd of male persons eagerly entered the box. Not, Sid was very sure, in order to be introduced to his humble self.

    The evening ended with himself, Mr Hartington, and Mr Quipp, who had played old Queen Margaret, graciously accepting an invitation from Mrs Weaver-Grange to her house for supper. Complete with Miss Burden and her tame hussar. Somehow or another the Waldgraves’ party joined up with them, and also a very grand French lady and her nephew, with their party. Sid was aware that the Waldgraves, mother and daughters, had been impelled to accept the invitation by raging curiosity: they remained throughout in a state of silent, goggling, half-awed, half-horrified consternation. Little Janey Lattersby was in a continual state of giggles, but given her age, no-one read anything into this. And Sid’s niece was in what appeared to be a state of suspended animation, but fortunately nobody could have gathered from this that she knew any more of the masquerade than did the Waldgraves.

    … “Go on, tell!” urged Mr Quipp, as the players piled into a hackney carriage, very late.

    “Tell? There ain’t nothing to tell,” replied Sid, yawning.

    “Yes, there is! I ain’t blind nor deaf!” retorted the little character actor. “This mysterious summer engagement you all ’ad, what an Unknown Gentleman was paying for: it was as this Russian prince and ’is household, wasn’t it?”

    Mr Quipp was normally a member of the rival company, Mr Brentwood’s, and had only been lured away for the run of the play by the promise of immense largesse on top of a peach of a part. And because Mr Brentwood had been ill-advised enough to offer him the bear. Both Sid and Harold were aware of where his true loyalties lay and would not have dreamed of telling him the truth.

    Mr Hartington yawned elaborately, therefore, and noted: “He’s been listening to that Gloriana Grosvenor: wouldn’t have thought even she could have been dim enough to swallow that one.”

    Sid agreed sleepily: “I’d have said she was old enough to know when an actor-manager wants to get her into his bed, certainly.”

    “She’da gorn with you if that was what you wanted, ’Arold, you wouldn’t’ve had to spin ’er no yarn! And you knows it!” retorted Mr Quipp smartly.

    “Flattering,” drawled Mr Hartington.

    “No, it ain’t; it’s the simple truth. Well, anything’d be a relief after Percy Brentwood,” noted Mr Quipp disloyally.

    “Thank you.”

    “No, go on! Tell!” he urged.

    “There ain’t nothing to tell,” said Mr Hartington with finality.

    Mr Quipp shrugged. “All right, be like that. It was plain as the nose on yer face them ladies all recognised Sid, though; so ’oo’s the noddy now?”

    Nobody replied, and Mr Quipp, scowling, composed himself to sleep.

    It was rather too late to discuss the evening, and Sid and Harold, who were now sharing the lodgings that had formerly been Sid’s alone—Mr Hartington, it may be remembered, having broken with his former landlady—merely tumbled into bed, yawning frightfully. But next morning Mr Hartington ventured over a belated breakfast: “The cat’s out of the bag, then.”

    “Mm. Not if it were up to Miss Burden, mind you—sweet, ain’t she? That Society bitch’ll spread it around, though. And the Waldgraves were all agog.”

    “Aye. Hadn’t managed to get so close to Miss Amanda before,” said Mr Hartington on a longing note.

    “No, well, just you keep your hands to yourself! She’s only an innocent girl, y’know.”

    “A fellow can look,” he said wistfully.

    “Look!” retorted Sid swiftly.

    “Er—well, a man ain’t responsible for t’other thing, Sid!”

    Sid merely grinned, and poured himself more coffee. “It won’t do us any harm for the story to get round London, I don’t think.”

    “No: Percy Brentwood and his damned bear will look pretty sick,” he agreed on a smug note. “The nobs’ll be flocking to see you!”

    “Yes,” agreed Sid, yawning. “Where did he find it, anyway?”

    “Eh? He takes it himself, dear lad!”

    “Not the bear, you noddy!” he shouted. Mr Hartington blinked. “The piece!”

    “The— Oh! Well, according to Emmanuel Everett,” said Mr Hartington, grinning, “it was one of Percy’s own, what he wrote years back. He was talking of resurrecting it as a straight melodrama, but Everett saw the comic possibilities in it.”

    “Ah,” said Sid, satisfied. “Brains. Knew it wouldn’t have been old Percy’s idea.”

    “Quite. Um, look, Sid,” he said uncomfortably: “are you quite sure you’ll be safe, dear old boy?”

    “Mm? Oh: yes. Kitty’s gone to Italy. Miss Burden told me the children had a letter, just recently. She’s got as far as Rome: went by ship, sick as a dog in the Bay of Biscay”—Mr Hartington laughed unkindly—“and she’s met a charming barone or some such.” He shrugged.

    “That sounds safe enough. No mention of lawsuits or any such?” he said delicately.

    “Doesn’t sound like it.”

    “Good. You’d better drop Joe a line, though.”

    “Mm. I would in any case,” he said in an odd tone.

    “Uh—look, it stuck out a mile that Miss B. and Lord Sleyven had had a lovers’ tiff last night, Sid; there ain’t nothing to worry Joe over, in that!”

    “It wasn’t that. Though I suppose he should know that it ain’t all smooth sailing, between them. Um—no...” He fiddled with the crumbs on his plate.

    “Look, Sid,” said Harold Hartington bravely: “you get on out of it, if you’ve got the least doubt. The play’s done better than we ever thought it would: we’ll be all right.”

    “No, no: wouldn’t dream of deserting you, Harold! And I don’t think there’s any risk...”

    “What’s up, then?”

    Sid sighed. “It sounds damned silly. But if I had married the hag, it would have meant I’d have been little Jenny’s legal guardian, and his Lordship would have had some hope of getting her away from damned Kitty.”

    Mr Hartington was gaping at him.

    “I said it sounded damned silly,” he said with a shrug.

    “Y— Um—no-one could have known, dear boy!” he gasped.

    Sid made a face. “No.”

    Harold Hartington poured the last of the coffee into his cup and drank it slowly, thinking it all over. “Damn,” he concluded. “Supposing the Earl had been in on it from the first—”

    “Harold, he ain’t that type!” he gasped.

    “No, I know; I’m just saying, supposing; and supposing you’d struck a bargain with him that you would marry Kitty and let him have the brat...”

    Sid sighed. “Yes. it could have been very lucrative, and I could be sitting in Newgate as we speak, Harold!”

    “Eh? Oh. No, well, with you not being really Russian, and then, your face is pretty well known... S’pose too many things could have gone wrong, aye,” he concluded.

    The two actors sighed deeply.

    Miss Burden had crept in very late, in what could fairly have been described as fear and trembling, but there was no sign of the Earl. However, when she came down to breakfast next morning Slight himself informed her that once she had breakfasted his Lordship would be grateful if she would join him in his study. She managed to get half a cup of coffee down her and went along to the study in fear and trembling.

    The Earl was alone: not a good sign. Miss Burden had put on a new dress: a pale lilac wool, not a shade she would have chosen, with her deep red hair, but which Lady Caroline had decreed would set it off wonderfully well. Midge was aware from the image presented to her in her long glass this morning that, as usual, Lady Caroline’s taste had not erred. She looked extremely pretty and extremely Millicentish in it. Nevertheless she was not at all convinced that either of these points would weigh with Lord Sleyven in the mood he might be expected to be in this morning.

    “Good morning, Miss Burden,” he said, rising politely. “Please sit down.”

    “Thank you: I would prefer to stand,” replied Midge frankly.

    “This is not a court martial, Miss Burden,” he said levelly.

    “Indeed? Well, I do perceive that your faithful adjutant is not present. But I gained the impression from the Regimental Sergeant Major that it could be no less,” she said brightly.

    “Er—oh. Slight himself gave you my message?” She nodded, and he said, passing a hand over his forehead: “I spoke to George, merely.”

    Miss Burden did not reply.

    “Miss Burden, I am not angry with you,” said Jarvis with a sigh. “Please sit down.”

    “Well, first I had better say that I concede you would have a right to be angry with me. But I was very careful not to be alone with Captain Lord Vyvyan and in fact, though we supped with Mrs Weaver-Grange, we did so in the company of Mrs Waldgrave, Mrs Lush and Mme de Fontenay: so I was not unchaperoned. And Mrs Lush and Mrs Waldgrave drove me home.”

    “Yes, well, I would not have left you at the theatre had Mrs Lush not already invited you to join her party,” admitted Jarvis with a sigh.

    Midge sat down, looking wary. “You may be consoled to know that the supper party was one long embarrassment. Mr Lefayne maintained throughout that he was not the Prince Alexei, but it was clear no-one believed him. And Captain Lord Vyvyan persisted in interrogating him as to all the details.”

    “Do you mean the actor had supper with you?”

    “Yes. Mrs Weaver-Grange insisted on asking him.”

    “Then I really have to say, Miss Burden, it serves you out for joining her!”

    “Yes,” agreed Midge glumly.

    He gave a startled laugh. “I am glad you agree!”

    “Yes. And I apologize for being so angry with you last night, sir: it was no more your blame than mine, for I actually heard Lady Frayn say his name, but never thought, either, that we might see him on the stage. And—and I have been very selfish and heedless, altogether, and it was wrong in me not to think of the possible consequences for Susi-Anna and Teddy, instead of how much I wanted to see the play,” she ended in a small voice.

    “I am glad you concede we were both at fault,” he said with a sigh. “Fortunately, neither Susi-Anna nor Teddy recognized him.”

    “Thank goodness. He did look very different as Richard III. But without his make-up, he was unmistakeably the Prince.”

    Jarvis winced. “I thought that might be the case.”

    “Yes. Coming home they were all speculating as to why he did not marry her in the end,” she said, sighing.

    “I can imagine. Er—did anyone speculate in your hearing as to why he started the thing in the first place?”

    “No,” said Midge blankly.

    He drummed his fingers on his desk a little. “Hm.”

    “I—I suppose it is odd,” she said, thinking it over.

    “Indeed. While one concedes the possibility that he may have thought a masquerade for the summer might be amusing, the way he went about it was not inexpensive.”

    “No-o... Janey said that his mother’s diamond necklace was paste,” recalled Midge suddenly.

    “Mm... The pearl tiara also. I suspect.”

    “Perhaps all the jewels were. Stage properties, such as the actresses wore last night,” said Midge, smiling at him.

    “Mm… Midge, my dear, did any lady remark to you on the Grand Duchess’s bracelets?”

    Miss Burden had turned a glowing scarlet. “Um—I don’t recall!” she gasped. “The—the diamond bracelets?”

    “Yes.” Jarvis had just realised what he had called her. He looked at her with a little smile.

    “Um... Oh, yes: Mrs Somerton admired them very much. She said they were diamonds of the first water. I cannot remember whether Janey confirmed that.”

    “No.” He drummed his fingers lightly on his desk again.

    Midge frowned over it uncertainly. “The more one thinks about it all, the odder it seems. It is certainly not like Mrs Somerton to make a mistake about the quality of a lady’s jewels... Everyone said those beautiful lace shawls were real Chantilly, too.”

    “Exactly. As I say, I would not find the fact of a simple masquerade so puzzling, but... Well, possibly the fellow had Kitty Marsh’s fortune in mind all along, and saw the outlay as an investment.”

    “Ye-es... Could an actor afford jewels like that, though?”

    Jarvis thought once again of those magnificent bands of blue-white fire. He shook his head slowly.

    Midge was suddenly struck by a horrible suspicion. She looked at him uneasily. The high-cheekboned face looked mildly puzzled, merely. But she was aware by now that he was not inexpert at concealing his true feelings. Swallowing, she croaked: “Could—could he have had a—a patron?”

    “I was wondering that. But who, for the Lord’s sake? Anyone who could afford jewels of that sort—not to mention the hire of the house for the summer, it was all paid in advance, Jonathon tells me—would scarcely be in need of Kitty Marsh’s fortune. And then, to let it go, in the end...”

    “Yes.” Midge swallowed again. “You are the only person I know of who could afford that sort of money.”

    Jarvis’s jaw sagged.

    Miss Burden was very red. She looked at him defiantly, with her rounded chin stuck out.

    “I see!” he said with a laugh. “What, to draw Kitty off myself? What a wonderful idea: I wish I had thought of it! But then, you know, I would not have allowed the fellow to sheer off at the last moment: I would have made very sure he married her and took her away to Tomsk!”

    “Mm.” Miss Burden chewed on her lip.

    “My darling Midge,” said Jarvis gaily, “I assure you it was not me! But I’m very glad to know you could believe me capable of it!”

    “What? But I— Oh,” said Miss Burden, going redder than ever.

    “I had thought, you see, that you had some silly notion in that delightful auburn head of yours—that shade of lilac is delicious with it, by the by: you should wear it more often. Where was I? Oh, yes: I had thought that you had some silly notion that I still hankered after the frightful Kitty.”

    “N— I—”

    “All I want from her,” he said on a grim note, the nostrils flaring, “is my Jenny!”

    “Yes,” agreed Midge, blinking, and swallowing sudden tears. “I—I think I do believe that, now.”

    “Thank God,” he said, passing a hand across his forehead.

    Silence fell in the Wynton House study.

    After a while Midge got up, on legs that shook a little. “I—I think someone had best tell Susi-Anna and Teddy that it was Mr Lefayne who played the Prince.”

    “Mm. I know I should offer, but— Will you do it for me, Midgey?” he said softly. looking at her with his head on one side.

    Miss Burden nodded inarticulately.

    “Thank you.” Jarvis got up, came round the desk to her and put a hand under her chin. “Can we be engaged?” he said baldly.

    Miss Burden gave a shattering sob, wrenched herself away from him, choked: “No!” and ran out of the study.

    Jarvis had not really expected a “Yes,” though he had hoped for it. He walked slowly over to the window and stared out at an unenticing view of pruned, leafless bushes and well-controlled grass in the Blefford Square garden. “Hm,” he murmured, tapping his fingers lightly on the sill.

    The lodging house run by Mr Buxleigh, who had once had a career on the boards himself, was much favoured by theatricals and at the present moment had the privilege of sheltering not only the persons of Mr Roland Lefayne and Mr Harold Hartington, but also those noted Thespian sisters, Mrs Marjory Mayhew and Mrs Lilian Deane, and that popular comic, Mr Victor Vanburgh. Mr Daniel Deane also lodged there, but in his own set of rooms, he and Mrs Lilian having long since agreed their ways should part. On the attic floor some lesser lights such as Mr Morley Masterton and Mr Geoffrey Mainwaring were to be found. Mr Buxleigh was, therefore, accustomed to find persons of somewhat unusual appearance on his front doorstep. He was a large man: he looked benignly down at the scrawny yellowish figure before him and said in not unkindly tones: “If it’s rooms, we’re all full up.”

    The scrawny yellowish figure bowed and replied in the oddest accent Mr Buxleigh had heard since Mr Perseus Brentwood’s famed rendition of the Grand Turk: “Is not being rooms, thank you, sir. I am begging to know, is this the lodging place of Mr Roland Lefayne?”

    Mr Buxleigh looked him over slowly. “Who wants to know?”

    “My master is wanting to know.”

    “Ah. And who might your master be, my good fellow?”

    “Many apologies, am not at liberty to say,” he said, bowing again.

    “Then I’m not at liberty to say, neither!” replied Mr Buxleigh smartly.

    After some time, and the offer of silver, which Mr Buxleigh spurned with contumely, the caller explained that he was not a dun. Mr Buxleigh by this time wasn’t thinking he was: he knew all the bailiffs’ men from these parts. And Roland Lefayne hadn’t changed his bootmaker recently or anything of that sort. Besides, the play was going very well and they’d apparently had a successful summer engagement as well. But there was always the risk of an enraged husband or father.

    “Tell you what, you tell your master to come round ’ere himself, and I’ll speak to him,” he suggested cunningly.

    “That is very possibles. Or he comes with cane and beats living daylights out of you.” The scrawny yellowish figure felt in its pocket. “Or I am offering neighbour two guineas and he is telling me truth.”

    “’Ere! There’s no need to be ’asty about this!” cried Mr Buxleigh in alarm. “Thing is, I got a responsibility to my lodgers, as I’m sure you can understand.”

    The scrawny yellowish figure bowed.

    “What’s ’e done?” asked Mr Buxleigh cautiously.

    “Oh, has done nothing at all.”

    That was clearly a lie: Mr Buxleigh eyed him shrewdly. “Put it like this, is there a lady in the case?”

    “Possibly is being a lady who is not here now.”

    Yes, that was possible, all right, being as how there was the two of them and the caller’s horse in sight, the rest of the street being completely empty. Mr Buxleigh gave him an annoyed look. “What I mean is, supposin’ there was a lady in the case, is this master of yours likely to be after Mr Lefayne with that cane of his?”

    “No; my master is being more likely to shake his hands,” he said, bowing profoundly.

    Mr Buxleigh shrugged, scratched his head a little and conceded: “Well, I’ll see the colour of yer money, in that case. “—Two,” he said as the caller produced a golden guinea. “’E does live here,” he conceded, pocketing the two guineas.

    “Many thanks,” said the caller, bowing low.

    Mr Buxleigh wandered slowly inside again, scratching his substantial chins.

    … “Yellow?” said Sid, to the subsequent report.

    “—ish,” replied Mr Buxleigh cautiously.

    Sid shrugged.

    “I can do the accent for yer,” he offered,

    “Go on, then, Beau,” said Sid, shrugging again.

    Mr Buxleigh obligingly said, bowing low: “My master is being more likely to shake your hands.”

    “Cor,” concluded Sid.

    “Lumme,” agreed Mr Hartington.

    They looked at each other, and shrugged elaborately.

    “It weren’t a dun,” offered Mr Buxleigh.

    “It better not have been,” agreed Mr Hartington cordially. “Well,” he conceded, “couldn’t have been, we don’t owe nobody nothing,”

    “No,” Mr Buxleigh agreed. “I asked him if there was a lady in the case. –Knowing him.”

    “There haven’t been any ladies lately, except— Hell. Do that accent again, Beau,” said Mr Hartington, turning a strange colour.

    Bowing, Mr Buxleigh obliged with: “Many apologies, am not at liberty to say what sort of accent this is being.”

    “Welsh?” said Mr Hartington dubiously.

    “—ish,” noted Sid. “Like the parrot.”

    Choking slightly, Mr Hartington said: “Did she have any Indian servants?”

    “No. Too damned mean to pay their passages to England.”

    “Sure? I recall little Jenny telling us all in the kitchen how the hag had left her nurse behind, but—”

    “Positive, Harold,” he said with a warning look.

    Coughing, Mr Hartington conceded: “Can’t be that, then.”

    “Mm. Wait and see.”

    “Aye. Er... did any of the rest of the cast have foreign servants?”

    Sid just raised his eyebrows at him. And Mr Hartington, aware that “Beau” Buxleigh was listening avidly, subsided.

    Tonkins had insisted on accompanying his master in the curricle to the address he had found for Mr Lefayne. The Earl was, therefore, somewhat surprised to find the street to be neat and respectable, if a trifle shabby: he had been expecting almost anything. A large but neat and respectable figure having appeared upon the doorstep and allowed that this was Mr Lefayne’s residence, his Lordship’s faithful servant said loudly—in English: “I am staying in street to wait for you, Master, sir.”

    Tonkins knew better than to call him “sir” let alone “Master”: Jarvis gave him an ironic look but merely said mildly: “Very well.”

    “Huzzoor,” he burst out in Urdoo: “do not trust that man: he is a budmush who would sell his own mother!”

    Not unaware that the stout man on the doorstep had blenched, Jarvis returned calmly in English: “Rubbish. In any case I am not in the market for mothers today. You may walk the horses if I look like being any length of time, but I do not expect to be.”

    “Huzzoor, I beg that the gharib-parwav will take this humble syce’s pistol—”

    “Bus!” replied the Earl hastily in his groom’s preferred language. “Put that away, you fool! This is a respectable street: I am in no danger.”

    “Huzzoor, we cannot know what sort of tricks these fellows—”

    “BUS! Any tricks so far have resulted only in good for me. –I’m so sorry: please lead the way,” he said to the stout man on the doorstep.

    “Er—well, if you’d care to wait a moment, sir, I’ll just see if Mr Lefayne’s at ’ome,” he replied with belated caution.

    “Certainly,” replied the Earl courteously. Considerately he waited until the fellow had disappeared before saying placidly to his faithful servant: “Now look what you’ve done. They are on their guard.”

    “I beg that the huzzoor will take the humble pistol of this humble syce!”

    “Tonkins, I don’t need your pistol. I’m not a complete idiot, I have one in my pocket. But it’s very clear I won’t need it.”

    Scowling, the humble syce replied: “There was once a man who lived in the most respectable of streets—”

    “Bus,” said Jarvis mildly.

    “If the great zemindar would but—”

    “No. I’ve heard it before: it’s the tale of the coppersmith with the five sons, isn’t it?”

    Scowling, Tonkins allowed: “It may well be, but nevertheless it is a most cautionary history, and most applicable in the present circumstances.”

    “Rubbish. –I can hear him coming downstairs again: just refrain from any further feringhee speech, would you?”

    He began in amazement: “But huzzoor, it is not feringhee— Oh,” he said sheepishly.

    “The fellow thinks we are both devil-cursed,” explained Jarvis redundantly in Urdoo, as the stout man, looking cautious, reappeared on the doorstep.

    Tonkins bowed very low and did not utter.

    “Quite,” said Jarvis in English. “So, is he in?” he said to the landlord.

    “Yes, indeed, sir, if you’d care to step this way?”

    Jarvis followed him upstairs.

     “What name, sir?” he asked, panting slightly.

    “There is no need to announce me, thank you.”

    “Very good, sir. –Your visitor, Mr Lefayne!” he did announce loudly, flinging a door open.

    During the conversation with Tonkins in the street below the Earl had been conscious of movement at the upper windows: so the completely unperturbed demeanour of Mr Roland Lefayne and the broad-shouldered gentleman with him did not surprise him. They might not have been able to recognise him from that angle, but the curricle would certainly have suggested that their caller could hardly be a budmush. Miss Burden was quite correct: the actor as himself was very unlike Richard III, but unmistakably Kitty’s Russian prince.

    “Good afternoon, Mr Lefayne,” said Jarvis coolly.

    Sid bowed easily. “Good afternoon, sir.”

    “May I congratulate you on your late performance? Thoroughly convincing,” said Jarvis on a dry note.

    Sid bowed again. “You are too good, sir.”

    Then there was a short silence.

    Sid took a deep breath and decided he had better bite on the bullet. “I do not think you know my colleague and manager, Mr Hartington? –Harold, may I present Lord Sleyven.”

    Swallowing, Mr Hartington bowed very low.

    “Delighted, Mr Hartington,” said Jarvis drily. “Though I fancy we have met, have we not? I think the last time, you offered me a dish of caviar.”

    Mr Hartington smiled weakly. “The pleasure is mine, my Lord. And may I congratulate your Lordship on your percipience?”

    Jarvis’s eyes twinkled. “Did none of the ladies from Lower Nettlefold recognise you, then, the other night?”

    “No: he did not know whether to be relieved or insulted,” explained Sid smoothly. “Won’t you sit down, Lord Sleyven?”

    “Thank you.”

    They all sat down and Jarvis said, eyeing the actor drily: “Perhaps I had better set at rest any fears you may have, Mr Lefayne, by saying at once that I am not here as Mrs Marsh’s deputy.”

    “Very kind in your Lordship to do so, if I may say so,” said Mr Hartington on a thankful note.

    “Yes. Though I must say, it would have surprised me if you were here on her behalf,” conceded Sid. “How can we help you, then, my Lord?” –He ignored the fact that at this Harold shot him an agonized look.

    “I am not very sure,” said Jarvis tranquilly. “While entirely applauding the outcome of your masquerade, I—er—confess to a certain curiosity as to why it was undertaken.” He eyed Mr Lefayne coolly and allowed the silence to lengthen.

    Eventually Mr Hartington said with an uneasy laugh: “Oh, well, a mere jest, you know, my Lord! It was quite fortuitous that, having undertaken it, a lady in the position of Mrs Marsh should, as it were, fall—um—like a ripe plum,” he ended, coughing slightly.

    “You know, that was my thought at one stage also,” said Jarvis cordially. “Until I began to ponder such points as the fact of the lease of Dinsley Airs being fully paid up for the summer, or the quality of the Grand Duchess’s bracelets, lace and furs; or the amount of excellent champagne that flowed at your ball, sir,” he noted, nodding at Sid. “For which the wine merchants in Nettleford were, so my information goes, exceeding grateful. In especial as the bill was paid most promptly.”

    “Russian princes on the prowl for rich wives commonly pay their bills promptly, sir,” said Sid with a glint in his eye. “It ain’t until after the knot is tied that they get careless.”

    “That thought did occur to me, yes. But then, the knot was never intended to be tied, was it?”

    “That’s a bluff, Sid!” said Mr Hartington urgently.

    Sid gave him a dry look. “Yes.”

    “‘Sid’?” the Earl queried delicately.

    “Roland Lefayne is my stage name,” Sid replied without hurry.

    “Quite the usual custom, my Lord,” added Mr Hartington uneasily.

    “I am sure. –You know,” he said politely, “I have no wish to make threats. And as I say, your masquerade certainly had a favourable outcome for me; but I really must insist that you satisfy my curiosity.”

    “Yes,” agreed Sid on a grim note. “—No, don’t say anything, Harold. Harold only got into it because I was involved, my Lord: if anything is going to come down on anybody’s head, it can come down on mine, not his. And if it’s illegal to spend the summer months supplementing one’s income by being a major-domo in a country house, I confess it must be in a law that I had not heard was on the statute books.”

    The Earl merely looked at him.

    Sid Bottomley was conscious of a strong impulse to apologize for his damned impertinence. And also of a strong feeling of relief that he’d never been one of the unfortunates serving under the man in the Army. “Er—well, my Lord, it was a plot,” he admitted. “Though the inspiration was not my own. We had a—er—a patron.”

    “An Unknown Gentleman,” said Mr Hartington, clearing his throat loudly.

    “Yes, quite,” agreed Sid. “Who must remain so, I fear, my Lord. Though as to the details of the plot, I suppose it can do no harm at this stage to reveal them. Let us just say that the Unknown Gentleman is one who has the best interests of yourself and Miss Burden at heart.” He swallowed, in spite of himself.

    “What?” said the Earl, staring at him.

    “Yes.”

    Mr Hartington cleared his throat again. “We gather that it was all round the district how you gave her some hens, my Lord, and then Mrs M. turns up, and Miss Burden sends the hens back.”

    “That was the preceding summer,” said Jarvis feebly.

    “Yes. The Unknown Gentleman—I’m sorry, Lord Sleyven: the phrase is not intended to be impertinent, it’s one we’ve been using all along,” said Sid on a desperate note.

    “I perfectly understand, Mr Lefayne,” he said, inclining his head a little. “Pray proceed.”

    “Yes,” said Sid lamely. “Um—well, this last spring, when Kitty settled in the district, it became apparent to the Unknown Gentleman that—um—well, that she was there to try to hook you, sir, frankly.”

    “Your unknown patron, I conclude,” he said, wondering madly if it could have been Charles Langford, “was not aware that I apprised that lady that any effort in that direction would be misplaced?”

    “Er—no. Did you, sir? Um—well, no, he wasn’t. It seemed to him and his, uh, friends, that she might manage to cut Miss Burden out. So—”

    “Wait,” he said, holding up his hand.

    The actors looked at him fearfully.

    “Was this enterprise undertaken by you on behalf of the Unknown Gentleman on my account, or Miss Burden’s?” said Jarvis carefully.

    “Oh, on Miss Burden’s, my Lord,” said Mr Lefayne happily.

    Jarvis’s jaw sagged.

    “Oh, Lor’, he hadn’t realised, Sid,” said the burly actor-manager in dismay.

    Jarvis found that the actors were looking at him fearfully again. “Just explain it all to me in words of one syllable, if you would, Mr Lefayne,” he said with a sigh. “Assume that I know nothing.”

    “Ye-es. Er—well, the Unknown Gentleman thought that if Mrs M. could be got out of the running, that would leave the field clear for Miss Burden. I mean,” he said, clearing his throat, “there are no guarantees in such things, of course, but it did seem as if Kitty M. was the main obstacle. Well, certainly the only other lady in the running. And then there was the point that she was an obstacle in other ways, too.”

    “In words of one syllable, please,” repeated Jarvis grimly.

    “Out of sight, out of mind,” prompted Mr Hartington.

    “Yes: our patron thought that it might be easier for you to induce Miss Burden to look favourably upon your suit if Kitty M. wasn’t actually under her nose as a constant reminder of your former liaison,” said Sid uncomfortably.

    “You and the Unknown Gentleman being aware that my suit was not prospering?”

    “Well, the whole county was, my Lord!” said Mr Hartington.

    “So there was a double reason for drawing Kitty off,” explained Sid, eyeing his Lordship uneasily. “And it had to be something that would outrank you, sir.”

    “Whilst exotic enough to appeal,” added Mr Hartington heavily.

    “I apprehend that Mr Lefayne’s person was chosen for that,” said the Earl coolly.

    “Well, yes!” admitted Sid with a smothered laugh. “But we needed a title, and I think the Russian idea was hit upon as being very difficult to disprove easily.”

    “Mm.”

    “Though I confess my heart was in my boots when your cousin, Lady Frayn, turned up and started throwin’ out names of all the Russian fashionables from the Embassy!” he said with a laugh.

    “I am sure,” agreed Jarvis drily. “So, what exactly was the plot, if you would be so good?”

    Sid replied on a glum note: “To draw Kitty Marsh off yourself, get her to agree to an engagement, publicise it and rub the noses of the whole county in it, and then vanish into the night.”

    Mr Hartington contributed helpfully: “We didn’t exactly plan the rubbing of the county’s noses in it, but once we met her it seemed—uh—”

    “Inevitable,” said Jarvis drily. “Yes. I see...”

    “Um—in the case you were thinking we were after the India fortune,” said Sid uncomfortably, “that was never in the Unknown Gentleman’s scheme.”

    “Added to which, when we got as far as talking settlements, it turned out she was prepared to tie every penny of it up in trusts and annuities so as he couldn’t get his hands on it,” explained Mr Hartington.

    “Mm,” agreed Sid.

    The Earl said slowly: “One can see that an Unknown Gentleman who could spring for bracelets of the size and quality of those that the lady who played your mother wore would have no need of Kitty’s India fortune—no.”

    “Oh, Lor’, no, sir!” said Sid cheerfully.

    “Hm.”

    The actors watched him uneasily.

    “Once she’d come the Royal bride all over the district, my Lord, there was no fear she wouldn’t get on out of it when she was made a fool of,” said Mr Hartington on a nervous note.

    “Mm.”

    “The Russian stuff was just properties that we happened to have at our disposal,” the actor-manager added, trying to sound airy.

    “What? Oh! Yes, I am sure!” said Jarvis with a laugh. They gave him relieved smiles. “And the diamond bracelets?” he said without emphasis.

    Their faces fell. Eventually Mr Lefayne admitted: “Our patron provided those, my Lord. Plus a few other genuine articles to—uh—lend verisimilitude.”

    “I see. I will not press you for his name, for that would be hardly fair. I will say, you were taking an excessive risk, in my opinion: but then, I am well acquainted with Mrs Marsh’s temper. You know she sent for the Runners?”

    “Yes, but—” Sid broke off lamely.

    “But?” said Jarvis. raising his eyebrows.

    “We heard,” he said uncomfortably, “that they would not press charges, for no actual fraud was involved.”

    “Ah.”

    Sid looked at his frown and said with a forced laugh: “But it all worked out well, sir, and now she has gone off to Italy! And all that remains for you to do is to get Miss Burden to admit that she really does wish to marry you, after all!”

    “To what?” he said with an arrested expression.

    “To agree to become engaged,” said Sid limply.

    “That is not what you said, Mr Lefayne,” he said levelly. “To get her to admit that she really does wish to marry me, after all?”

    “Slip of the tongue!” he explained with an airy laugh.

    “It was, indeed,” replied Jarvis coldly.

    “No, no, I truly meant nothing by it! –Oh, Lor’,” he muttered as the Earl stood up, looking grim.

    “Well, Mr Lefayne?”

    “Please, sit down, Lord Sleyven: it—um—I’ll tell you,” he said weakly.

    The Earl sat down again, fixing him with a cold eye the meanwhile. “Well?”

    “Um—well, my Lord, this is what I had from the Unknown Gentleman. We understood that Miss Burden had given you to believe that she would agree to become engaged after a suitable period in which she would acquire a little town bronze. But,” he said, licking his lips, “the thing is, at least this is what our patron heard, she never intended to go through with it, and—um—decided to teach you a lesson. Because she—er—felt insulted.”

    “Not insulted, Sid!” said Mr Hartington quickly.

    Mr Lefayne cleared his throat unhappily. “Er, yes. Insulted. And furious with you, Lord Sleyven. Because of the way in which you put your offer, I gather.”

    Jarvis got up abruptly and walked over to the window. “I see,” he said, looking blankly into the street.

    “But that was only initially, and I’m sure she’s calmed down,” said Sid desperately, “and indeed, she spoke to me most feelingly of your desire to have little Jenny Marsh live with you!”

    “What? When?” he said, swinging round with a frown.

    Sid quailed but managed to croak: “Just t’other evening at the theatre, when her friend invited me to her box. I had the opportunity for ten minutes’ speech with Miss Burden.”

    He merely stared; so Mr Hartington said quickly: “Thing is, my Lord, it was clear she knew who Sid was. She was saying it was a pity he had not married Mrs M., for as the little girl’s step-papa, he could have let you have her.”

    “Oh,” said Jarvis limply. “Yes, I—I did speak of that to Miss Burden at one point.”

    “There you are, then. I am persuaded she does truly affect you!” said Sid hurriedly. “She spoke of your feelings with such sympathy!”

    “She is very fond of little Jenny,” he said, frowning.

    “Yes, well, of course,” said Sid uncomfortably. “The thing is, with a woman of—of spirit one could not expect her to welcome— Er, what I mean, no doubt your offer seemed somewhat patronising, and so she lost her temper with you. And—and determined to teach you a lesson by turning herself into such a simpering example of town bronze that you would regret— Well!” he ended with a feeble laugh.

    “One could not expect less of a woman of spirit,” agreed Mr Hartington, shaking his head. “Red-headed, too: betokens a hasty temperament. Sort that would wish to teach a gent a lesson he’d never forget. Though we are agreed that she has a very sweet nature with it!”

    The Earl was now very flushed. “No doubt.”

    “My Lord, pray believe we have no wish to be impertinent,” said Sid, taking a deep breath.

    “Then perhaps you had best be silent, Mr Lefayne.”

    “Lord Sleyven, I am convinced she is in love with you!” he cried loudly.

    “Mm. I think I have to thank you for all your efforts on her behalf: you and your patron. Pray convey my thanks to him when next you see him. And assure him,” he said, picking up his hat and going over to the door, “that if the desired result is not forthcoming, I do recognise that it will not be for any lack of effort on his part. Good-day.”

    The actors bowed limply as the door closed behind him.

    After quite some time Mr Hartington said: “You put your foot in it there, Sid.”

    “Ho! You were standing up to him, of course!” he cried.

    “Uh—no. Hard man, ain’t he?”

    Sid shuddered.

    A glum silence fell.

    Eventually Sid went over to the window and glared out at the street.

    Mr Hartington eyed him uneasily. “Send a message to Joe?”

    “I would not offer any guarantees that anyone who leaves this house upon any errand whatsoever,” said Sid, squinting into the street, “will not be followed.”

    “Can you see anyone?”

    “No. Is that not rather the point?” he said arctically.

    Mr Hartington relapsing into gloom, a further glum silence fell.

    The Earl mounted into the curricle in silence.

    Tonkins was at the horses’ heads: he looked fearfully up at his master’s face. “Huzzoor, this humble syce did not walk the horses of the great zemindar, for—”

    “What? No, no,” he said on a tired note. “Would you take the ribbons, please. Tonkins?”

    Looking horrified, Tonkins scrambled up beside him and took the reins. “If the noble zemindar drank any drink from the hands of—”

    “Eh? Tonkins, I have not been poisoned!” he said with an incredulous laugh. “I’m merely stunned,” he muttered. “Please drive: I need to think.”

    Obediently Tonkins drove off.

    To his tremendous relief, after about fifteen minutes his master gave a weak laugh and said: “Well, the damned fellows were right, and I was an unmitigated ass: one could hardly expect a woman of spirit to knuckle under to something like that! But we shall see—!”

    “Is the huzzoor quite recovered?”

    “Mm,” said Jarvis with a smile, thinking of the way Midge had burst into tears in his study the other day: that had not by any means been the reaction of a woman who was indifferent to him and merely pretending to care for him in order to teach him a lesson. “Quite! But if we are to talk of lessons—!”

    “Lessons, huzzoor?”

    “Never mind. Tonkins, can you think of any man who likes and admires the chota mem and who has a considerable fortune at his disposal? Er, besides myself!”

    The humble syce thought it over obediently. “Commodore Hallett Sahib is not a poor man. And the young Captain Lord, he is not a poor man as your humble servant would understand it, oh great zemindar, for his father is a rajah.”

    “Not them. I’m sorry, Tonkins. Someone from relatively near to Lower Nettlefold. –It must be,” he muttered.

    “Colonel Langford Sahib.”

    “I really don’t think so. The man in question must have sufficient funds to be able to buy—or at least, must own—several valuable items of jewellery. Such as would be worn by a maharanee,” said Jarvis without hope.

    Tonkins thought it over. “Not Dean Sahib, he is a priest.”

    Jarvis had not thought of David Golightly. Could it—? The jewels would in that case be Lady Judith’s. Er—theoretically possible. But he had never seen his cousin wear anything half as fine, and in any case, to imagine the Dean and Lady Judith plotting with the pair he had just left—! No. “No, not the Dean Sahib,” he agreed.

    “Has this rich budmush dared to offer jewels to the chota memsahib of the great zemindar?” demanded Tonkins fiercely.

    “No, no, nothing like that! Um—well, listen, Tonkins, there’s no reason you shouldn’t know it all.” Forthwith he told him as much as he knew himself.

    “The burra box-wallah, Bottomley-Pugh Sahib,” said the syce instantly.

    Jarvis’s jaw sagged: he had never thought of Mr Bottomley-Pugh.

    “There was a day on which the sun shone on the ripe fruit,” Tonkins reminded him, “and the humble syce had ventured high, high into the tree of the chota mem—”

    “What? Oh, Lord, yes: the blue-legged French hens!”

    “Yes, huzzoor. Excellent moorghees, good layers. Also the burra box-wallah is known to have bought many fine jewels for his wife when she was alive.”

    Jarvis knew Tonkins was more than capable of saying what he thought his master wished to hear. He looked at him uncertainly.

    “It will be possible to ascertain who actually paid for the lease of the chota bungalow of the Russian rajah,” said the syce tranquilly.

    “Yes: get Shelby onto it,” he agreed.

    “If the great zemindar and his humble syce were to return with their bundooks to the house of those budmushes—”

    “No, Tonkins! The poor fellows were merely the instruments! –No, I won’t bother Shelby: I’ll go down and see Bottomley-Pugh Sahib myself,” he decided.

    “Of course, great zemindar. There is a saying of the humble folk, oh gharib-parwav—”

    Jarvis let him tell it in his own way. It amounted to “Leave well enough alone.” He smiled a little. “Tonkins, I assure you that I shall merely wring the box-wallah’s hand! Good God, he’s managed to make Mrs Marsh retreat to Italy: could I be anything but grateful to the fellow?”

    “No, of course, huzzoor,” he said respectfully. He looked at him sideways. “Women do not need to know such things.”

    Jarvis choked slightly. “The chota memsahib? No, she most certainly does not!”

    “Good. When shall we celebrate the wedding of the great zemindar?” he asked calmly.

    Jarvis’s lips twitched. “I think I can promise you that it will be very soon.”

    “That is excellent news, huzzoor. There was once a man who had a fine bull water-buffalo—”

    Jarvis let him tell it, even though he had heard it before and knew it to be a most cautionary tale indeed: having been so careful of his fine water-buffalo that he never did anything with it, let alone mating it with the inferior female water-buffalo of his neighbours, the owner ended up with a dead water-buffalo and no calf to carry on the line or provide milk and ghee. Salutary.

    “Thank you for seeing me, Mr Bottomley-Pugh,” he said as the wealthy merchant, with a beaming smile but a certain wariness about him, received him in his red salon.

    “Not at all, my Lord: most gratified to have your Lordship call.”

    Jarvis looked him in the eye. “I apprehend Miss Burden and I are in your debt?”

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh replied glumly: “I told that Sid, the minute you set eyes on him in London it would be all up with him, but he would have it the Richard III make-up was so heavy ’is own grandmother wouldn’t recognise him.”

    “No, well, I don’t know that I would have, alone; but Miss Amanda Waldgrave certainly recognised him.”

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh eyed him uneasily. “Ar.”

    Jarvis held out his hand. “I shall not insult you either by inquiring why you did it, or by offering to reimburse you for what I think must have been the considerable sums you laid out to accomplish it. I shall just say, thank you.”

    Still looking wary, Mr Bottomley-Pugh shook the hand. “Well, it got rid of ’er,” he admitted.

    “Yes: Teddy Marsh tells me she has picked up some impoverished barone, so with any luck the next thing we hear will be that she has set up as a baronessa and bought herself an Italian palazzo,” he said calmly.

    “That’s good news, me Lord: I had sort of lost track.”

    “I collect your sources have not been keeping you up to date, then?”

    “N— Um—”

    “Look,” said Jarvis. running his hand over his forehead. “I have no desire to embarrass you, sir: but how the Devil did that actor fellow come to know that Miss Burden agreed to contemplate an engagement to myself merely in order to turn herself into the epitome of a simpering Society female, and—er—teach me a richly deserved lesson?”

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh swallowed. “Little Janey knew of it, acos Miss Burden bust out a-bawling on her shoulder, after you—um—afterwards. And she told my Katerina the whole. And—well—Roland Lefayne’s my brother. But I admit I should have kept me mouth shut, that bit weren’t nothing to do with him.”

    “Oh, good God! What a fool I am: he has those dark good looks that both your children have, of course!”

    “Aye: Vaughan’s quite loike ’im, in looks. Chubbier in the face, though.”

    Jarvis nodded limply.

    “Most folk don’t see but what they’re lookin’ for in the first place,” said Mr Bottomley-Pugh placidly.

    “No, indeed they do not! Lord, I wish I had been in on it all!” he said with a laugh. “Watching Kitty fall for it must have afforded you considerable amusement—not to say, satisfaction!”

    “Ar, it had its moments. Moind you, there were bad bits.”

    “I am sure! I gather my Cousin Corinna Frayn was one of them?”

    “Ar, that she were.”

    “I should very much like to hear more, if is not an imposition?”

    Somewhat to his relief, Mr Bottomley-Pugh appeared to relax at this. “Oh, by no means, me Lord! Sit yourself down, I’ll ring for a boite and a sup.”

    ... “Kitty did not have a chance,” concluded Jarvis drily. “What with your brains, sir, and your brother’s talent.”

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh merely nodded.

    The Earl then reiterated his thanks, wrung the retired merchant’s hand again, and took his leave.

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh just sat down in his red salon and waited. Sure enough, after a judicious interval Mr Vaughan’s head appeared cautiously round the door.

    “He’s gone,” said his progenitor stolidly.

    “I know, I watched him go. He was riding the black. Great nag, that.”

    “Well, come in, then!”

    “Was he furious?” returned Mr Vaughan, not coming in.

    “No! And if ’e ’ad been, would I take it out on you, yer noddy? Come IN!” he shouted.

    Mr Vaughan came in, though looking cautious. “What’s up, then?”

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh scratched his chins, very slowly. “Well, he thought it were funny enough.”

    “It was,” agreed Vaughan happily.

    “Ar. He wasn’t too pleased that we’d let on to Sid about Miss Burden only agreeing to this visit to town to lead ’im on, though.”

    “That’s what Uncle Sid said in his note,” pointed out Vaughan.

    “YES! –No, sorry, Vaughan. I explained we ’ad it off young Janey.”

    “Well, he can’t blame us for that.”

    “No.”

    “Was he hopping mad with Miss Burden, then, Pa?”

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh scratched his chins. “I wouldn’t say that, Vaughan. Not hopping mad: no. And he didn’t say anything direct to me. Well, he wouldn’t, not about the lady what his affections had alighted on.”

    “What? After all you’ve done for him?” he cried indignantly.

    His father eyed him drily. “Ar. Well, that’s the Quality. Not that I’m saying he’d discuss her with Colonel Langford, neither.”

    “Oh,” said Vaughan, looking somewhat mollified. “So—um—did you get the impression he wasn’t best pleased with her, then?”

    “Don’t think any fellow in his position could be, gent or no.”

    “Well, um... What would you do, in his place?”

    “I’d hope I wouldn’t have made such a noddy of meself in the first place, askin’ her to groom herself into a damned prunes-and-prisms Society dame!” he retorted swiftly. Mr Vaughan grinned, and Mr Bottomley-Pugh added thoughtfully: “But if it was me what she was playing a trick loike that on... Given that I wouldn’t want to make ’er woild enough to actually put ’er off me—!” He winked at his son. Vaughan smiled feebly. “Think I’d pay her back in her own coin, Vaughan.”

    “Um—how?”

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh shrugged. “Dunno. I’d have to think about it.”

    “Ooh, do you think he is thinking about it, Pa?” he said eagerly.

    His progenitor scratched the chins again. “Ar. Wouldn’t surproise me. –’Ere! Don’t you dare to write a word of this to Katerina!”

    “I’m not that much of a noddy!”

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh got up, creaking a bit. “No, you ain’t. ’Ave a brandy,” he said, pouring for them both.

    Vaughan was not usually favoured with his father’s good brandy. According to Mr Bottomley-Pugh, not only was he too young, which might not have counted, but he had no palate to speak of, neither. “Ooh, thanks, Pa!”

    “’Ere’s to them,” said Mr Bottomley-Pugh, raising his glass. “Miss Burden and the Earl!”

    “Miss Burden and the Earl,” echoed Vaughan solemnly, drinking.

    “Aye,” said his father with a smothered sigh. “And may all their troubles be little uns, hey?”

    Vaughan licked his lips uneasily. “I wish—”

    “Ar. Don’t,” said Mr Bottomley-Pugh heavily.

    “Well, it ain’t fair, Pa!” he cried loudly.

    “No. Loife,” said Mr Bottomley-Pugh with precision, pouring them each another, “ain’t.”

Next chapter:

https://thepatchworkparasol.blogspot.com/2022/11/further-trials.html