“Oh, I don’t believe it!” cried Fanny. “Where are my lavender-drops? Mr poor, poor Léonie! Say what you have to: I shall not credit one word of it. And if you think to foist your odious daughter on to Avon, you make a great mistake! You should have thought of it before. I suppose the girl must be at least fifteen years of age.”
Mrs. Challoner blinked at her. “Fifteen years, ma’am? She’s twenty! And as for foisting her on to the Duke, if he has a shred of proper feeling he will make the best of it—though I am far from admitting her to be unworthy of the very highest honours—and accept her as a daughter (and, indeed, she is a sweet, dutiful girl, ma’am, and reared in a most select seminary) without any demur.”
“My good woman,” said Fanny pityingly, “if you imagine that Avon will do anything of the kind you must be a great fool. He has no proper feelings, as you choose to term them, at all, and if he paid for the girl’s education (which I presume he must have done) I am amazed at it, and you may consider yourself fortunate.”
“Paid for her education?” gasped Mrs. Challoner. “He’s never set eyes on her! What in the name of Heaven is your la’ship’s meaning?”
Fanny looked at her narrowly for a moment. Mrs. Chal-loner’s bewilderment was writ large on her face. Fanny pointed to a chair. “Be seated, if you please,” she said. Mrs. Challoner sat down thankfully. “And now perhaps you will tell me in plain words what it is you want,” her ladyship continued. “Is this girl Avon’s child, or is she not?”
Mrs. Challoner took nearly a full minute to grasp the meaning of this question. When she had realized its import she bounced out of her chair again, and cried: “No, ma’am, she is not! And I’ll thank your la’ship to remember that I’m a respectable woman even if I wasn’t thought good enough for Mr. Challoner. He married me for all he came of such high and mighty folk, and I’ll see to it that his grace of Avon’s precious son marries my poor girl!”
Lady Fanny’s rigidity left her. “Vidal!” she said with a gasp of relief. “Good God, is that all?”
Mrs. Challoner was still fuming with indignation. She glared at Fanny, and said angrily: “All, ma’am? All? Do you call it nothing that your wicked nephew has abducted my daughter?”
Fanny waved her back to her chair. “You have all my sympathies, ma’am, I assure you. But your errand to my brother is quite useless. He will certainly not be moved to urge his son to marry your daughter.”
“Will he not then?” cried Mrs. Challoner. “I fancy he will be glad to buy my silence so cheaply.”
Fanny smiled. “I must point out to you, my good woman, that it is your daughter and not my nephew that would be hurt by this story becoming known. You used the word ‘abduct’; I know a vast deal to Vidal’s discredit, but I never yet heard that he was in the habit of carrying off unwilling .females. I presume your daughter knew what she was about, and I can only advise you, for your own sake, to bear a still tongue in your head.”
This unexpected attitude on the part of her ladyship compelled Mrs. Challoner to play her trump card earlier than she had intended. “Indeed, my lady? You are very much in the wrong, let me tell you, and if you imagine my daughter is without powerful relatives, I can speedily undeceive you. Mary’s grandpapa is none other than a general in the army, and a baronet. He is Sir Giles Challoner, and he will know how to protect my poor girl’s honour.”
Fanny raised her brows superciliously, but this piece of information had startled her. “I hope Sir Giles is proud of his grandchild,” she said languidly.
Mrs. Challoner, a spot of colour on either cheek-bone, hunted with trembling fingers in her reticule. She pulled out Mary’s letter, and threw it down on the table before her ladyship. “Read that, ma’am!” she said in tragic accents.
Lady Fanny picked the letter up, and calmly perused it. She then laid it down again. “I have not a notion what it is about,” she remarked. “Pray who may ‘Sophia’ be?”
“My younger daughter, ma’am. His lordship designed to run off with her, for he dotes madly on her. He sent her word to be ready to elope with him two nights ago, and Mary opened the letter. She is none of your frippery good-fornothing misses, my lady, but an honest girl, and quite her grandpapa’s favourite. She meant, as you have seen, to save her sister from ruin. Ma’am, she has been gone two days, and I say that the Marquis has abducted her, for I know Mary, and I’ll be bound she never went with him willingly.”
Lady Fanny heard her in dismayed silence. The affair seemed certainly very serious. Sir Giles Challoner was known to her, and she felt sure that if this girl were in truth his grandchild he would not permit her abduction to pass unnoticed. A quite appalling scandal (if it did not turn out to be worse than a mere scandal) seemed to be brewing, and however waspishly Lady Fanny might have predicted that her nephew would in the end create such a scandal, she was not the woman to sit by and do nothing to prevent it. She had a soft corner for Vidal, and a very real affection for his mother. She had also her fair share of family pride, and her first thought was to apprise Avon instantly of this disastrous occurrence. Then her heart failed her. This was no tale to pour into Avon’s ears, at the very moment when his son had been obliged to leave the country for yet another offence. She had no clear idea of what the outcome of it all would be, or whether it would be possible to hush the matter up, but she determined to send word to Léonie.
She cast an appraising glance at Mrs. Challoner. She was a shrewd woman, and Mrs. Challoner would have been startled had she known how much that she had kept to herself Lady Fanny had guessed.
“I’ll do what I can for you,” Fanny said abruptly. “But you will do well to say nothing of this disagreeable matter to anyone. I shall repeat your very extraordinary story to my sister-in-law. Let me point out to you, ma’am, that if you raise a scandal you will lose the object you have in view. Once your daughter’s name is being bandied from lip to lip I can assure you my nephew won’t marry her. As to scandals, ma’am, I leave it to you to decide who will be most hurt by one.”
Mrs. Challoner hardly knew what to reply. Lady Fanny’s manner awed her; she was uncertain of her ground, for she had expected Lady Fanny to be horrified and alarmed. But Lady Fanny was so calm, so delicately scornful that she began to wonder whether she would be able to frighten the Alastairs with the threat of exposure after all. She wished she had her brother by, to advise her. She said rather pugnaciously: “And if I do keep silent? What then?”
Lady Fanny lifted her eyebrows. “I cannot take it upon myself to answer for my brother. I have informed you that I will tell my sister-in-law your story. If you will have the goodness to leave your address, no doubt the Duchess—or the Duke—will visit you.” She stretched out her hand towards a little silver bell, and rang it “I can only assure you, ma’am, that if wrong has been done his grace will certainly arrange matters honourably. Permit me to bid you good-day.” She nodded dismissal, and Mrs. Challoner found herself rising instinctively from her seat.
The footman was holding the door for her to pass through. She said: “If I do not hear within a day, I shall act as I think best, my lady.”
“There is not the smallest chance that you will hear within the day,” said her ladyship coldly. “My sister is at the moment quite remote from London. You might perhaps hear in three or four days.”
“Well ...” Mrs. Challoner stood hesitating. The interview had not been conducted as she had planned. “I shall wait on you again the day after to-morrow, ma’am. And you need not think I’m to be fobbed off.” She moved towards the door, but paused before she had reached it, and remembered to give Lady Fanny her direction. She then curtsied and withdrew, feeling a little discomfited and considerably annoyed.