He had left the door open when he had entered the room, and after a few minutes he became aware that someone was standing in the aperture. He looked round quickly, and saw his valet, gravely regarding him. They looked at one another in silence, the Viscount trying to think of something to say in explanation of his wife’s disappearance, and Bootle just waiting. Nothing occurred to the Viscount, and suddenly he knew that it would be useless to attempt any explanation. He said abruptly: “Bootle, when did her ladyship leave this house?”
The valet came in and closed the door. “I do not know, my lord, but I think last night.” He stepped over to the window, and methodically straightened the curtains which his master had pulled back so hastily. In a colourless voice, he added: “I fancy her ladyship took her abigail with her, my lord, for the chambermaid reports that Maria’s bed has not been slept in.”
He noticed with satisfaction that there was a perceptible lightening of the expression on his master’s face. He said, even more disinterestedly than before: “I have taken the liberty of informing the staff, my lord, that her ladyship was called away hurriedly, one of her ladyship’s relatives having been taken ill.”
The Viscount flushed. “Yes, very well! Thank you.” He folded the letter in his hand, and put it into his pocket. “They won’t believe it, I dare say.”
“Oh, yes, my lord!” replied Bootle tranquilly. “Your lordship may rely upon me. And, if I may be permitted to take the liberty, my lord, there is no occasion for your lordship to concern yourself over the Bradgates, them being related to me, and not ones to chatter about their betters.”
“I’m obliged to you,” the Viscount said, with an effort. “You do not know if her ladyship summoned a hackney, or — or a chair?”
“No, my lord. But if your lordship desires me so to do I could make discreet inquiries.”
“Do so, if you please.”
“Very good, my lord. Will your lordship receive my Lord Wrotham, or shall I inform his lordship that you have stepped out?”
“Lord Wrotham!”
“Downstairs in your lordship’s library,” said Bootle.
“I’ll see him,” the Viscount said, and went swiftly out of the room.
Lord Wrotham, arrayed in the much-coveted insignia of that most exclusive of driving clubs, the F.H.C., with a drab greatcoat sporting no fewer than sixteen capes over all, was standing by the fireplace in the library, one top-booted foot resting on the fender. One glance at his host’s face, as he entered the room, his blue eyes bright and hard with something between hope and suspicion, made him speak before Sherry had had time to do more than utter his name.
“Hallo, Sherry!” he said. “When did you get back to town? Thought you was at Melton still.”
“No,” said Sherry. “No. George — ”
Lord Wrotham adjusted the monstrous nosegay he wore as a buttonhole. “Lady Sherry ready to drive out with me?” he asked. “Going to tool my curricle down to Richmond. Trying out my new pair. Prime bits of blood! Heard about Gil?”
“Gil ...” said Sherry. “What about Gil?”
George laughed. “Why, only that that old uncle of his looks like obliging him at last! Seems to be in a pretty bad way. Gil’s posted down to Hertfordshire to be in at the death. By God, I wish I had an uncle to leave me a handsome fortune!”
Sherry stared at him, a frown in his eyes. “George, are you sure of that?” he demanded.
“Saw him off not two hours ago. Why?” responded George.
“Nothing,” Sherry said, passing a hand across his brow. “I only wondered — No reason at all.”
Lord Wrotham, who was finding it increasingly difficult to meet his friend’s gaze, fell to contemplating the polish on one topboot. He had not expected to enjoy this interview, and he was not enjoying it. Sherry looked positively haggard, he thought; and if he had not promised Hero not to divulge her whereabouts to Sherry he would have felt extremely tempted to have told him the truth. But when he had seen the little party off from Stratton Street earlier in the morning he had given his word to Hero, and he was not the man to go back on that. He hoped that his confidence in Mr Ringwood’s judgment would not prove to have been misplaced, and said, as casually as he could: “Does Kitten mean to come with me, Sherry?”
The Viscount pulled himself together. “No. The fact is, she’s not feeling quite the thing. Asked me to make her apologies.”
“Good God, I trust nothing serious, Sherry?”
“No, no! — At least, I can hardly say yet. Dare say she has been doing rather too much. Not accustomed to town life, you know. I am — I shall be taking her into the country in a day or so. Needs rest and a change of air.”
“I am excessively sorry to hear it! You’ll be wishing me at the devil, no doubt: I’ll be off at once!”
Sherry, usually the most hospitable of hosts, made no effort to detain him, but accompanied him to the street door. As George descended the steps, he asked suddenly: “George, where’s my cousin Ferdy?”
“Lord, how should I know?” replied George, drawing on his gloves. “Said he was going to dine at Long’s last night, so he may be nursing his head in bed. You know what he is!”
“He did dine at Long’s? You’re sure of that?”
“He was certainly engaged to do so,” George said, with perfect truth.
“Oh! Then — No, he wouldn’t — ” Sherry broke off, flushing. “Fact of the matter is I’ve the devil of a head myself this morning, George!”
Lord Wrotham replied sympathetically, and left him. Sherry went back into his library, and sat down to think very hard indeed.
The result of this concentrated thought was to plunge him into quite the most horrid week of his life. His friends, daily expecting to see him at one of his usual haunts, looked for him in vain. His lordship was out of town, travelling first into Buckinghamshire, to Fakenham Manor, and thence all the way north to Lancashire, to Croxteth Hall, the Earl of Sefton’s country seat. He drew blank at both these establishments, but both his aunt and Lady Sefton inexorably dragged his story out of him, and then favoured him with their separate, but curiously similar, readings of his character. Lady Fakenham was a good deal more outspoken than Lady Sefton, told him that he had come by his deserts, and sped him on his way to Lancashire with the depressing reminder that he had only his abominable selfishness to thank for whatever disaster might befall his wife, adrift in a harsh world. When he had gone (and it had cost him all his resolution to take leave of his aunt with common civility), her ladyship said thoughtfully to her husband that this affair might well prove to be the making of Anthony.
“Yes, but what the deuce can have become of that poor little creature?” said Lord Fakenham, not particularly interested in Sherry’s possible redemption.
“Indeed I wish I knew! I wish too that she had come to me, but no doubt she would not think to cast herself upon Anthony’s relations.”
Lady Sefton, having reduced the unfortunate Viscount to the condition of speechless endurance to which she could, upon rare occasions, reduce her eldest born, my Lord Molyneux, relented towards him sufficiently to permit him a glimpse of two rays of sunlight. She thought it probable that Hero would presently return to Half Moon Street; and she engaged herself to smooth over any unpleasantness that might have arisen in influential quarters from the projected race.
The Viscount posted back to London. The house in Half Moon Street seemed desolate, almost as though someone had died there, he thought. He would have liked to have left it; but when he had made all his plans for shutting it up, and returning to his old lodgings, he changed his mind, and determined to stay there. To shut the house would give rise to much gossip and speculation; and if Hero came back to him it would be a shocking thing, he thought, for her to find the shutters up, and the knocker off the door.