“Don’t give it a thought, ma’am!” begged Cedric. “Not your fault—always thought he would come to a bad end—might have happened anywhere!”
“Your callousness, sir, is disgusting!” proclaimed the Major, picking up his hat. “I will not remain another instant to be revolted by such a display of heartless unconcern!”
“Well, damme, who wants you to?” demanded Cedric. “Haven’t I been trying to get you to go away this past half-hour? Never met such a thick-skinned fellow in my life!”
“Escort Major Daubenay to the door, Ceddie,” Sir Richard said. “I understand that Lady Luttrell wishes to see me upon a private matter.”
“Private as you please, dear boy! Ma’am, your very obedient! After you, Major!” He bowed the Major out with a flourish, winked at Sir Richard, and went out himself.
“What an engaging scapegrace!” remarked Lady Luttrell, moving forward into the middle of the parlour. “I confess, I much disliked his brother.”
“Your dislike was shared by most of his acquaintance, ma’am. Will you not be seated?”
She took the chair he offered, and looked him over rather penetratingly. “Well, Sir Richard,” she said, perfectly mistress of the situation, “you are wondering, I dare say, why I have come to call upon you.”
“I think I know,” he replied.
“Then I need not beat about the bush. You are travelling with a young gentleman who is said to be your cousin, I understand. A young gentleman who, if my maid is to be believed, answers to the somewhat unusual name of Pen.”
“Yes,” said Sir Richard. “We should have changed that.”
“Pen Creed, Sir Richard?”
“Yes, ma’am! Pen Creed.”
Her gaze did not waver from his impassive countenance. “A trifle odd, sir, is it not?”
“The word, ma’am, should have been fantastic. May I know how you came by your information?”
“Certainly you may. I have lately supported a visit from Mrs Griffin and her son, who seemed to expect to find Pen with me. They told me that she had left their roof in her cousin’s second-best suit of clothes, by way of the window. That sounded very like Pen Creed to me. But she was not with me, Sir Richard. It was not until this morning that my maid told me of a golden-haired boy who was putting up with his cousin—yourself, Sir Richard—at this inn. That is why I came. I am sure that you will appreciate that I felt a certain degree of anxiety.”
“Perfectly,” he said. “But Pen is no longer with me. She left for Bristol this morning, and is now, I must suppose, a passenger on the London stage-coach.”
She raised her brows. “Still more surprising! I hope that you mean to satisfy my curiosity, sir?”
“Obviously I must do so,” he said, and in a cool, expressionless voice, recounted to her all that had happened since Pen had dropped from her rope of sheets into his arms.
She heard him in attentive silence, and all the time watched him. When he had done, she did not say anything for a moment, but looked thoughtfully at him. After a pause, she said: “Was Pen very much distressed to find my son head over ears in love with Lydia Daubenay?”
“I did not think so.”
“Oh! And my son, I think you said, showed himself to be shocked at die seeming impropriety of her situation?”
“Not unnaturally, though I could have wished that he had not shown his disapproval quite so plainly. She is very young, you see. It had not occurred to her that there was anything amiss.”
“Piers had never the least tact,” she said. “I expect he told her that you were in honour bound to marry her.”
“He did, and he spoke no less than the truth.”
“Forgive me, Sir Richard, but did you offer for Pen because you felt your honour to be involved?”
“No, I asked her to marry me because I loved her, ma’am.”
“Did you tell her so, Sir Richard?”
“Yes. But she did not believe me.”
“Perhaps,” suggested Lady Luttrell, “you had not previously given her reason to suppose that you had fallen in love with her?”
“Madam,” said Sir Richard, with a touch of impatience, “she was in my care, in a situation of the utmost delicacy! Would you have expected me to abuse her confidence by making love to her?”
“No,” she said, smiling. “From the little I have seen of you, I should have expected you to have treated her just as I imagine you did: as though you were indeed her uncle.”
“With the result,” he said bitterly, “that that is how she regards me.”
“Is it indeed?” she said tartly. “Let me tell you, Sir Richard, that men of twenty-nine, with your air, countenance, and address, are not commonly regarded by young females in the light of uncles!”
He flushed, and smiled a little wryly. “Thank you! But Pen is not like other young females.”
“Pen,” said Lady Luttrell, “must be a very odd sort of a female if she spent all this while in your company and not succumbed to a charm of manner which you must be so well aware that you possess that I do not scruple to mention it. I consider that your conduct in aiding the chit to escape was disgraceful, but since you were drunk at the time I suppose one must overlook that. I do not blame you for anything you have done since you found yourself in the stage-coach: indeed, you have behaved in a manner that would, if I were twenty-years younger, make me envy Pen exceedingly. Finally, if she did not spend the better part of last night crying her eyes out, I know nothing about my own sex! Where is the letter she left for you? May I see it?”
He drew it from his pocket. “Pray read it, if you wish. It contains nothing, alas, that may not be read by other eyes than mine.”
She took it from him, read it, and handed it back. “Just as I thought! Breaking her heart, and determined you shall not know it! Sir Richard, for a man of experience, which I judge you to be, you are a great fool! You never kissed her!”
An unwilling laugh was dragged out of him at this unexpected accusation. “How could I, situated as we were? She recoiled from the very thought of marriage!”
“Because she thought you had asked her to marry you out of pity! Of course she recoiled!”
“Lady Luttrell, are you serious? Do you indeed think—”
“Think! I know!” said her ladyship. “Your scruples were very fine, I make no doubt, but how should a chit of Pen’s age understand what you were about? She would not care a fig for your precious honour, and I dare say—indeed, I am sure!—that she thought your forbearance mere indifference. And the long and the short of it is that she has gone back to her aunt, and will very likely be bullied into marrying her cousin!”
“Oh no, she will not!” said Sir Richard, with a glance at the clock on the mantelshelf. “I am desolated to be obliged to leave you, ma’am, but if I am to overtake that stagecoach this side of Chippenham, I must go.”
“Excellent!” she said, laughing. “Do not waste a thought on me! But having caught the stage, what do you propose to do with Pen?”
“Marry her, ma’am! What else?”
“Dear me, I hope you do not mean to join my foolish son at Gretna Green! I think you had better bring Pen to Crome Hall.”
“Thank you, I will!” he said, with the smile which she privately thought irresistible. “I am very much in your debt, ma’am.”
He raised her hand to his lips, and kissed it, and left the room, calling for Cedric.
Cedric, who had been partaking of breakfast in the coffee-room, lounged out into the entrance-parlour. “The devil take you, Ricky, you’re as restless as that plaguey friend of yours! What’s the matter now?”
“Ceddie, were you driving your own horses yesterday?”
“Dear old boy, of course I was, but what has that to say to anything?”
“I want ’em,” said Sir Richard.
“But, Ricky, I’ve got to go back to Bath to get hold of that necklace before it’s discovered to be made of paste!”
“Take the landlord’s gig. I must have a fast pair immediately.”
“The landlord’s gig!” gasped Cedric, reeling under the shock. “Ricky, you must be mad!”