Mr. Rivenhall, in a few pungent words, swept this illusion from his mind, adding a rider which summarily disposed of any pretensions his groom might have cherished of being able to think at all. The groom, not daring to venture on an explanation of the circumstances, waited in miserable silence for his dismissal. It did not come. Mr. Rivenhall was a stern master but also a just one, and even in his wrath he had a very fair notion of the means his unprincipled cousin must have employed to gain her ends. He checked himself suddenly, and rapped out, “Where has she gone? To Richmond? Answer!”
Seeing the culprit quite unable to collect his wits, Lord Ombersley’s own groom intervened, saying obsequiously, “Oh no, sir! No, indeed! My lady and Miss Cecilia set out in the barouche an hour ago for Richmond! And Miss Amabel with them, sir!”
Mr. Rivenhall, who knew that a visit had been arranged to a cousin who lived at Richmond, stared at him with knit brows. It had certainly been agreed that Sophy was to have accompanied her aunt and cousins, and he was at a loss to imagine what could have caused her to change her mind. But this was a minor problem. The young chestnut she had had the temerity to drive out was a headstrong animal, quite unaccustomed to town traffic and certainly unfit for a lady to handle. Mr. Rivenhall could control him, but even so notable a whip as Mr. Wychbold had handsomely acknowledged that the brute was a rare handful. Mr. Rivenhall, thinking of some of the chestnut’s least engaging tricks, felt himself growing cold with apprehension. It was this fear that lent the edge to his anger. A certain degree of anger he must always have felt at having his horse taken out without his permission, but nothing to compare with the murderous rage that now consumed him. Sophy had behaved unpardonably — and that her conduct was strangely unlike her he was in no mood to consider — and might even now be lying upon the cobbles with a broken neck.
“Saddle Thunderer and the brown hack!” he commanded suddenly. “Quick!”
Both grooms flew to carry out this order, exchanging glances that spoke volumes. No ostlers, trained to change coach horses in fifty seconds, could have worked faster, and while a couple of stable hands still stood gaping at such unaccustomed doings, Mr. Rivenhall, followed at a discreet distance by his groom, was riding swiftly in the direction of Hyde Park.
He had judged correctly, but it was perhaps unfortunate that he should have come up with his cousin just as the young chestnut, first trying to rear up between the shafts at the sight of a small boy flying a kite, made a spirited attempt to kick the floor board out of the carriage. Mr. Rivenhall, who had almost believed that he could forgive all if only he should find his cousin unharmed, found that he had been mistaken. Pale with fury, he dismounted, dragged the bridle over Thunderer’s head, thrust it into the groom’s hand, with a brief order to him to lead the horse home, swung himself into the tilbury, and possessed himself of the reins. For several moments he was fully occupied with his horse, and Sophy had leisure to admire his skill. She did not think she had managed so very badly herself, for, with the best will in the world to do so, the chestnut had not bolted with her; but she did not pretend to Mr. Rivenhall’s mastery over a high-couraged, half-broken animal. Assuaging Mr. Rivenhall’s wrath formed no part of her schemes, but in spite of herself she exclaimed, “Ah, you are a capital whip! I never knew how good until today!”
“I don’t need you to tell me so!” he flashed, face and voice at curious variance with his steady hands. “How dared you do this? How dared you? If you had broken your neck you would have come by your desserts! That you have not broken my horses’s knees I must think a miracle!”
“Pooh!” said Sophy, atoning for her previous error by laying this promising faggot upon the smoldering fire.
The result was all that she had hoped it might be. The drive back to Berkeley Square did not occupy very many minutes, but Mr. Rivenhall crammed into them every pent-up exasperation of the past fortnight. He tore his cousin’s character to shreds, condemned her manners, her morals, and her upbringing, expressed his strong desire to have the schooling of her, and, in the same breath, pitied the man who should be fool enough to marry her, and fervently looked forward to the day when he should be relieved of her unwelcome presence in his home.
It was doubtful whether Sophy could have stemmed the tide of this eloquence. In the event, she made no attempt to do so, but sat with folded hands and downcast eyes beside her accuser. That his rage had been fanned, quite irrationally, to white heat by finding her unhurt she had no doubt at all. There had been moments during her escapade when she had doubted her ability to bring either herself or the horse off safely. She had never been more glad to see her cousin; and one glance at his face had been enough to assure her that he had suffered a degree of anxiety out of all proportion to the concern even the keenest whip might be expected to feel for his horse. He might say what he pleased; she was not deceived.
He set her down in Berkeley Square, telling her roughly that she might alight without his assistance. She obeyed him, and without so much as waiting to see her admitted into the house, he drove off toward the mews.
That was shortly after noon. Mr. Rivenhall did not return to the house, and, as soon as she was satisfied that there was no fear of his walking in on her, his wholly unchastened cousin first summoned the underfootman to her, and sent him on an errand to the nearest livery stables; and then sat down to write several careful notes. By two o’clock, John Potton, puzzled but unsuspicious, was trotting down to Merton with one of these in his pocket. Had he been privileged to know its contents he might not have ridden so cheerfully out of London.
“Dearest Sancia,” Sophy wrote. “I find myself in the most dreadful predicament, and must earnestly beg of you to join me at Lacy Manor immediately. Do not fail me, or I shall be utterly ruined. Ashtead lies only ten miles from Merton, so you need not fear to be fatigued. I leave London within the hour, and wholly depend upon you. Ever your devoted Sophy.”
Upon the footman’s return from his errand, he was gratified to receive half a guinea for his pains and set forth again with alacrity to deliver two sealed letters. One of these he left at Mr. Wychbold’s lodging; the other he carried from Lord Charlbury’s house to Manton’s Shooting Gallery, and thence to Brooks’s Club, where he finally ran his quarry to earth. Lord Charlbury, summoned to the hall to receive the billet in person, read it in considerable astonishment, but handsomely rewarded the bearer, and charged him to inform Miss Stanton-Lacy that he was entirely at her disposal.
Meanwhile, Miss Stanton-Lacy, who had thoughtfully given her too zealous maid a holiday, instructed a startled housemaid to pack her night gear in a portmanteau and sat down to write two more letters. She was still engaged on this task when Lord Charlbury was shown into the salon. She looked up, smiling, and said, “I knew I might depend on you! Thank you! Only let me finished this note!”
He waited until the door had closed behind Dassett before demanding, “What in heaven’s name is amiss, Sophy? Why must you go to Ashtead?”
“It is my home, Sir Horace’s house!”
“Indeed! I was not aware — But so suddenly! Your aunt — your cousin — ?”
“Don’t tease me!” she begged. “I will explain it to you on the way, if you will be so good as to give me your escort! It is not far — may be accomplished in one stage, you know!”
“Of course I will escort you!” he replied at once. “Is Rivenhall away from home?”
“It is impossible for me to ask him to go with me. Pray let me finish this note for Cecilia!”
He begged pardon and moved away to a chair by the window. Good manners forbade him to press her for an explanation she was plainly reluctant to offer, but he was very much puzzled. The mischievous look had quite vanished from her eyes; — she seemed to be in an unusually grave mood — a circumstance that threw him off his guard and made him only anxious to be of service to her.