“Perhaps a what?” demanded Shield, in a voice that made her jump.
“Well, in France it is quite comme il faut—in fact, quite à la mode—to have a lover when one is married,” she explained, not in the least abashed.
“In England,” said Sir Tristram, “it is neither comme il faut nor à la mode.”
“Vraiment, I do not yet know what is the fashion in England, but naturally if you assure me it is not à la mode, I won’t have any lover. Can I have a house in town?”
“I don’t think you know what you are talking about,” said Sir Tristram, on a note of relief. “My home is in Berkshire, and I hope you will grow to like it as I do, but I can hire a house in town for the season if your heart is set on it.”
Eustacie was just about to inform him that her heart was irrevocably set on it when the butler opened the door and announced the arrival of Mr Lavenham. Eustacie broke off in mid-sentence, and said under her breath: “Well, I would much rather be married to you than to him, at all events!”
Her expression did not lead Sir Tristram to set undue store by this handsome admission. He frowned reprovingly at her, and went forward to greet his cousin.
Beau Lavenham, who was two years younger than Shield, did not resemble him in the least. Sir Tristram was a large, lean man, very dark, harsh-featured, and with few airs or graces; the Beau was of medium height only, slim rather than lean, of a medium complexion and delicately-moulded features, and his graces were many. Nothing could have been more exquisite than the arrangement of his powdered curls, or the cut of his brown-spotted silk coat and breeches. He wore a waistcoat embroidered with gold and silver, and stockings of palest pink, a jewel in the snowy folds of his cravat, knots of ribbons at his knees, and rings on his slender white fingers. In one hand he carried his snuffbox and scented handkerchief; in the other he held up an ornate quizzing-glass that hung on a riband round his neck. Through this he surveyed his two cousins, blandly smiling and quite at his ease. “Ah, Tristram!” he said in a soft, languid voice, and, letting fall his quizzing-glass, held out his hand. “How do you do, my dear fellow?”
Sir Tristram shook hands with him. “How do you do, Basil? It’s some time since we met.”
The Beau made a gesture of deprecation. “But, my dear Tristram, if you will bury yourself in Berkshire what is one to do? Eustacie—!” He went to her, and bowed over her hand with incomparable grace. “So you have been making Tristram’s acquaintance?”
“Yes,” said Eustacie. “We are betrothed.”
The Beau raised his brows, smiling. “Oh la, la! so soon? Did Sylvester call this tune? Well, you are, both of you, very obedient, but are you quite, quite sure that you will deal well together?”
“Oh, I hope so!” replied Sir Tristram bracingly.
“If you are determined—and I must warn you, Eustacie, that he is the most determined fellow imaginable—I must hope so too. But I do not think I expected either of you to be so very obedient. Sylvester is prodigious—quite prodigious! One cannot believe that he is really dying. A world without Sylvester! Surely it must be impossible!”
“It will seem odd, indeed,” Shield said calmly.
Eustacie looked disparagingly at the Beau. “And it will seem odd to me when you are Lord Lavenham—very odd!”
There was a moment’s silence. The Beau glanced at Sir Tristram, and then said: “Ah yes, but, you see, I shall not be Lord Lavenham. My dear Tristram, do, I beg of you, try some of this snuff of mine, and let me have your opinion of it. I have added the veriest dash of Macouba to my old blend. Now, was I right?”
“I’m not a judge,” said Shield, helping himself to a pinch. “It seems well enough.”
Eustacie was frowning. “But I don’t understand! Why will you not be Lord Lavenham?”
The Beau turned courteously towards her. “Well, Eustacie, I am not Sylvester’s grandson, but only his great-nephew.”
“But when there is no grandson it must surely be you who are the heir?”
“Precisely, but there is a grandson, dear cousin. Did you not know that?”
“Certainly I know that there was Ludovic, but he is dead after all!”
“Who told you Ludovic was dead?” asked Shield, looking at her under knit brows.
She spread out her hands. “But, Grandpère, naturally! And I have often wanted to know what it was that he did that was so entirely wicked that no one must speak of him. It is a mystery, and, I think, very romantic.”
“There is no mystery,” said Shield, “nor is it in the least romantic. Ludovic was a wild young man who crowned a series of follies with murder, and had in consequence to fly the country.”
“Murder!” exclaimed Eustacie. “Voyons, do you mean he killed someone in a duel?”
“No. Not in a duel.”
“But, Tristram,” said the Beau gently, “you must not forget that it was never proved that Ludovic was the man who shot Matthew Plunkett. For my part I did not believe it possible then, and I still do not.”
“Very handsome of you, but the circumstances were too damning,” replied Shield. “Remember that I myself heard the shot that must have killed Plunkett not ten minutes after I had parted from Ludovic.”
“But I,” said the Beau, languidly polishing his quizzing-glass, “prefer to believe Ludovic’s own story, that it was an owl he shot at.”
“Shot—but missed!” said Shield. “Yet I have watched Ludovic shoot the pips out of a playing-card at twenty yards.”
“Oh, admitted, Tristram, admitted, but on that particular night I think Ludovic was not entirely sober, was he?”
Eustacie struck her hands together impatiently. “But tell me, one of you! What did he do, my cousin Ludovic?”
The Beau tossed back the ruffles from his hand, and dipped his finger and thumb in his snuffbox. “Well, Tristram,” he said with his glinting smile. “You know more about it than I do. Are you going to tell her?”
“It is not an edifying story,” Shield said. “Why do you want to hear it?”
“Because I think perhaps my cousin Ludovic is of this family the most romantic person!” replied Eustacie.
“Oh, romantic!” said Sir Tristram, turning away with a shrug of the shoulder.
The Beau fobbed his snuffbox. “Romantic?” he said meditatively. “No, I do not think Ludovic was romantic. A little rash, perhaps. He was a gamester—whence the disasters which befell him. He lost a very large sum of money one night at the Cocoa-Tree to a man who lived at Furze House, not two miles from here.”
“No one lives at Furze House,” interrupted Eustacie.
“Not now,” agreed the Beau. “Three years ago Sir Matthew Plunkett lived there. But Sir Matthew—three years ago—was shot in the Longshaw Spinney, and his widow removed from the neighbourhood.”
“Did my cousin Ludovic shoot him?”
“That, my dear Eustacie, is a matter of opinion. You will get one answer from Tristram, and another from me.”
“But why?” she demanded. “Not just because he had lost money to him! That, after all, is not such a great matter—unless perhaps he was quite ruined?”
“Oh, by no means! He did lose a large sum to him, however, and Sir Matthew, being a person of—let us say indifferent—breeding—was ill-mannered enough to demand a pledge in security before he would continue playing. Of course, one should never play with Cits, but poor dear Ludovic was always so headstrong. The game was piquet, and both were in their cups. Ludovic took from his finger a certain ring, and gave it to Sir Matthew as a pledge—to be redeemed, naturally. It was a talisman ring of great antiquity which had come to Ludovic through his mother, who was the last of a much older house than ours.”
Eustacie stopped him. “Please, I do not know what is a talisman ring.”
“Just a golden ring with figures engraved upon it. This of Ludovic’s was, as I have said, very old. The characters on it were supposed to be magical. It should, according to ancient belief, have protected him from any harm. More important, it was an heirloom. I don’t know its precise value. Tristram, you are a judge of such things—you must make him show you his collection, Eustacie—what was the value of the ring?”