Standing there, glass in hand, she looked at him with a little scorn. She finished her cocktail, put the glass back on the tray, and waited, her eyebrows delicately raised.
He stood perhaps a yard away, easy and smiling.
“I told you I was a collector of odd bits of information. When people know you like them they come your way, sometimes in a very surprising manner. But that sort of thing has to be very carefully checked. It doesn’t do to slip up. Some of it-rather an important part-comes from the circles of which you are a privileged member. Exclusive circles, very intimately linked. It would be a great advantage to me to have what I might call a consultant who was in and out of those very exclusive circles.”
The eyebrows rose a little higher still.
“You used the word partner just now. You are asking me to be your partner in a blackmailing business?”
He put up a deprecatory hand.
“Now, Moira-what’s the good of talking like that? It may relieve your feelings, but I assure you it doesn’t do anything at all to mine. They have acquired a complete resistance to sarcasm, so you are wasting your time. If, on the other hand, you did by any chance succeed in making me angry, the results might be unfortunate-” He paused and added, “For you. I think that my use of the word partner was not a very happy one. It implies responsibility, and you would have none. Consultant is a much more accurate description. All I should ever ask you to do would be to keep me straight as to facts, and to assist me with your personal specialized knowledge of the people concerned. To give you a simple illustration. Certain things admitted to be facts might in one case be extremely compromising, whereas in another no one would attach the slightest importance to them. That is where your personal contacts would come in. I needn’t say that the whole thing would be completely confidential and sufficiently remunerative. As far as Josephine’s bracelet is concerned, it is yours to do what you like with. If I might make a suggestion, it would be that you should find some opportunity of restoring it to Lady Pemberley. It would be better not to run any further risk. It is the future that matters now.”
The last words set her blood storming. The future-and what a future! If she could have killed him then, she might have done it. Perhaps he guessed that. The sudden brilliance of her glance, the sudden scarlet in the cheeks which had been so pale, declared an inner fire. He could have no possible doubt as to its nature, but he gave her marks for self-control.
It was not until the flame had dropped from flaring-point that she let herself speak. When she did, it was any guest to any host.
“My dear Greg, you’re too flattering. But I’m afraid I shouldn’t be any good at business-I expect you have to be born that way. Too kind of you to let me have my bracelet back. You must let me know what you paid for it. I shouldn’t like my cousin to know that I had sold her present. The fact is, I was in a frightful hole just then, and I simply had to have the money.”
The bracelet was on her wrist as she spoke, withdrawn from the table and slipped over her left hand so swiftly and smoothly that Gregory Porlock would hardly have had time to intervene. In point of fact he made no move to do so, but laughed and said,
“Well, don’t sell it again! It’s a bit too dangerous. Someone else might recognize it next time-you never know.” Then, as she turned to go, he came a step nearer, took her by the wrist, his big hand closing down over the diamond trellis, pressing it into her flesh. “I’ve got the receipted bill, you know. It describes the bracelet. You can have till Monday morning to make up your mind. Meanwhile we’ll call a truce.”
He let go of her, and she turned and went out of the room without a word.
She was half way up the stairs, when she heard the front door open and shut. The cold of the outer air came in and followed her, with the sound of Leonard Carroll’s voice. The last of the house-party had arrived.
Without turning her head she went on past the door of Miss Masterman’s room to her own. A short distance, a short time, from door to door, from the study to this small charming bedroom with its pale blue curtains drawn, its clean fresh chintzes with their flowery pattern picking up the colour of the curtains and blending it with purple and rose, its warm sparkling fire. But in that distance, in that time, Moira Lane had made up her mind what she was going to do.
Chapter XIV
The Grange was an old house. The drawing-room, long and low, its four rather narrow windows curtained in a pale flowered brocade which toned charmingly with the ivory panelled walls, its chairs and couches repeating the same soft shades, preserved the formal delicacy of another day. Gregory Porlock, awaiting the arrival of his guests, considered, not for the first time, how much better the scene would have been suited by an older style of dress. For the women piled curls and spreading hoops, with knee-breeches and coloured coats for the men. He could have fancied himself very well in a prune velvet, with a touch of powder in the hair.
His mood was a buoyant one. He felt the exhilaration of a man who drives a difficult team over a dangerous course. If there were no difficulties, no dangers, there would be no pleasure in doing it. The hairsbreadth turn, the moment when everything was in the balance, the bending of nerve and will to curb, to guide, to master a straining team, gave adventure its zest and made every risk worth while. He was taking risks tonight. Linnet would always be a risk. Women at the best were incalculable -women with nerves, like the crazy compass in a magnetic storm. For all he knew, Linnet might even now be having hysterics and breaking it to Martin Oakley that she was a bigamist. Imagining the scene, he permitted himself to be amused. But he rather thought she would hold out a little longer. That opened up the possibility of her arriving for dinner only to faint into her soup-plate. He must see that she had a cocktail when she arrived. And he must be very, very nice to her. Linnet always responded to kindness. If the period of their marriage had not coincided with the lowest depths of his fortunes, she might have been adoring him still, but the sweetest temper may turn sour in a slum, and the whole business had become wretchedly sordid. He recalled it with distaste.
Dorinda Brown was another risk. She had not, of course, been intended to accompany the Oakleys tonight. It had amused him to invite her warmly, whilst taking steps to ensure that she would not be able to come. Just where the plan had slipped, and how, he didn’t know, but he meant to find out. Dorinda should have had another engagement-not so pleasant, but one which would have admitted of no excuse. He didn’t like his plans going wrong. They were always very carefully laid, and if they didn’t come off, he made it his business to see that someone got into trouble. Apart from annoyance on this point, the fact that Dorinda would presently arrive in the wake of the Oakleys served to heighten the interest of the occasion.
He allowed himself some amused speculation as to what she would be like. Seven years is quite a time, and the seven years between fourteen and twenty-one are longer than is warranted by the mere months and years. He remembered a child with a rosy face, a thick bright plait, and round eyes. No, that would be earlier still. At fourteen the plait had gone, but the face was still rosy, and the eyes the eyes of a child. He had a sudden memory of them meeting his own in a long, grave stare. Mary had aggravated him into swearing at her, and Dorinda had walked in on them. She had opened the door and stood there looking at him with that shocked, solemn stare. Come to think of it, it was the last time he had seen her, and the question was, would she remember him, or would she not? In his own estimation he was not an easy person to forget. He rather flattered himself that no woman would ever quite forget the memories he had given her. But a child might forget-or might not. There was no counting on it. Suppose she remembered him… He was of the opinion that it really didn’t matter very much. A girl who had been brought up by Mary would certainly not be so ill-bred as to make a scene, and when all was said and done, she couldn’t be sure. Reluctant as he was to admit the possibility that he might have a double, such things were not uncommon, and doubt once planted could be so fostered as to bring in a satisfactory crop. He felt a swelling confidence in his ability to deal with Dorinda Brown.