“No, no, I keep my own sort,” Judith assured him. “When I want scent I do not go to my snuff-box for it, but to Mr. Brummell, who is going to make me a stick of perfume.”
“A stick of Mr. Brummell’s perfume, my love!” exclaimed Mrs. Marley. “Do you want to make us all envious? Do you not know that every lady among us wants one of those sticks?”
The Beau shook his head. “Very true, but you know I cannot be giving them to everyone, ma’am. That would be to have them held very cheap. The Regent, now, is dying to get hold of one, but one has to draw the line somewhere.”
“George is feeling peevish because he has caught a cold,” remarked Alvanley. “How did you come by it in this mild weather, George?”
“Why, do you know, I left my carriage this afternoon on my way from town, and the infidel of a landlord put me into a room with a damp stranger!” replied Brummell instantly.
It seemed the next day as though Peregrine had caught the Beau’s cold. He complained of the sore throat, and coughed a little, but trusted that a day’s sport (which he had been promised) would soon set matters to rights. Judith could place no such dependence on the effect of a raw December day, but it was useless to expect Peregrine to remain indoors for no more serious reason than a slight chill. He went off with Petersham, Alvanley, and Mr. Forrest to shoot over some preserves a few miles distant from Worth.
Mr. Brummell put in no appearance until midday. The exigencies of his toilet occupied several hours; he had been known to spend as many as two on the nice arrangement of his clothes, to which, however, he gave not another thought once he had left his dressing-room. Unlike most of the dandies he was never seen to cast an anxious glance at a mirror, to adjust his cravat, nor to smooth wrinkles from his coat. When he left his room he was, and knew himself to be, a finished work of art, perfect in every detail from his beautifully laundered linen to his highly polished boots.
Mrs. Marley also kept her room until a late hour, but the three young ladies were up in good time, and spent the morning in exploring the house under the guidance of the housekeeper, and in strolling about the gardens and shrubbery until they were called in to partake of scalloped oysters, cold meats, and fruit in one of the dining-parlours.
The sportsmen were expected to be back by three o’clock, so that it was not surprising that Miss Fairford should blushingly decline the offer of being driven out for an airing after luncheon. The Earl made the suggestion: it was met by a dismayed look and a stammered excuse, Miss Fairford hardly knowing what to say, from the fear, on the one hand, of offending her host, and, on the other, of not being present when Peregrine returned to the house. The Earl looked amused at her confusion, but forbore to tease, as Judith was half afraid he would, and said with only the faintest suggestion of a laugh in his well-bred voice: “You had rather be writing a letter to your mama, I daresay.”
“Oh yes!” said Miss Fairford thankfully. “I think I ought certainly to do that!”
He turned away to address Judith. “Does Miss Taverner care to drive out with me?”
She assented to it gladly; as they left the room together the Earl looked back, and said with the hint of a smile: “Let me have your letter when it is finished, Miss Fairford, and I will frank it for you.”
An hour spent in being driven about the country brought Miss Taverner back with glowing cheeks and in happy spirits. The Earl had been in his most pleasant mood, a sensible companion, entertaining her with easy talk, and teaching her how to loop a rein and let it run free again in his own deft fashion.
They returned quite in charity with each other to find Lady Albinia, Mrs. Marley, and Mr. Brummell seated in one of the drawing-rooms with a lady and two gentlemen who had driven over from a neighbouring estate to pay a call at Worth.
Upon the entrance of the Earl and his ward a greater animation seemed to enter into these visitors. Compliments were exchanged, and the lady lost no time in presenting her son to Miss Taverner. The elder of the two gentlemen, who had been talking to Mr. Brummell, had less interest in the heiress, and very soon returned to Brummell. The Beau was sitting with a look of pained resignation on his face, which was accounted for by Lady Albinia, who in making the necessary introductions turned to the Earl and said: “You see the Fox-Matthewses are come to call on us, my dear Worth. So obliging of them! They have been sitting with us more than half an hour. I do not believe they will ever go.”
Mr. Fox-Matthews was talking in a consequential way of the beauties of the Hampshire scenery. He would scarcely allow it to have its equal, unless perhaps one took the Lake District into account. It was soon seen that having been travelling there in the summer he now desired nothing better than to be allowed to describe the Lakes to everyone, and to tell those who had not had the good fortune to journey so far that they had missed something very fine. He did not know whether Mr. Brummell had visited the Lakes; if he had not he should certainly make the effort.
Mr. Brummell looked him over with that lift of the eyebrow which could always depress pretension. “Yes, sir, I have visited the Lakes,” he said.
“Ah then, in that case—And which of them do you most admire, sir?”
Mr. Brummell drew in his breath. “I will tell you, sir, if you will accord me a few moments.” Then, turning to address a footman who had come in to make up the fire, he quietly desired the man to send his valet to him. Mr. Fox-Matthews stared, but the Beau remained quite imperturbable, and maintained a thoughtful silence until the entrance of a neat man in a black coat, who came anxiously up to him, and bowed.
“Robinson,” said Mr. Brummell, “which of the Lakes do I admire?”
“Windermere, sir,” replied the valet respectfully.
“Ah, Windermere, is it? Thank you, Robinson. Yes, I like Windermere best,” he said, turning politely back to Mr. Fox-Matthews.
Mrs. Fox-Matthews, swelling with indignation, rose, and declared it to be time they were taking their leave.
Peregrine’s cough, when his sister next saw him, did not appear to have benefited much from a morning spent in the fresh air. It still troubled him, and during the days that followed grew perceptibly worse. His throat was slightly inflamed, and although he would not hear of consulting a doctor, or admit that he felt in the least sickly, it was evident that he was far from being in perfect health. There was a languor, a heavy look about the eyes which worried his sister, but he ascribed it all to having caught a chill, and believed that the air at Worth might not quite suit him.
“The air at Worth,” Judith repeated. “The air—” She broke off. “What am I thinking? I deserve to be beaten for indulging such a wild fancy! Impossible! Oh, impossible!”
“Well, what are you thinking?” inquired Peregrine, with a yawn, “What is impossible? Why do you look so oddly?”
She knelt down beside his chair and clasped his hands. “Perry, how do you feel?” she asked earnestly. “Are you sure that it is no more than a chill?”