He lunched at the club, and shortly afterwards strolled home to Grosvenor Square. My lady, he was informed upon inquiry, was in her boudoir.
This apartment, which had been decorated for Horatia in tints of blue, lay at the back of the house, up one pair of stairs. The Earl went up to it, the faintest of creases between his brows. He was checked half-way by Mr Gisborne’s voice hailing him from the hall below.
“My lord,” said Mr Gisborne. “I have been hoping you might come in.”
The Earl paused, and looked down the stairway, one hand resting on the baluster rail. “But how charming of you, Arnold!”
Mr Gisborne, who knew his lordship, heaved a despairing sigh. “My lord, if you would spare only a few moments to glance over some accounts I have here!”
The Earl smiled disarmingly. “Dear Arnold, go to the devil!” he said, and went on up the stairs.
“But, sir, indeed I can’t act without your authority! A bill for a perch-phaeton, from a coach-maker’s! Is it to be paid?”
“My dear boy, of course pay it. Why ask me?”
“It is not one of your bills, sir,” said Mr Gisborne, a stern look about his mouth.
“I am aware,” said his lordship, slightly amused. “One of Lord Winwood’s, I believe. Settle it, my dear fellow.”
“Very well, sir. And Mr Drelincourt’s little affair?”
At that the Earl, who had been absorbed in smoothing a crease from his sleeve, looked up. “Are you inquiring after the state of my cousin’s health, or what?” he asked.
Mr Gisborne looked rather puzzled. “No, sir, I was speaking of his monetary affairs. Mr Drelincourt wrote about a week ago, stating his embarrassments, but you would not attend.”
“Do you find me a sore trial, Arnold? I am sure you must. It is time I made amends.”
“Does that mean you will look over the accounts, sir?” asked Mr Gisborne hopefully.
“No, my dear boy, it does not. But you may—ah—use your own discretion in the matter of Mr Drelincourt’s embarrassments.”
Mr Gisborne gave a short laugh. “If I were to use my own discretion, sir, Mr Drelincourt’s ceaseless demands on your generosity would find their way into the fire!” he said roundly.
“Precisely,” nodded the Earl, and went on up the stairs.
The boudoir smelt of roses. There were great bowls of them in the room, red and pink and white. In the middle of this bower, curled upon a couch with her cheek on her hand, Horatia was lying, fast asleep.
The Earl shut the door soundlessly, and trod across the thick Aubusson carpet to the couch, and stood for a moment, looking down at his wife.
She made a sufficiently pretty picture, her curls, free of powder, dressed loosely in the style the French called Greque a boucles badines, and one white shoulder just peeping from the lace of her negligee. A beam of sunlight, stealing through one of the windows, lay across her cheek; and seeing it, the Earl went over to the window, and drew the curtain a little way to shut it out. As he turned Horatia stirred and opened drowsy eyes. They fell on him, and widened. Horatia sat up. “Is it you, my l-lord? I’ve been asleep. Did you w-want me?”
“I did,” said Rule. “But I did not mean to wake you, Horry.”
“Oh, that d-doesn’t signify!” She looked up at him rather anxiously. “Have you come to scold me for p-playing loo last night? I w-won, you know.”
“My dear Horry, what a very unpleasant husband I must be!” said the Earl. “Do I only seek you out to scold you?”
“N-no, of course not, but I thought it m-might be that. Is it n-nothing disagreeable?”
“I should hardly call it disagreeable,” Rule said. “Something a little tiresome.”
“Oh, d-dear!” sighed Horatia. She shot a mischievous look at him. “You are g-going to be an unpleasant husband, sir. I know you are.”
“No,” said Rule, “but I am afraid I am going to annoy you, Horry. My lamentable cousin has been coupling your name with Lethbridge’s.”
“C-coupling my name!” echoed Horatia. “W-well, I do think Crosby is the m-most odious little toad alive! What did he say?”
“Something very rude,” replied the Earl. “I won’t distress you by repeating it.”
“I suppose he thinks I’m in l-love with Robert,” said Horatia bluntly. “But I’m n-not, and I don’t c-care what he says!”
“Certainly.not: no one cares what Crosby says. Unfortunately, however, he said it in Pelham’s hearing, and Pelham most unwisely called him out.”
Horatia clapped her hands together. “A d-duel? Oh, how f-famous!” A thought occurred to her. “M-Marcus, Pelham isn’t hurt?”
“Not in the least; it is Crosby who is hurt.”
“I am very glad to hear it,” said Horatia. “He d-deserves to be hurt. Surely you d-did not think that would annoy me?”
He smiled. “No. It is the sequel that I fear may annoy you. It becomes necessary for you to hold Lethbridge at arm’s length. Do you understand at all, Horry?”
“No,” said Horatia flatly. “I d-don’t!”
“Then I will try to explain. You have made Lethbridge your friend—or shall I say that you have chosen to become his friend?”
“It’s all the same, sir.”
“On the contrary, my dear, there is a vast difference. But however it is, you are, I believe, often in his company.”
“There is n-nothing in that, sir,” Horatia said, her brows beginning to lower.
“Nothing at all,” replied his lordship placidly. “But—you will have to forgive me for speaking plain, Horry—since Pelham has apparently considered the matter to be of enough moment to fight a duel over, there are a very few people who will believe that there is nothing in it.”
Horatia flushed, but answered roundly: “I d-don’t care what people believe! You’ve said yourself you kn-know there’s n-nothing in it, so if you don’t mind I am sure no one else n-need!”
He raised his brows slightly. “My dear Horry, I thought I had made it abundantly clear to you at the outset that I do mind.”
Horatia sniffed, and looked more mutinous than ever. He watched her for a moment, then bent, and taking her hands drew her to her feet. “Don’t frown at me, Horry,” he said whimsically. “Will you, to oblige me, give up this friendship with Lethbridge?”
She stared up at him, hovering between two feelings. His hands slid up her arms to her shoulders. He was smiling, half in amusement, half in tenderness. “My sweet, I know that I am quite old, and only your husband, but you and I could deal better together than this.”
The image of Caroline Massey rose up clear before her. She whisked herself away, and said, a sob in her throat: “My l-lord, it was agreed we should not interfere with each other. You’ll allow I d-don’t interfere with you. Indeed, I’ve n-no desire to, I assure you. I won’t cast R-Robert off just b-because you are afraid of what vulgar people may say.”
The smile had left his eyes. “I see. Ah—Horry, has a husband any right to command, since he may not request?”
“If p-people talk it is all your fault!” Horatia said, disregarding this. “If only you would be civil to R-Robert too, and—and f-friendly, no one would say a word!”
“That, I am afraid, is quite impossible,” replied the Earl dryly.
“Why?” demanded Horatia.
He seemed to deliberate. “For a reason that has become—er—ancient history, my dear.”
“Very well, sir, and what is this reason? Do you m-mean to tell me?”
His mouth quivered responsively. “I admit you have me there, Horry. I don’t mean to tell you.”
She said stormily: “Indeed, my lord? You won’t tell me w-why, and yet you expect me to cast off R-Robert!”
“I confess it does sound a trifle arbitrary,” admitted his lordship ruefully. “The story, you see, is not entirely mine. But even though I am unable to divulge it the reason is a sufficient one.”
“V-vastly interesting,” said Horatia. “It is a p-pity I can’t judge for myself, for I must tell you, sir, that I have no n-no-tion of deserting my friends only b-because a creature like your horrid c-cousin says odious things about me!”