They rode on up the slope, and once more dismounted. “Well, if I’m broke for this, I think I’ll take to the—what-do-you call it? Bridle-lay. I’d no notion it was so easy,” said Captain Heron.
“Yes, but I don’t like the clothes,” said the Viscount. “Devilish hot!”
Sir Roland sighed. “Beautiful wheelers!” he murmured sadly.
The afternoon wore on. Another wagon lumbered past, three more horsemen, and one stage.
“Can’t have missed the fellow, can we?” fretted the Viscount.
“All we missed was our luncheon,” replied Captain Heron. He pulled his watch out. “It’s on three already, and I dine in South Street at five.”
“Dining with my mother, are you?” said the Viscount. “Well, the cook’s damned bad, Edward, and so I warn you. Couldn’t stand it myself. One reason why I live in lodgings. What’s that, Hawkins? Heard something?”
“There’s a chaise coming up the road,” said Mr Hawkins. “And I hope it’s the right one,” he added bitterly.
When it came into sight, a smart, shining affair, slung on very high swan’s-neck springs, the Viscount said: “That’s more like it! Now then, Pom, we’ve got him!”
The manoeuvre that had succeeded so well with the first chaise, succeeded again. The postilions, alarmed to find no less than four ruffians descending on them, drew up in a hurry. Captain Heron once more covered them with his pistol, and the Viscount dashed up to the chaise, shouting in as gruff a voice as he could assume: “Stand and deliver there! Come on, out of that!”
There were two gentlemen in the chaise. The younger of them started forward, levelling a small pistol. The other laid a hand on his wrist. “Don’t fire, my dear boy,” he said placidly “I would really rather that you did not.”
The Viscount’s pistol hand dropped. He uttered a smothered exclamation.
“Wrong again!” growled Mr Hawkins disgustedly.
The Earl of Rule stepped unhurriedly down on to the road. His placid gaze rested on the Viscount’s mare. “Dear me!” he said. “And—er—what do you want me to deliver, Pelham?”
Chapter Twenty-One
Not long after four o’clock a furious knocking was heard on the door of the Earl of Rule’s town house. Horatia, who was on her way upstairs to change her gown, stopped and turned pale. When the porter opened the door and she saw Sir Roland Pommeroy on the doorstep without his hat, she gave a shriek, and sped down the stairs again. “Good G-God, what has happened?” she cried.
Sir Roland, who seemed much out of breath, bowed punctiliously. “Apologize unseemly haste, ma’am! Must beg a word in private!”
“Yes, yes, of c-course!” said Horatia, and dragged him into the library. “Someone’s k-killed? Oh, n-not Pelham? Not P-Pelham?”
“No, ma’am, upon my honour! Nothing of that sort. Most unfortunate chance! Pel desired me to apprise you instantly. Rode home post-haste—left my horse nearest stables—ran round to wait on you. Not a moment to lose!”
“Well, w-what is it?” demanded Horatia. “You found L-Lethbridge?”
“Not Lethbridge, ma’am, Rule!” said Sir Roland, and flicking his handkerchief from his sleeve, dabbed at his heated brow.
“Rule?” exclaimed Horatia in accents of the profoundest dismay.
“No less, ma’am. Very awkward situation.”
“You—you d-didn’t hold Rule up?” she gasped.
Sir Roland nodded. “Very, very awkward,” he said.
“Did he re-recognize you?”
“Deeply regret, ma’am—recognized Pel’s mare.”
Horatia wrung her hands. “Oh, was ever anything so unlucky? What d-did he say? What d-did he think? What in the world b-brings him home so soon?”
“Beg you won’t distress yourself, ma’am. Pel carried it off. Presence of mind, you know—mighty clever fellow, Pel!”
“B-but I don’t see how he could carry it off!” said Horatia.
“Assure your ladyship, nothing simpler. Told him it was a wager.”
“D-did he believe it?” asked Horatia, round-eyed.
“Certainly!” said Sir Roland. “Told him we mistook his chaise for another’s. Plausible story—why not? But Pel thought you should be warned he was on his way.”
“Oh, yes, indeed!” she said. “But L-Lethbridge? My b-brooch?”
Sir Roland tucked his handkerchief away again. “Can’t make the fellow out,” he replied. “Ought to be home by now, instead of which—no sign of him. Pel and Heron are waiting on with Hawkins. Have to carry a message to Lady Winwood. Heron—very good sort of man indeed—can’t dine in South Street now. Must try to stop Lethbridge, you see. Beg you won’t let it distress you. Assure you—brooch shall be recovered. Rule suspects nothing—nothing at all, ma’am!”
Horatia trembled. “I d-don’t feel as though I can p-possibly face him!” she said.
Sir Roland, uneasily aware that she was on the brink of tears, retreated towards the door. “Not the slightest cause for alarm, ma’am. Think I should be going, however. Won’t do for him to find me here.”
“No,” agreed Horatia forlornly. “No, I s-suppose it won’t.”
When Sir Roland had bowed himself out she went slowly upstairs again, and to her bed-chamber, where her abigail was waiting to dress her. She had promised to join her sister-in-law at Drury Lane Theatre after dinner, and a grande toilette in satin of that extremely fashionable colour called Stifled Sigh was laid out over a chair. The abigail, pouncing on her to untie her laces, informed her that M. Fredin (pupil of that celebrated academician in coiffures, M. Leonard of Paris) had already arrived, and was in the powder-closet. Horatia said “Oh!” in a flat voice, and stepping out of her polonaise, listlessly permitted the satin underdress to be slipped over her head. She was put into her powdering-gown next, and then was delivered into the hands of M. Fredin.
This artist, failing to perceive his client’s low spirits, was full of enthusiastic suggestions for a coiffure that should ravish all who beheld it. My lady has not cared for the Quesaco? Ah, no, by example! a little too sophisticated! My lady would prefer her hair dressed in Foaming Torrents—a charming mode! Or—my lady being petite—perhaps the Butterfly would better please the eye.
“I d-don’t care,” said my lady.
M. Fredin, extracting pins with swift dexterity, shaking out rolled curls, combing away a tangle, was disappointed, but redoubled his efforts. My lady, without doubt, desired something new, something epatante. One could not consider the Hedgehog, therefore, but my lady would be transported by the Mad Dog. A mode of the most distinguished: he would not suggest the Sportsman in a Bush; that was for ladies past their first blush; but the Royal Bird was always a favourite; or, if my lady was in a pensive mood, the Milksop.
“Oh, d-dress it a l’urgence!” said Horatia impatiently. “I’m l-late!”
M. Fredin was chagrined, but he was too wise in the knowledge of ladies’ whims to expostulate. His deft fingers went busily to work, and in an astonishingly short space of time, Horatia emerged from the closet, her head a mass of artlessly tumbled curls, dashed over with powder a la Marechale, violet-scented.
She sat down at her dressing-table, and picked up the rouge-pot. It would never do for Rule to see her looking so pale. Oh, if it was not that odious Serkis rouge that made her look a hag! Take it away at once!
She had just laid down the haresfoot and taken the patch-box out of the abigail’s hand when someone scratched on the door. She started, and cast a scared look over her shoulder. The door opened and the Earl came in.
“Oh!” said Horatia faintly. She remembered that she must show surprise, and added: “G-good gracious, my l-lord, is—is it indeed you?”
The Earl had changed his travelling dress for an evening toilet of puce velvet, with a flowered waistcoat and satin small clothes. He came across the room to Horatia’s side, and bent to kiss her hand. “None other, my dear. Am I—now don’t spare me—am I perhaps de trop?”