“But what in the devil’s name is he doing, jauntering about the country in stage-coaches?” almost wailed Matthew, once out of the landlord’s hearing.
“Fleeing from Mr. Mamble, I should think,” replied Gideon flippantly.
“Well, it’s no jesting matter if he did kidnap that boy!” Matthew pointed out. “What do you mean to do now?”
“My blood is up, and I shall follow him. Besides, he may yet need me to protect him from this infuriated parent. You will go back to Oxford.”
“I suppose I must,” sighed Matthew. “But what shall you do with that fellow, Liversedge?”
“Oh, take him along with me! Wragby can look after him.”
“Master Gideon,” said Nettlebed, with a set look on his face, “if you mean to continue searching for his Grace, I am coining with you!”
“By all means!” responded Gideon. “You will be very crowded in the boot, but you may assist Wragby to guard the prisoner. Mr. Liversedge! I fear you may not quite like it, but you are accompanying me to Reading.”
“On the contrary, sir,” replied Mr. Liversedge affably, “I should be sorry to leave you. Owing to the disaster which has befallen the Bird in Hand I find myself temporarily bereft of the means of subsistence. To be abandoned in this town, where I own no acquaintance, would put me to serious inconvenience. I shall be happy to go with you. Let us hope that we may be more fortunate in Reading than we have been in Hitchin or in Aylesbury!”
But when, at the end of a forty-mile drive over an indifferent road, the curricle reached Reading, Fortune (said Mr. Liversedge) seemed disinclined to smile upon its occupants. The Duke’s erratic trail was lost from the moment of his alighting, with his young companions, from the stage, and an exhausting search of all the inns in the town failed to pick up the scent again. Gideon, who had been driving all day, was tired, and consequently, exasperated; and after drawing blank at the fifth inn said that he was determined to find the Duke, if only for the pleasure of wringing his neck. “What the devil has become of him, and what am I to do now?” he demanded.
Mr. Liversedge, who had been awaiting his moment, said with admirable common-sense: “If, sir, I may venture to make a suggestion, we should now repair to the Crown, which appeared to be a very tolerable house, and bespeak dinner in a private parlour, and beds for the night I shall give myself the pleasure of mixing for you a Potation of which I alone know the secret. It was divulged to me by one of my late employers since deceased, alas!—a gentleman often in need of revivifying cordials. I fancy you will be pleased with it!”
“We must find his Grace!” declared Nettlebed obstinately.
“It will be dark in another hour,” said Gideon. “Damn it, the fellow’s right! We’ll rack up for the night!” He yawned suddenly. “God, I am tired!”
“Leave everything to me, sir!” said Mr. Liversedge graciously. “That man of yours—a worthy enough fellow, I daresay!—is quite unfit to arrange all those little genteel details so necessary to a gentleman’s comfort. In me you may have every confidence!”
“I have no confidence in you at all,” replied Gideon frankly. “I foresee, however, that we shall end by becoming boon-companions! Lead on, you unmitigated scoundrel!”
Chapter XX
Serenely unaware that he was being pursued by two sets of persons in varying degrees of wrath or exasperation, the Duke conveyed his charges to Bath on the stage-coach, without incident. He made no stay in Reading, arriving there with only just enough time to catch the London to Bath coach. He experienced a little difficulty in procuring places at such short notice, but by dint of bribing several interested persons, he secured one inside seat for Belinda, and two outside ones for himself and Tom. Belinda was inclined to cry when she found that she could not sit on the roof, but by a fortunate chance a delicate-looking young gentleman boarded the coach, and took his place inside. He stared at Belinda in such blatant admiration that she at once became cheerful, and spent a very happy journey encouraging his respectful advances. He did not look to be the sort of dashing blade who would endeavour to seduce her with promises of rings and silken gowns, so the Duke, thankful to be spared the embarrassment of her easy tears, handed her in with no more than a mild request that she would refrain from informing her fellow-passengers that she was travelling to Bath under the escort of a very kind gentleman. He then climbed on to the roof to take his seat beside Tom, and resigned himself to a long and uncomfortable journey. Tom, having begged in vain to be allowed to tool the coach, sulked for some few miles, but revived upon recollecting that he had in his pocket a catapult which he had found time to buy in Aylesbury. His skilful handling of this weapon led to a little unpleasantness with an old lady by the roadside, whose fat pug dog was startled into unwonted activity by a pellet in the ribs, but as no one but the Duke had seen Tom aim the catapult, and he seized and pocketed it the instant he realized what Tom was so surreptitiously engaged upon, no one was able to bring the crime home to the culprit.
“Tom, you are the most shocking boy!” said the Duke severely. “If you have any other devilish engine in your pocket, give it to me at once!”
“No, upon my honour, I have not, sir!” Tom assured him. “But wasn’t it famous when the pug jumped, and ran off yelping?”
“Yes, a splendid shot. If only you will behave with propriety I will take you to Cheyney one day, and give you a day’s real shooting.”
A glowing face was turned towards him. “Oh, sir, will you indeed? I think you are the most bang-up, out-and-out person in the world! Where is Cheyney? What sort of a place is it?”
“Cheyney?” said the Duke absently. “Oh, it’s one of my—It is a house which belongs to me, near a village called Upton Cheyney, some seven miles from Bath, towards Bristol.”
“Is that where we are going?” asked Tom, surprised. “You never said so, sir!”
“No,” said the Duke. “No, we’re not going there,”
“Why not?” demanded Tom. “If there is shooting to be had, it would be much jollier than a stuffy inn in Bath! Do let us, sir!”
The Duke shook his head. He had a very lively idea of what would be the feelings of the devoted retainers in charge of Cheyney were he to arrive there in disgracefully travel-stained clothes, unheralded, unescorted, carrying a cheap valise, and leading Belinda by the hand. He supposed he would shortly be obliged to disclose his identity to Tom, but since he had no desire to be known at the quiet inn he had mentally selected in Bath, and placed little dependence on Tom’s discretion, he decided to postpone the inevitable confession. He said instead that his house was too far removed from Bath for convenience.
His knowledge of Bath’s hotels was naturally confined to such fashionable establishments as York House and the Christopher, in neither of which did he propose to set foot, but he remembered being led, as a boy, by the conscientious Mr. Romsey to gaze reverently upon the facade of the Pelican in Walcot Street, which had once housed the great Dr. Johnson. This respectable inn was no longer patronized by modish people, and had the added advantage of being situated not far from Laura Place, where the Dowager Lady Ampleforth resided.
It was not to be expected that a quiet and unpretentious hotel would meet with the approval of the Duke’s charges. Tom said that if they must put up at an inn he would like to choose the busy posting-house on the Market-place; and Belinda told the Duke reproachfully that she had once conveyed a bonnet to a lady staying at the Christopher, and had formed the opinion that it was a very genteel, elegant hotel, in every way superior to the Pelican. The Duke agreed to it, but gently shepherded his protégés into the Pelican. In the middle of protesting that it was a shabby place Tom was suddenly overcome by a suspicion that Mr. Rufford might not be able to afford to put up at the more fashionable houses, flushed scarlet, and loudly asserted his conviction that they would do very well at the Pelican after all. He then took the Duke aside to remind him that Pa would reimburse him for any monies expended on his behalf, and begged permission to sally for
th to see the sights. As it was already time for dinner, this was refused him, but the blow was softened by the Duke’s promise to let him go to the theatre that very evening. Belinda at once said that she would like to go too, and, upon being told that it would be quite ineligible, was only induced to stop crying by a timely reminder of the awful fate in store for her if, by some malign chance, her late employer should be in the audience, and perceive her. She stood in such awe of Mrs. Pilling that she trembled, and turned quite pale, and had to be reassured before she could be brought to eat her dinner.
While the covers were being set upon the table, the Duke called for paper and ink, and dashed off an urgent letter to his agent-in-chief.
“My dear Scriven,” he wrote, “Upon receipt of this, be so good as to despatch Nettlebed to me with such clothing as I may require, and two or three hundred pounds in bills. He may travel in my private chaise, and bring my footman with him. It will be convenient for me to have also my curricle, and the match bays, and these may be brought by easy stages, together with my Purdeys, also at Sale, and the grey mare. I shall send this to you express, and beg you will not delay to follow out its instructions. Yours etc etc Sale.”
He was shaking the sand from his missive when it occurred to him that a little information about himself might be welcome to his well-wishers. He added a postscript: “Pray inform Lord Lionel that I am in excellent health.”
Having, in this masterly fashion, allayed any anxiety or curiosity which his household might cherish, he sealed his letter, directed it, and arranged for its express carriage to London. After that, he joined his young friends at the dinner-table, partook of a neat, plain meal, sped Tom on his way to the theatre, persuaded Belinda to go to bed, and took rueful stock of his appearance.
No amount of wear and tear could disguise the cut and quality of Scott’s olive-green coat, or the excellence of Hoby’s top-boots, but a riding-coat and buckskin breeches, even when in the pink of condition, could not by any stretch of the imagination be considered eligible garments in which to pay an evening visit in Bath. A week earlier, the Duke would have shrunk from the very idea of presenting himself in Laura Place in such a guise, but the experiences through which he had passed had hardened his sensibilities so much that he was able presently to confront old Lady Ampleforth’s porter, who opened her door to him, without a blush. The sound of a violin, and a glimpse of a great many hats and cloaks in the hall conveyed the unwelcome intelligence to him that Lady Ampleforth was entertaining guests. He did not blame the porter for eyeing him askance, but he said in his calm way: “Is Lady Harriet Presteigne at home?”
“Well, sir,” replied the porter doubtfully, “in a manner of speaking she is, but my lady has one of her Musical Parties this evening.”
“Yes, so I hear,” said the Duke, stepping into the hall, and laying down his hat. “I am not dressed for a party, and I shall not disturb her ladyship. Be so good as to convey a message to Lady Harriet for me!”
The porter, having by this time taken in the full enormity of the Duke’s costume, said firmly that he didn’t think he could do that, Lady Harriet being very much occupied.
“Yes, I think you can,” said the Duke tranquilly. “Inform Lady Harriet that the Duke of Sale has arrived in Bath, and wishes to see her—privately!”
The porter was staggered by this speech. He knew, of course, that Lady Harriet was betrothed to the Duke of Sale, but it seemed to him highly improbable that anyone so exalted would visit a lady in a crumpled coat and stained buckskins. He said cunningly: “Yes, your Grace. I will have your Grace’s card carried up to my lady.”
“I haven’t one,” said the Duke.
Upon hearing this brazen utterance, the porter saw his duty clearly marked out for him. He prepared to eject the uninvited guest, saying: “I that case, sir, you’ll pardon me, but I could not take it upon myself to disturb her ladyship!”
Fortunately for the Duke’s dignity, Lady Ampleforth’s butler sailed into the hall at this moment. The Duke said: “Ah, here’s Whimple! I hope you do not mean to disown me, Whimple. I wish to have some private speech with Lady Harriet.”
The butler stared at him for an unrecognizing moment, and then gave an audible gasp. “Your Grace!”
“Thank God!” said the Duke, smiling. “I was afraid you had forgotten me, and meant to tell this stout fellow to hurl me down the steps.”
“No, indeed, your Grace! I—I apprehend your Grace has but just arrived in Bath? Would your Grace wish me to announce you, or, perhaps ....”
“You may see for yourself that I am in no case to present myself to Lady Ampleforth. Lady Harriet, however, will forgive me for coming to her in all my dirt.”
“Surely, your Grace!” beamed Whimple, much touched by this evidence of lover-like impatience. “Perhaps your Grace would condescend to wait in the breakfast-parlour, where no one will disturb you? I will instantly apprise Lady Harriet of your Grace’s arrival!”
The Duke having expressed his willingness to condescend in this manner, he was ushered into a small apartment at the back of the house. While an underling lit the candles, the butler went away to find Lady Harriet. The Duke had not long to wait. In a very few moments Whimple opened the door for Lady Harriet to pass into the room. He sighed sentimentally, for he was a romantic man, and he had never before been employed as Love’s messenger.
It struck the Duke that his betrothed was not in her best looks. She was even a little wan, and she seemed to be suffering from some agitation of spirit. She was tastefully attired in a robe of white crape, profusely trimmed with blond lace, and with her hair in full ringlets, but she would have been the better for a touch of rouge. As the door shutbehind Whimple, she looked almost shrinkingly at the Duke, and uttered in a faint voice: “Gilly! My lord!”
He stepped up to her, taking her hand, and kissing it. It trembled in his, and he was aware of her uneven breathing. Ho wondered why Harriet, who had known him all his life, should be so afraid of him. He retained her hand saying: “Harriet, have I startled you? I am a villain to come to you in such a disreputable state!”
“Oh, no!” she murmured. “No, no!”
“Indeed, I beg your pardon!” he said, smiling at her. “But I am in the deuce of a fix, Harriet, and I have come to you to help me out of it!”
Her pallor seemed to grow more marked. She gently withdrew her hand from his. “Yes, Gilly,” she said. “Of course I will help you out of it.”
“You were always the best of good friends, Harriet!” he said. “But it is quite outrageous! I have no business to ask such a thing of you!”
She lifted her hand as though to silence him, and then let it drop again. Averting her face a little, she managed to say with only the smallest tremor in her voice: “You need not tell me, Gilly. You never desired it I—I knew that at the outset. You wish to declare our—our engagement at an end, don’t you?”
“Wish to declare our engagement at an end?” he repeated, quite thunderstruck. “Good God, no! Why, Harriet, what can you be thinking of?”
She began to twist into a tight rope the ends of the gauze scarf which was draped round her shoulders. “Is it not that, Gilly? Pray do not try to spare my feelings! I knew I was wrong. I should not have—But it is not too late! You see, I know! And indeed I do not blame you!”
“Harriet, I have not the remotest guess at what you are talking about!” the Duke said blankly. “What is it that you know.”
“What can possibly have done to merit this from you?” Surprise gave her courage to look at him. She faltered: “I knew from Gaywood that you had disappeared. Of course I did not credit the wicked slanders which he said were running round town! But—”
“Good God, were there any?” he interrupted. “What did the fools say?”
“Gaywood told me that people suspected Gideon of having murdered you, but—”
He went off into a peal of laughter. “Oh, no! No, Harriet, did they indeed think that? Then I expect he will murder me! It is a g
reat deal too bad!”
She looked at him wonderingly. “You see, Gilly, you left no word, and someone saw you going to Gideon’s chambers the night you disappeared. And Gaywood said he would say nothing, only that he had no notion where you were. Of course, no one who knows Gideon would believe such a story!”
“He is the best of good fellows! He should have betrayed me instantly. But what has this to do with the rest, Harriet?”
Her head sank; she studied the fringe at the end of her scarf. “It was Lady Boscastle, Gilly, who—who told us the rest.”
His brows knit for a puzzled moment. “Lady Boscastle? Oh, yes, I know! One of the matchmaking mamas! But what can she have told you? I have not set eyes on her since the lord knows when!”
“She has just arrived in Bath,” said Harriet, beginning to plait the fringe. “She—she passed through Hitchin on her way. You did not see her, but—but she saw you, Gilly. She came to pay a morning visit here, and she—she told Grandmama and me.”
She ventured to peep up at him, and was startled to see his eyes dancing. “The devil she did!” he said. “Did she tell you I had Belinda on my arm?”
“A—an excessively beautiful girl!” faltered Harriet, gazing at him in mingled hope and trepidation.
“Oh, the loveliest creature imaginable!” he said gaily. “With not two thoughts in her head to rub together! No, I wrong her! There are just two thoughts! One is of golden rings, and the other of purple silk dresses! Harriet, you goose!”
Colour flooded her cheeks; her eyes filled. “Oh, Gilly!” she uttered. “Oh, Gilly, I thought—Indeed, I beg your pardon!”
“No, it is all my fault. I wonder you don’t send me to the devil!” He saw that tears hung on her eyelashes, and put his arm around her, and kissed her. “Harry, don’t cry! I swear it isall a hum!”
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