Then the Duke’s left fist came into action and the German shot across the ring to fall with a crash to the ground.
For a moment there was no sound from the spectators. They seemed to bend forward watching breathlessly to see if Hermann Gloeber would rise. He gave a little groan and rolled over on his back.
He was out, a clean and decisive end to the fight.
There were cheers then for the Duke and many smiling exclamations, but he made no response to them. He walked across to Amé. As he reached her, he realised that her eyes were tight shut and her lips were moving. But without his speaking to her she must have felt his presence, because even as he took his shirt from her arms her eyes opened and she looked up at him.
“You have won?”
Her voice was very low and hoarse.
The Duke nodded.
“Merciful God, je vous remercie!” Amé’s voice was so low that he barely heard it.
“You were praying for me?” he enquired as he buttoned his shirt at the neck.
He did not know why he asked the question, but it was somehow important for him to know.
“There was nothing else I could do,” Amé answered. “I could not watch.”
She reached up as she spoke and laid her handkerchief against a cut on his forehead that was bleeding. He moved away from her hand.
“It is nothing,” he said. “We must be on our way.”
One of the gypsy women was kneeling at Hermann Gloeber’s side and giving him a drink from a cup as the Duke and Amé mounted the horses he had bought. A gypsy then pointed out the road to Paris. Their way lay across some fields towards another wood on the horizon.
“Good luck!” the gypsy called after them as they galloped away.
Neither the Duke nor Amé looked back.
“Another episode to be forgotten,” the Duke thought suddenly, especially as he remembered now that he had missed an opportunity to knock Hermann Gloeber out two minutes earlier in the fight.
‘Gentleman Jackson would have had something to say about that!’ he thought with a grin.
His knuckles were bleeding, his jaw was sore and his whole body was beginning to ache, but he was well pleased with himself.
For one thing he had not failed Amé nor her faith in him.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Honourable Hugo Waltham sat at the éscritoire in the library and then bit the end of his quill pen reflectively.
The formal garden outside was flooded with sunshine. A goldfish pool in the centre of it was surrounded by marble nymphs provocatively draped and at the far end there was an arbour cunningly contrived of climbing roses that were luxuriant and fragrant in their profusion.
But Hugo Waltham saw none of these things.
There was a deep frown between his eyes as he stared unseeingly into the early sunshine and his face was as unsmiling as a March morning. He was by no means a good-looking man for his nose was too long and his jaw too narrow for good looks, but there was something pleasant about his face and that he was to be trusted was as obvious as the fact that his high rounded forehead must contain a prodigious intellect.
Hugo Waltham had always been clever, the trouble was that his brains brought him only the satisfaction of intellectuality and no money.
He had been Head of his school and one of the most promising Scholars that Oxford had ever known, but he had starved genteelly with his widowed mother until unexpectedly and by the merest chance he had made the acquaintance of his cousin, the Duke of Melyncourt.
Then his fortunes had changed. The Duke had at that moment been at his wits’ end to find someone to manage his day-to-day affairs, to oversee his household, to keep an eye on the estate accounts and to be entirely and absolutely trustworthy. His own efficiency made him expect a high standard from those he employed.
He had sacked three secretaries and two Stewards in the year before Hugo arrived at Melyn, but from the moment his cousin arrived there was peace. Hugo too was happier than he had been in his life before.
He could afford to set up his mother in a comfortable house at Bath, where she enjoyed the three remaining years of her life, gossiping with cronies of her own age about ‘the good old days’ and condemning the ‘modern miss’. He was able to find time for reading and for keeping up the studies he had enjoyed at Oxford and above all, he associated with people of his own class. He had not known until those barren days of penury how greatly one could miss companionship. Now he had it in plenty.
There were always parties at Melyn or wherever else the Duke chose to go. At this moment Hugo had only to look at the pile of visiting cards accumulating on the hall table to realise that there was to be an avalanche of entertainment in Paris and that he must cope with it.
The Duke had grown to trust him implicitly.
“I have asked forty people to dinner here tomorrow night, Hugo,” he would say, knowing that, when the moment came, he would not be disappointed in the meal or the entertainment that followed after it.
Sometimes Hugo would murmur apologetically,
“If only you had given me a little more time!”
Even so the Duke could seldom criticise his cousin’s arrangements.
Yet now Hugo was worried.
The door of the room opened and he turned eagerly, only to see not the tall square-shouldered figure who he expected, but instead a vision in pale blue satin and rose-coloured ribbons. An elaborate coiffure framed a lovely smiling face and was surmounted by an elegant tip-tilted hat of feathers and lace.
“Is he not back yet?” the vision enquired.
“No, not yet, Lady Isabella,” Hugo replied, rising quickly to his feet.
“Drat the man! I just cannot think what can have happened to him. Here he has us all on tenterhooks, while doubtless he is merely philandering with some dark-eyed mademoiselle and has forgotten our very existence.”
“The Ambassador has called for the second time,” Hugo said ruefully.
The vision glided across the room and seated herself on the sofa, her skirts spread out around her, her head twisting a little as she caught a glimpse of her own loveliness in one of the long gilt mirrors.
“When Sebastian does arrive here, I shall tell him how incensed I am at his behaviour,” Lady Isabella said complacently, “I had arranged for him to escort me to a dinner at the Princesse de Polignac’s last night. When he did not come, I had to take Lord Rupert Carstairs in his place and he behaved monstrously badly.”
“Rupert has no love of formal dinner parties,” Hugo Waltham replied with a grin.
“And he showed it to be sure,” Lady Isabella said sharply. “I was as mad as fire with him, but in truth it was Sebastian’s fault. You may be certain he shall hear of it.”
“Something may have gone wrong. There might even have been an accident,” Hugo said, always ready to defend the Duke from every attack.
“In which case the carriages following would have found his coach by the roadside,” Lady Isabella retorted logically. “No, you may be sure that he has found some diversion and is taking full advantage of it. ’Twas ever Sebastian’s way and well you know it.”
Hugo made no attempt to contradict her. He was, in fact, invariably tongue-tied in the presence of Lady Isabella Berrington. She too was a cousin of the Duke’s, although on the maternal side and was therefore no relation to Hugo himself.
Very lovely, very spoilt and the toast of St. James’s, Lady Isabella Berrington was reputed to have broken more hearts in her first Season than any debutante had ever done. She had also set all the tongues wagging on the day she emerged from the schoolroom and they had never stopped since.
She had certainly done nothing to endear herself to those who were always ready to censure the young and beautiful. She had flouted the conventions, she had ignored the dictates of the Dowagers who thought that they controlled Society and she had managed, despite everything, to remain the most fêted and most run-after young woman in the whole of London.
Not even a marr
iage just before she was twenty had spoiled her success. Charles Berrington had been an impecunious soldier but of a good family. They had loved each other ecstatically for three weeks before he went to the War in America. He was killed there and it was noticeable that Isabella was enjoying herself in what was termed ‘an outrageous fashion’ long before the conventional period of mourning was over.
She was exasperating, provoking, irritating and at all times adorable. She always expected to get her own way and was genuinely astonished when it was denied her. In fact, when she set her heart on something, she was tenacious to the point of obstinacy and at the moment she had set her heart on Sebastian she had told him quite frankly that she intended to marry him.
“I shall make a lovely Duchess,” she said. “Judging by the portraits in the Picture Gallery at Melyn a little beauty will not come amiss in the family and besides we get on together famously.”
“That is because we see so little of each other,” the Duke said, faintly amused and completely cynical.
“And there lies the true basis of married happiness,” Isabella proclaimed triumphantly. “You prefer to be at Melyn and I shall adore your house in Berkeley Square. When our paths do cross, we shall be enchanted to meet one another again.”
“The only obstacle in the way,” Sebastian said lazily, “is that I prefer to remain unmarried.”
“Could anything be more selfish?” she exclaimed but, argue as she might, the Duke refused to do anything but laugh at her.
Nevertheless she was persistent. When she heard that the Duke was going to Paris, she herself crossed the Channel a few days ahead of him. She had many friends among the Beau Monde and in the short time she had been in the gay City she had seen to it that she was invited to all the parties being planned for the Duke and to a large number of others as well. The French Noblemen were as susceptible as their English counterparts. Isabella found herself pursued, courted, enticed and absolutely delighted with the furore she was causing everywhere she went.
She felt it might be a good thing for Sebastian to see just how attractive she was to other men and now, annoyingly, he had not turned up when expected and no one, not even Hugo, had the least idea where he was.
“I am worried, very worried as it happens,” Hugo said now.
He strode up and down the room as he spoke and Isabela’s eyes rested on his long thin figure, which was shown to advantage by a coat of grey satin. She liked Hugo Waltham, although she found shy people as a rule rather troublesome, for one had to coax them into speech and persuade them out of a thousand prejudices before one could get a natural and spontaneous response.
But not even his natural diffidence could dim Hugo’s devotion to the Duke. He was like a hen clucking after an erring chick, Isabella thought now, so she said,
“Sebastian is selfish and inconsiderate as well, you know. Personally I would not risk a moment’s thought on his tardiness.”
“I regret to hear that, my charming cousin,” a voice said from the doorway. “I thought at least I would find you in half-mourning by now.”
Isabella gave a cry of astonishment and Hugo wheeled round quickly at the sound of the Duke’s voice. He was standing in the doorway, smiling, and to Hugo’s relief unharmed, although he looked a little different from his usual immaculate self as his silk stockings were laddered, his white breeches were stained and dusty, the knuckles of the hands he held out to both of them were disfigured by scabs of dried blood.
“Sebastian, where have you been?” Hugo asked.
“Was the wench very pretty?” Isabella enquired.
“I was delayed by the somewhat aggressive hospitality of a gentleman known to both of you.”
There was something in his tone that told both Isabella and Hugo that something untoward had happened.
“Who was it?” Hugo asked quickly.
“The Duc de Chartres took me to his Château by what amounted to force and intended to keep me there for at least a week,” the Duke replied.
“The Duc de Chartres!” Isabella exclaimed. “The man is impossible. Everyone in Paris talks about how he intends to destroy the Queen. They say too that he is plotting to overthrow the Monarchy and seize the crown for himself.”
“I should not be in the least surprised if that is his aim,” the Duke replied. “Hugo, I am thirsty. Is there anything to drink in this sumptuous Palace you have procured for me?”
“Your pardon, Sebastian, I was so delighted to see you again that I had forgotten everything else. There is Madeira here or negus if you prefer it.”
“A glass of Madeira, if you please,” the Duke said. “And you, Isabella, will you not join me?”
“Lud, no, not at this hour of the afternoon,” Isabella replied. “But continue, what happened after the Duc had you at his Château?”
“Ostensibly he was a very charming host, but he locked me in and I have a rooted objection to locks of all sorts.”
“And who else was there?” Isabella then enquired. “There are all sorts of rumours about who is his latest mistress. Madame de Buffon is supposed to be the favourite, but I am sure that there are many others.”
“Madame de Buffon was not at the Château. There was another charmer, unfortunately I have forgotten her name.”
“Oh, Sebastian! That is like you?” Isabella said reproachfully. “When a really exciting piece of scandal does come your way, you forget to take any notice of it.”
“I am afraid I was thinking only of myself and my own escape,” the Duke declared.
He sipped his wine reflectively for a moment and then, looking at Isabella over the rim of his glass, he suggested,
“Now that you are here, Isabella, I think you can solve a problem that I was about to put to Hugo. In fact I think that with your assistance the problem is solved.”
“You know, Sebastian, I am only too delighted to do anything to please you,” Isabella said demurely.
“I doubt that,” the Duke answered briefly, “but as it happens, I need your help. I was about to ask Hugo to find me a chaperone.”
“A chaperone!” Isabella exclaimed.
Hugo stood staring at his cousin, a look of enquiry on his long face.
“Yes, a chaperone,” the Duke explained. “I have brought with me to Paris a young lady and, if she is to stay here, we must, of course, be chaperoned conventionally by the presence of a married woman.”
“Then it was a pair of sparkling eyes that delayed you! I told you so, Hugo, but you would not believe me.”
“In this case you were wrong,” the Duke said. “I was delayed by Chartres but my responsibility towards what you term ‘a pair of sparkling eyes’ had begun before our coach was waylaid.”
“Who is she, where did you find her and what is she like?” Isabella questioned.
“You go far too quickly for me, Isabella, but, if you will be patient. I intend to answer all your questions because I need your help. Hugo, see if there is anyone outside the door.”
Wonderingly and with a look of astonishment on his face Hugo obeyed him. The passage that led from the library to the main hall of the house was deserted.
“There is no one there.”
“Good!” the Duke said. “You may think that I am being unduly apprehensive but I remember my father once saying to me, ‘never quarrel with the Church, Sebastian. They are too used to dealing with sinners for one ever to get the better of them’.”
“What has the Church got to do with it?” Isabella enquired. “For Heaven’s sake, Sebastian, start from the beginning.”
“That is just what I intend to do,” Sebastian replied. “Another glass of Madeira, if you please, Hugo.”
Hugo crossed the room with a decanter and the Duke began.
He told an attentive, wide-eyed audience of two exactly what had happened from the moment the horse went lame on the road to Chantilly until this very moment when he had stepped into the library to find them together.
“But it is the most incredible story!” Isa
bella gasped as he finished. “And you think the Cardinal will be on your track and that he will guess that you had something to do with the girl’s disappearance?”
“I don’t know,” Sebastian replied, “the Priest may have been completely satisfied with my explanation, but there was another Priest watching us from the yard as we left and I have the feeling in my mind that Rohan will not forget that my coach stopped outside the Convent when he hears that I have produced unexpectedly in Paris a very attractive and charming Ward.”
“Ward!” Hugo expostulated. “Are you planning to represent this girl as your Ward?”
“Exactly,” the Duke said. “I have to explain away her presence in some manner and what could be more natural than that I should come here to Paris, not only with my Ward but that she should be chaperoned by my cousin, Lady Isabella Berrington?”
“I refuse,” Isabella exclaimed. “I refuse without any further discussion on the matter. You know perfectly well, Sebastian, that I am not interested in your women friends, whoever they may be. This girl has bewitched you. Is she very lovely?”
The Duke laughed.
“Your curiosity is all your undoing, Isabella. If you do not agree to help me, then you must leave the house immediately and I will not even let you have a glimpse of this adventurous young woman.”
“Fiddle! As if I should go without seeing her,” Isabella countered scornfully. “Very well, Sebastian, I will chaperone her, but I promise you that, if you fall in love with her, I shall make your life a hell and hers too.”
“The child is not yet eighteen,” the Duke replied. “You seem to forget that I was thirty-eight last birthday. You sent me a present, I recall, so it cannot entirely have slipped your mind.”
“They say there is no fool like an old fool,” Lady Isabella said cryptically. “It would, of course, simplify matters a great deal if you married me. I could then chaperone this fugitive with the utmost propriety.”
“Not even to help Amé and defy the Cardinal de Rohan would I go to such lengths,” the Duke replied.
“I cannot think why you must be so obstinate,” Lady Isabella sighed, “but send for her, Sebastian, I am all agog to see your protégée.”
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