Devil's Cub (8 page)

“Hush, Charles, hush!” said the Marquis. “You interrupt my dear friend. He is about to explain himself.”

The bluff man, who had as yet taken no part in the swiftly brewing quarrel, leaned over Mr. Bowling’s vacant chair, and plucked at Quarles’s sleeve. “Hold your peace, man. You’re out of tune. Don’t play if you’re shy of the luck, but for God’s sake let’s have an end to this bickering.”

“I’ll play,” Mr. Quarles said obstinately. “But I say it’s tune another man took the bank!”

“Lord, man, there’s a bet on! The bank stays with Vidal.”

“Dominic,” said Mr. Fox plaintively. “Dominic, my dear fellow, I shall have to give up this place, positively I shall have to give it up now the herd has discovered it.”

My lord was still watching Quarles. “Patience, Charles, Mr. Quarles don’t like to see the bank win. You should sympathize.”

Quarles started up. “I don’t like the way this game has gone, my lord,” he said loudly, “and if you won’t give up the bank, I say give us fresh dice!”

His words brought about a sudden uneasy silence. Cholmondley tried to fill the breach, saying quickly: “Lord, you’re too drunk to know what you’re saying, Quarles. Let’s get on with the game.”

“I think not.” The voice came from the end of the table. The Marquis was leaning forward, his wineglass still to his hand. “So you don’t like the dice, eh?”

“No, I don’t like them, curse you!” Quarles shouted. “And I don’t like your high-handed ways, my lord. They won’t serve. I’ve sat three nights and seen you win—”

He got no further; the Marquis was up and had dashed the contents of his glass full in Quarles’s face. He was smiling now and his eyes blazed. “And that’s a waste of good wine,” he said, and turned and said something to the waiter at his elbow. Mr. Quarles, with the burgundy dripping down his front, sprang up and made a clumsy lunge at him. Cholmondley and Captain Wraxall, the bluff gentleman, forced him back.

“Damn it, you asked for that!” Cholmondley swore. “Take it back, you fool! We all know you’re drunk.”

The Marquis had resumed his seat. The waiter looked frightened, and whispered to him. My lord turned on him with something like a snarl, and the man fled.

Lord Rupert got up rather unsteadily. “Fiend seize it, the champagne’s got into my head!” he said. But the sudden interlude seemed to have jerked
him
back to sobriety. “There’s been enough of this,” he said authoritatively. “You be damned for a fool, Vidal. Can’t you see the fellow’s drunk?”

Lord Vidal laughed. “I’m drunk myself, Rupert, but I can tell when a man calls me cheat.”

“Good God, my lord, you’ll never care for what’s said after the third bottle!” cried Captain Wraxall.

Lord Cholmondley gave Mr. Quarles’s arm a shake. “Take it back, man; you’re out of your senses.”

Mr. Quarles wrenched himself free. “You’ll meet me for this, my lord!” he roared.

“Be sure I will,” said the Marquis. “We'll settle it now, my buck.”

Rupert took up the dice. “Break ’em,” he said briefly. “Where’s that rogue Timothy? I want a hammer.”

Sir Horace Tremlett, he of the mincing speech, protested. “I vow it’s not necessary, my lard. We know my Lard Vidal, I believe. Break the dice? ’Pon my soul, sir, it’s to insult his lardship.”

“To hell with that!” said Rupert. “I’m breaking ’em, see? If they’re true, Quarles apologizes. That’s fair, ain’t it?”

“Ay, that’s the best,” Captain Wraxall agreed.

Mr. Quarles was wiping his face. “I say my lord will meet me! By God, I’ll not take a glass of wine in the face and say thank you for it!”

Cholmondley spoke in Lord Rupert’s ear. “It’s gone too far now. Rot that nephew of yours! What’s to do?”

“Break the dice,” Rupert said obstinately. “Can’t have it said an Alastair plays crooked.”

“Oh, you’re as drunk as Vidal! Who’s to say so? Quarles will take it back when he’s sober if you can stop Vidal forcing it on now.”

The waiter had come back into the room carrying a flat case. With a scared look at the Marquis he laid this on the table. Vidal opened it, and it was to be seen that a brace of pistols lay within. “Take your choice,” he said.

Rupert stared. “What’s this? Can’t fight here, Dominic. Arrange it for you out at Barn Elms, nine o’clock.”

“By nine o’clock I shall be in Newmarket,” said the Marquis. “I’ll settle my score before I leave.”

Mr. Fox roused himself. He inspected the pistols through his eyeglass, and looked inquiringly at Vidal. “Where did they come from?” he said. “Don’t carry pistols to gaming houses myself.”

“They come out of my coach,” replied Vidal. He looked at the clock. “It waits. Choose, you!”

“I’m for you!” Mr. Quarles declared. He rolled an eye at Captain Wraxall. “Sir, will you act for me?”

“Act for you?” exploded the Captain. “I’ll have nothing to do with the business. My lord, you’re in no fit case to fight, and I recommend you to go home and let your seconds arrange the matter more seemly,”

Vidal laughed. “Not fit? By God, that’s rich, Wraxall. You don’t know me very well, do you?”

“I am happy to say I do not, sir!” said the Captain stiffly.

“Watch then!” My lord drew a small gold-mounted pistol from his pocket. He levelled it, still lounging in his chair, and fired before any could stop him. There was a loud report, and the smash of glass as the bullet shattered the big mirror at the end of the room.

“What in hell’s name—?” began Wraxall furiously, and broke off, staring in
the direction of my lord’s pointing finger. One of a cluster of three candles was no longer burning. The voice of Mr. Comyn said calmly: “Quite remarkable shooting—under the circumstances.”

Lord Rupert, forgetting larger issues, called out: “Outed it, begad, and not touched the wax! Good lad!”

The explosion brought those still remaining in the other rooms hurrying to the scene. Vidal paid no heed. “Don’t know me very well, do you?” he repeated, and laughed again.

Cholmondley, casting a glance of rebuke at Rupert, admonished Mr. Quarles once more. “Go home and sleep on it, Quarles. If you want to fight, fight sober. You’re no match for Vidal else.”

A stout individual dressed in discreet black pushed his way through the knot of men
in
the doorway. “What’s this, gentlemen?” he said. “Who fired that shot?”

Vidal raised his brows. “You interrupt, Timothy. I fired that shot.”

The stout man looked aghast. “My lord, my lord, what wild work is this? You’ll ruin me, my lord!” He saw the case containing the pistols and made a pounce for them. My lord’s hand shot out and grasped his wrist. Timothy met his eyes for a moment, and said distressfully: “My lord, I beg of you—my lord, don’t do it here!”

He was thrust back. “Damn you, stop whining!” Vidal sprang up, overturning his chair. “Am I to sit here till noon while Mr. Quarles makes up his mind? Name your friends!”

Quarles rolled a hot eye round the circle. No one came forward. “I’ll act for myself since you’re all so shy,” he sneered.

Mr. Comyn, his sedateness quite unimpaired, rose from his seat. “Since it’s my Lord Vidal’s honour that is in
question it will be wise to have a gentleman to act for you, sir,” he said.

“To hell with the lot of you!” swore Quarles. “I’ll act for myself.”

“Your pardon, sir,” returned Mr. Comyn smoothly, “but I think you must see that if you doubt his lordship’s good faith, your seconds should carefully examine these pistols, which I apprehend are his lordship’s own. In short, I offer myself at your disposal.”

“Obliged to you,” growled Quarles.

Vidal was leaning on a chair back. “That’s a mighty long speech,” he remarked, with just that faint suggestion of slurring his words together. “Is it to insult me, or not?”

“Such, my lord, is not at the moment my intention,” replied Mr. Comyn.

The Marquis laughed. “Didn’t know you had it in you. You’re devilish correct, ain’t you?”

“I trust I am conversant with the rules governing such affairs as these, my lord. Will you name your friends?”

The Marquis was still looking at him with an amused and not unkindly eye. “Charles, you might act for me,” he said, without turning his head.

Mr. Fox arose, sighing. “Oh, very well, Dominic, if you must
behave so
damned irregularly.” He went apart with Mr. Comyn, and they inspected the weapons with due solemnity, and pronounced them identical.

Lord Rupert pushed his way unceremoniously to his nephew’s side. “Go put your head in a bucket of water, Vidal!” he said. “Stap me if I ever heard the like of you to-night! Mind you, I don’t say the fellow don’t deserve to have a hole in him, but do the thing decently, my boy, that’s all I ask!” He broke off to hurl somewhat conflicting advice to Captain Wraxall. “Move those candles a shade to the left, Wraxall. Must have the light fair to both.”

The table was pushed back. Mr. Fox and Mr. Comyn were measuring the paces.

The pistols were presented. My lord took his in what looked to be an alarmingly slack hold. Apparently his uncle did not think so, for he said urgently: “Don’t kill him, Dominic!”

The seconds stepped back, the word was given. My lord’s pistol hand jerked up swiftly; there was a flash and a report, followed almost instantly by an answering shot. Mr. Quarles’s bullet buried itself in the wall beyond my lord, and Mr. Quarles pitched forward on to his face.

The Marquis tossed his pistol to Mr. Fox. “Give ’em to my man, Charles,” he said, and turned away to pick up his snuff-box, and handkerchief.

“Damn you, Vidal, I believe you have killed him!” Rupert said angrily.

“I’m very nearly sure of it, dear uncle,” said the Marquis.

Mr. Comyn, on his knees beside the fallen man, looked up. “A surgeon should be fetched,” he said. “I do not think that life is extinct.”

“I must be more drunk than I knew, then,” remarked his lordship. “I’m sorry, Charles; I meant to make the place habitable for you.”

Lord Cholmondley started towards him. “Devil take you, Vidal, you’d best be gone. You’ve done enough for one night.”

“I thought so, certainly,” said the Marquis. “Mr. Comyn apparently disagrees.” He glanced at the clock. “Hell and damnation, it’s past five already!”

“You’re surely not driving to Newmarket now?” cried Captain Wraxall, appalled by his callousness.

“Why not?” said Vidal coolly.

Captain Wraxall sought for words, and found none. The Marquis turned on his heel and went out.

Chapter V

it was only a little past noon on the following day when her Grace of Avon, accompanied most unwillingly by Lord Rupert, first called at Vidal’s home. The Marquis’s major-domo responded to his lordship’s anxious look with the smallest of bows. Lord Rupert heaved a sigh of relief. One never knew what might be found in Vidal’s apartments.

“I want my son,” her grace stated flatly.

But it appeared that the Marquis had not returned from Newmarket.

“There, what did I tell you?” said Rupert. “Leave a note for him, my dear. The devil alone knows when he’ll be back, eh, Fletcher?”

“I have no precise knowledge myself, my lord.”

“I shall come back again later,” announced her grace.

“But, Léonie—”

“And again, and again, and again until he has returned,” said her grace obstinately.

She kept her word, but on her last visit, in full ball dress at seven in the evening, she declared that she would enter the house and await her son there.

Lord Rupert followed her weakly into the hall. “Ay, but I’m on my way to Devereaux’s card party,” he expostulated. “I can’t stay here all night!”

The Duchess flung out exasperated hands. “Well, go then!” she said. “I find you
fort ennuyant
!
For me, I must see Dominique, and I do not need you at all.”

“You always were an ungrateful chit,” complained his lordship. “Here am I dancing attendance on you the whole day, and all you can say is that you don’t need me.”

Léonie’s irrepressible dimple peeped out. “But it is quite true, Rupert; I do not need you. When I have seen Dominique I shall take a chair to my party. It is very simple.”

“No, you won’t,” said Rupert. “Not with those diamonds on you.” He followed her into the library, where a small fire burned, and struggled out of his greatcoat. “Where’s that fellow gone off to? Fletcher! What’s his lordship in the cellar that her grace would like?”

The suave Fletcher showed some small signs of perplexity at that. “I will endeavour, my lord ...”

The Duchess had cast off her cloak, and seated herself by the fire. “Ah, bah, I do not want your ratafia, me. I will drink a glass of port with you,
mon vieux
.”

Lord Rupert scratched his head, tilting his wig slightly askew. “Oh, very well! But it’s not what I’d call a lady’s drink.”

“Me, I am not a lady,” announced her grace. “I have been very well educated, and I will drink port.”

Fletcher withdrew, quite impassive. His lordship remonstrated once more. “Y’know you mustn’t talk like that before servants, Léonie. Ton my soul—”

“If you like,” interrupted Léonie, “I will play piquet with you till Dominique comes!”