Friday's Child (27 page)

There was not a particle of malice in Hero’s nature, and she responded at once with the sunniest of smiles, and a warm handclasp. “Oh, I knew I could not be mistaken in you, Isabella! I am very much obliged to you, only it is too late, for they went off some hours ago to Westbourn Green. I cannot imagine what can be detaining them so long!”

Miss Milborne stared at her in horror. “They have gone? And you can sit here, eating your breakfast, as though—And you called
me
heartless!”

Hero gave a little chuckle. “Oh, but there is nothing to be worried about! George promised me he would not hurt a hair of Sherry’s head. He said he would fire in the air, so I can be quite comfortable, you see!”

“And what,” asked Miss Milborne, in a strangled voice, “if it is Sherry who kills George?”

“Well, I thought of that, too,” admitted Hero. “But George assured me Sherry could not hit him at twenty-five yards, and I expect he must know. Do let me give you some coffee, Isabella!”

“Thank you, no. I collect that you actually called on Wrotham at his lodging?”

“Yes, for what else could I do, when you would not help me? And, indeed, I am very sorry that I troubled you, Isabella, for there was not the least need: George told me instantly that I need have no fear for Sherry. And Gil said I must particularly request you not to mention the matter to a soul, and I forgot to do so.”

“Make yourself easy on that score: I should not think of prattling upon such a subject!” Miss Milborne said, in a colourless tone. “I must not stay. I am happy to know that my intervention was not needed.”

Hero perceived that she had in some way erred, and said nervously: “No, but—but I do hope you do not think—George said that he had not the least notion of killing Sherry, you see, so perhaps my intervention was not needed either.”

“Very likely,” said Miss Milborne. “It is a case of all’s well that ends well, in fact.”

“Yes, only—Isabella, pray do not be thinking that George cares a button for me, for nothing could be more nonsensical!”

Miss Milborne gave a tinkling little laugh. “My dear, if I trust that he does not it is quite for your own sake, I assure you! It is nothing to me whom he cares for. Now, indeed, I must go, for I have to drive out presently with Mama! We shall meet at Almack’s, I dare say. Do you go to the Cowpers’ party? I need not ask, however! all the world and his wife will be there, I collect!”

Hero was so much quelled by this bright manner that she could summon up no more courage than sufficed to allow her to escort her friend to the front door, and bid her a somewhat faltering farewell. She began to be much afraid that she had done poor George a very ill turn; and until the sound of Sherry’s step in the hall banished any but the most cheerful thoughts she sat wondering how she could best set matters to rights for that ill starred lover.

Sherry came cheerfully in, and, as she jumped up, took her by the shoulders and shook her, not very hard, saying: “Kitten, you little wretch, how dared you ask George not to blow a hole through me?”

“But I did not wish him to blow a hole through you, Sherry!” she replied reasonably. “What else could I do? Only I am afraid I have made Isabella very angry, and I don’t know what to do!”

“What the deuce has Isabella to say to anything?” he demanded.

“Well, you see, I asked her if she would speak to George, but she—she did not seem to understand any more than you did how George came to kiss me, and she would not do it, and now she is—”

“You asked Isabella to intercede with George for me?” gasped Sherry, the indulgent grin wiped suddenly from his face.

She raised a pair of dismayed eyes. “Oh, dear, perhaps I should not have mentioned that! Please do not mind it, Sherry!”

“Not mind it! Do you know that you have done your best to make me the laughing stock of the town?”

“Oh, no, Sherry, truly not! Isabella was not in the least amused, I assure you!”

He looked very hard at her. “Did Gil and Ferdy set you on to do it?”

“No, no!” she said hastily. “It was quite my own idea!”

“You deserve I should box your ears!”

“No, pray do not!” she said earnestly. “Isabella will not speak of the matter: she said she should not! But, Sherry, I fear she believes that he has been flirting with me! Would you be so very obliging as to tell her that it was no such thing?”

“No, by Jove, I will not!” he declared. “Upon my word, what next will you ask me to do?”

“But if she knew that you do not mind George’s having kissed me—”

“But I do mind!” said Sherry, incensed.

“Do you, Sherry?” she asked wistfully.

“Well, of course I do! A pretty sort of a fellow I should be if I did not!”

“I won’t do it again,” she promised.

“You had better not, by Jupiter! And while I think of it, brat, you are not to visit men’s lodgings again either!”

“I do know
that,
Sherry, but it was so very awkward, on account of George’s not liking to come to this house, that I did not see what else I could do.”

“That’s all very well,” responded Sherry severely, “but you shouldn’t have gone there in your own carriage. Don’t you know enough to take a hackney upon such an occasion?”

“I never thought of that!” she said innocently. “How stupid of me it was! I shall know better another time. I am so glad I have you to tell me these things, Sherry, for Cousin Jane never told me anything to the point.”

It occurred to his lordship that the piece of worldly wisdom he had imparted to his bride was not in the least what he had meant to say, but after all the excitements of the morning he did not feel capable of entering more fully into the ethical and moral aspects of what he knew to have been a perfectly harmless visit to George’s lodging. He said that she was on no account to do it again, and abandoned the whole topic.

The relief he had felt when George had deloped on the ground had been considerable, and not even a visit from his man of business availed to subdue a mood of somewhat riotous optimism. His lordship was strongly of the opinion that he would shortly come about, since it was absurd to suppose that a run of ill luck could last for ever. Mr Stoke, unable to share his employer’s sanguine belief, was obliging enough to cite a depressing number of cases in refutation of it; but the Viscount, having listened with a good deal of impatience to the horrid tale of the gentleman of fortune who, having lost even the coat upon his back at play, hanged himself from a street lamp, while his late opponent waited to collect his coat when he should have done with it, triumphantly produced in defence of his theory the evidence of his having only three days since backed the winner in a race between a turkey and a goose. He was, indeed, slightly taken aback when he read the sum of his obligations, and agreed that to be continually selling out his holding in the Funds would be a dashed bad thing.

“And the next step, as, I am persuaded, I need hardly point out to your lordship,” said Mr Stoke gently, “will be the sale of your lands.”

The Viscount had upon more than one occasion stated his dislike of Sheringham Place, and he had not, so far, betrayed the smallest sign of taking more than a perfunctory interest in the management of his considerable estates, but at these words a sudden flash came into his blue eyes, and he exclaimed involuntarily: “Sell my land? You must be mad to think of it! I will never do so!”

Mr Stoke looked thoughtfully at him, his expression of close interest at odd variance with the meekness of his tone as he said: “After all, your lordship does not care for Sheringham Place.”

The Viscount stared at him. “Dash it, what’s that to say to anything?” he demanded. “It’s my home, ain’t it? Good God, there’s been a Verelst at Sheringham Place since I don’t know when, and not even my grandfather sold a foot of land, and if ever there was a loose screw it was he! Because I don’t happen to like the place—” He stopped suddenly, remembering his boyhood, before the descent of his Uncle Paulett upon his home, recalling companionable rides about the estate with his father, stolen days with an old fowling-piece, a hundred pleasant memories. He flushed. “Besides, I do care for the place!” he said shortly.

Mr Stoke cast down his eyes that all at once held a good deal of satisfaction. “Your lordship finds life in the country a trifle slow,” he said.

“Yes, well—well, that ain’t to say that I don’t mean to settle down presently! In any event, I won’t sell my land, so let me hear no more of that!”

“It is my duty to warn your lordship that if your present rate of expenditure is maintained, your lordship will have no choice in the matter,” said Mr Stoke.

“Nonsense! I don’t deny I am a trifle scorched this year, but I shall come about!” Sherry said, in a tone that forbade further discussion.

But the shocking thought put into his mind by his man of business refused to be quite banished, and actually cost his lordship an hour’s sleep. A heavy plunge on an outsider, backed on the advice of the ubiquitous Jason, did much to raise his spirits, and he told that very safe man at the corner, Jerry Cloves, as he collected his winnings at Tattersall’s, that he had best look out for himself now, as the luck had turned. Jerry grinned, and wished his noble patron the best of good fortune, but fortune still appeared to be a little fickle, for his lordship lost a large sum at Watier’s that very evening, and was so much exasperated that he threatened to forswear macao altogether.

He had barely recovered from the gloomy reflections provoked by this unsuccessful evening when he received a visit from the Honourable Prosper Verelst, who caught him on the steps of his house, just as he was preparing to saunter down to White’s, and bore him inexorably back into the house.

“For you need not suppose, my boy, that I’ve put myself to the trouble of coming to see you only to have you slip off like that!” said Prosper.

“What the deuce brings you to see me?” asked his undutiful nephew, ushering him into the library behind the dining-room.

“Fond of you, Sherry: always was!” replied Prosper, lowering himself into a deep armchair. “If you have some of that madeira left which I gave you, I’ll take a glass.”

His lordship tugged at the bellpull. “That’s all very well, but you don’t have to come to see me just when I was about to join a party of friends!” he objected.

“Yes, I do, because you’re never at home,” said Prosper. “How badly were you dipped at Watier’s last night, Sherry?”

Sherry swung round to face him. “What the devil has it to do with you if I was, Prosper?” he demanded dangerously.

“Don’t get into a miff now! Damme, I was one of your trustees up till a month or so ago!”

“And a devilish bad one too!” retorted Sherry.

“Well, never mind that! Been hearing tales of your doings, my boy. Too deep! Much too deep!”

“That comes mighty well from you, sir!”

“Nothing to do with the case. I’m a single man, for one thing, and for another I’m a gamester. Fact is, you ain’t, Sherry.”

“What?” gasped his lordship, touched on the raw.

Prosper shook his head. “Never met a worse one,” he said. “Your heart’s not in it. Queer thing, when you consider the way my father—However, I’m bound to say your own father was no hand at play. Dare say you take after him. You’re a young fool, boy, because it’s my belief you only go to those rubbishing hells of yours out of—” He broke off as Jason came into the room, and exclaimed in accents of horror: “Don’t tell me you have that fellow in the house! Damme, you might have warned me, Sherry! I’ve left my drab Benjamin in the hall, and there’s my snuffbox in one pocket, and—”

“Give it to me!” said Sherry briefly, holding out his hand.

Jason sniffed, and reminded his master that he was keeping his fambles clean until Christmas, when the missus had promised him a tattler as good as Mr Fakenham’s.

“Yes, that’s true enough,” said Sherry. “No need to worry your head about Jason until after Christmas, sir. What the deuce are you doing here, Jason? Where’s Groombridge?”

“In his altitudes,” responded the Tiger promptly. “A-snoring fit to bring the plaster down, he is.”

“Drunk?” ejaculated his lordship. “The devil! I thought he never touched liquor! Where’s Bootle?”

“Gorn out. What do you expect, guv’nor, when you said you was going yourself? They’ll look as queer as Dick’s hatband, they will, the silly chubs, when I tells ’em you was at home all the time. What was you a-ringing for?”

“A pretty state of affairs!” said his lordship wrathfully. “Fetch me the madeira out of the dining-room, and a couple of glasses, Jason! And don’t tell me you don’t know it when you see it, because I’ll lay my life you do!”

“Well, I do, then,” said the henchman, with dignity. “I knows all the rum-bubs, but mind, now, guv’nor! I ain’t no bingo-boy, so don’t you go a-setting it about you ever seen me with the malt above the water, because you ain’t!” With this admonition, he left the room, returning in a few minutes with a decanter in one hand, and two wine glasses in the other. These he planted on the table without ceremony. He then withdrew, turning back in the doorway to inform the Honourable Prosper that his greatcoat pockets contained various other items besides his snuffbox, and that if he did not desire to be bled by a bite he would do well to hide the Ready-and-Rhino more securely.

“If I were you, Sherry, I’d send that rogue packing!” said Prosper.

“He doesn’t worry me,” responded Sherry, handing him a glass of wine.

“No! He don’t steal your property!” retorted Prosper. “When I think of the things of mine that rascal has walked off with—However, that’s not what I came to talk to you about! If you’re not mighty careful, my boy, you’ll find yourself under the hatches! What the devil takes you to 12 Park Place? Young fool! Frittering a fortune away at French hazard, eh?”

“Fudge!” said Sherry, colouring.

“Fudge, is it? They tell me you’re seen about with that fellow Revesby. He take you to Park Place?”

“What if he did?”

“Thought as much,” said Prosper, nodding. He sipped his wine, adding matter-of-factly: “Got a strong notion they load the dice there.”

Sherry stared at him. “It’s a hum! You know nothing of the matter!”