Devil's Cub (Alastair-Audley Tetralogy 2)

When she returned to the box, alone, the curtain had already gone up on the fifth act. She was still flushed by excitement, and met her sister’s look with a defiant toss of her head. Let Mary frown if she would: Mary had no brilliant future before her; Mary might consider herself fortunate if she caught Cousin Joshua for a husband. Sophia gave herself to ecstatic imaginings.

The Marquis, meanwhile, betook himself to Timothy’s and created a sensation.

‘Good God, it’s Vidal!’ ejaculated Lord Cholmondley.

Mr Fox, who was playing piquet with him, tranquilly dealt a fresh hand. ‘Why not?’ he inquired.

‘Cold-blooded devil!’ marvelled Cholmondley.

Mr Fox looked bored, and waved a languid hand at the Marquis.

Vidal was standing just inside the card-room, apparently surveying the company. There was just a moment when all play was suspended, and heads turned in his direction. The sudden silence was broken by an inebriated gentleman seated by the window, who called out: ‘Hey, Vidal, what time did you make? Laid a monkey you’d not do it under the four hours.’

‘You have lost your stake, my lord,’ said the Marquis. He perceived Mr Fox, and began to make his leisurely way across the room to his table.

A hum of talk broke out. Many disapproving glances were cast at Vidal’s tall figure, but he seemed unaware of them and passed to Mr Fox’s side, a picture of cool unconcern.

Cholmondley had laid down his cards. ‘Is that true?’ he demanded. ‘You made it in the four hours?’

The Marquis smiled. ‘I made it in three hours and forty-four minutes, my dear.’

‘Man, you were drunk!’ Cholmondley cried. ‘I’d say it was impossible!’

‘Ask the judges,’ shrugged the Marquis. ‘I warned you that I drive best when I am drunk.’ He was watching the next table as he spoke. Loo was being played, but someone was leaving, and the party was broken up. The Marquis raised his voice slightly, addressing one of the players. ‘A hand of piquet, Mr Comyn?’

Mr Comyn turned his head quickly. A flicker of surprise showed in his face. He bowed. ‘I shall count myself honoured, my lord.’

Vidal strolled over to his table and waited while a waiter put fresh cards and placed chairs.

‘Cut, Mr Comyn,’ said the Marquis.

Mr Comyn obeyed, and won the deal.

‘The usual stakes?’ drawled the Marquis.

Mr Comyn met his eye firmly. ‘Whatever you will, my lord.’

Vidal laughed suddenly, and abandoned his drawl. ‘We’ll play for love, Mr Comyn.’

Mr Comyn paused in the middle of his deal. ‘I can scarcely suppose, my lord, that that would amuse you.’

‘Not in the least,’ grinned the Marquis.

‘Or me, my lord.’

‘I never gamble in the family,’ explained Vidal.

Mr Comyn jumped. ‘Sir?’

‘Well, sir?’

Mr Comyn carefully laid down the pack. ‘Do I understand you to mean that you favour my suit, my lord?’

‘Devilish precise, ain’t you?’ commented Vidal. ‘I suppose if Juliana wants you she’ll have you. Get it out of your head that I have anything to do with it. It don’t concern me.’

Mr Comyn leaned back in his chair. ‘I apprehend, my lord, that to play piquet with me was not your object in singling me out to-night.’

‘Oh, I’ll play,’ said his lordship. ‘But I don’t fleece my relatives, and I don’t care to be fleeced by ’em. Call it ten shillings a hundred.’