Devil's Cub (Alastair-Audley Tetralogy 2)

‘I, on the other hand, am a gentleman of extraordinary impropriety, of course.’

‘Oh, not a gentleman, sir, a nobleman,’ said Miss Challoner with irony.

‘You hit hard, ma’am. Pray, was there anything else in Mr Comyn that you found worthy of remark?’

‘To be sure, sir. His manners were of the most amiable.’

‘I’ve none at all,’ said his lordship blandly. ‘Being a nobleman, ma’am, I don’t need ’em. Pray let me pass you this second dish of comfits which has apparently escaped your notice.’

‘Thank you,’ said Miss Challoner.

The Marquis sipped his wine, watching her over the rim of his glass. ‘I think it only fair to warn you, ma’am, that this paragon is secretly contracted to a cousin of mine. In fact, his business in Paris, and I mistake not, is to elope with her.’

‘Indeed?’ Miss Challoner said innocently. ‘Your cousin is no doubt very like you?’

‘Oh, just a family likeness, ma’am,’ retorted his lordship. ‘She should be pleased with you,’ he added thoughtfully.

‘I cannot conceive why, sir.’

‘She’d be pleased with any female who married me.’

Miss Challoner looked at him curiously. ‘She is so fond of you?’

‘No, that ain’t the reason. Her mamma, my ambitious Aunt Fanny, intends her to be my bride – a prospect Juliana dislikes as much as I do.’

Miss Challoner said quickly: ‘Juliana?’

‘My cousin.’

‘Yes, I understand that, my lord. But what is her surname?’

‘Marling,’ said his lordship. ‘Now what’s to do?’

Miss Challoner jumped in her chair. ‘Your cousin! Juliana Marling! But I know her!’

‘Do you?’ said Vidal, not visibly excited. ‘A mad piece, ain’t she?’

‘Oh, she was my very dearest friend!’ Miss Challoner said. ‘But I never dreamed she was your cousin! We were at the same seminary, you see.’

‘I’ll wager Juliana learned precious little there,’ remarked Vidal.

‘Not very much,’ allowed Miss Challoner. ‘They nearly sent her away once, for – er – flirting with the drawing-master. She always said they only forgave her because her uncle was a duke.’

‘Kissed the drawing-master, did she? She would!’

‘Is she really going to marry Mr Comyn?’ inquired Miss Challoner.

‘She says so. But she can’t run off with him now until our affair is settled. Egad, it’s providential that you know her!’ He pushed back his chair and got up. ‘She’s staying with my cousin Elisabeth – bundled off too young to be out of Comyn’s way. I’ll go and pay my respects to her immediately we reach Paris, and tell her the whole story. She’s a rattle-pate, but she’s fond of me, and she’ll do as I bid her. She shall have met you in Paris, just as you were on the point of returning to England with – oh, an aunt, o

r some such thing. She will tell Tante Elisabeth that she has prevailed upon you to visit her for a week or two and you will go to the Hôtel Charbonne surrounded by a positive fog of respectability. From whence, my dear, I shall presently elope with you – before, I trust, Tante has had time to discover the truth.’

Miss Challoner was thinking fast. If Juliana were in Paris, Juliana could help her obtain a post in some genteel household. Knowing that lively damsel, she had no fear that she might be shocked at her friend’s extraordinary escapade. ‘Yes, my lord, that is a very good notion – some of it, but I believe you have not perceived the whole good of Juliana’s presence in Paris. You have said yourself, sir, that I shall be surrounded by a positive fog of respectability. I have only to pretend to my mother that Juliana was with you from the start of our journey, and my reputation is saved.’

He shook his head. ‘I fear not, Mary. It’s a good lie, but too many people would know it for a lie. Moreover, my dear, if I know aught of your mamma, her first care will have been to apprise my parents of your abduction, and to create as much stir as possible. I am well aware that she meant to try and force me into marriage with Sophia by some such method. Didn’t she?’

‘Yes,’ said Miss Challoner, flushing and shamefaced.

The Marquis touched her cheek with a careless finger as he passed her chair. ‘No need to look like that, child; I know. Happily, these plans will be delayed a little by the absence of both my parents from town. My father was to have left for the races at Newmarket upon the day I took my leave of him; and my mother was to have gone with him as far as Bedford, where she will be at this moment, staying with the Vanes. We have, therefore, at least a fortnight’s grace, I imagine, but certainly not longer. Write to your mother, apprising her of your betrothal: that should silence her.’