Devil's Cub (Alastair-Audley Tetralogy 2)

‘Then do not!’ Mary said, laying her hand on his. ‘Will you promise me that you will not tell him?’

‘Madam, I regret infinitely, but you are under a misapprehension. It was Lord Vidal who told me.’

Mary’s hand fell again to her side. ‘When did he tell you?’

‘This afternoon, ma’am. He was good enough, at the same time, to present me with a card for this ball at the Hôtel Saint-Vire. Apparently he knows his cousin better than I do. I never dreamed that she would go.’

‘This afternoon… Oh, I hoped he would not be able to find a Protestant to marry us!’ Mary exclaimed unguardedly. ‘What shall I do? What in the world shall I do?’

Mr Comyn regarded her curiously. ‘Do I understand, ma’am, that a marriage with Lord Vidal is not your desire?’

She shook her head. ‘It is not, sir. I am aware that you must think my conduct – my compromising situation –’ She got up, averting her face.

Mr Comyn also got up. He possessed himself of both her hands, and held them in a comforting clasp. ‘Believe me, Miss Challoner, I understand your feelings exactly. I have nothing but the deepest sympathy for you, and if I can serve you in any way I shall count it an honour.’

Miss Challoner’s fingers returned the pressure of his. She tried to smile. ‘You are very kind, sir. I – I thank you.’

The click of the door made her snatch her hands away. She turned, startled, and met the smouldering gaze of my Lord Vidal.

His lordship was standing on the threshold, and it was plain that he had seen Mary break loose from Mr Comyn’s hold. His hand was resting suggestively on the hilt of his light dress-sword, and his eyes held a distinct menace. He was in full ball dress, all purple and gold lacing, with a quantity of fine lace at his wrists and throat.

To her chagrin Miss Challoner felt a blush steal up into her cheeks. She said with less than her usual composure: ‘I thought you had gone to the Hôtel Saint-Vire, sir.’

‘So I infer, ma’am,’ said his lordship with something of a snap. ‘I trust I don’t intrude?’

He was looking at Mr Comyn in a way that invited challenge. Mary pulled herself together and said quietly: ‘Not in the least, sir. Mr Comyn is on the point of departure.’ She held out her hand to this young man as she spoke, and added: ‘You should use your card for the ball, sir. Pray do!’

He bowed, and kissed her fingers. ‘Thank you, ma’am. But I should be very glad to remain if you feel yourself to be at all in need of company.’

The meaning of this was quite plain. My lord strolled suggestively into the middle of the room, but before he could speak Miss Challoner said quickly: ‘You are very kind, sir, but I am shortly going to retire. Let me wish you good night – and good fortune.’

Mr Comyn bowed again, favoured his lordship with a slight inclination of the head, and went out.

The Marquis watched him frowningly till he was out of the room. Then he turned to Miss Challoner. ‘You’re on terms of intimacy with Comyn, are you?’

‘No,’ replied Mary. ‘Hardly that, my lord.’

He came up to her, and gripped her by the shoulders. ‘If you don’t want to see a hole shot through that damned soft-spoken fellow you’d best keep your hands out of his. Do you understand, my girl?’

‘Perfectly,’ said Miss Challoner. ‘You’ll allow me to say that I find you absurd, my lord. Only jealousy could inspire you with this ill-placed wrath, and where there is no love there cannot be jealousy.’

He let her go. ‘I know how to guard my own.’

‘I am not yours, sir.’

‘You will very soon be. Sit down. Why are you not at the ball?’

‘I had no inclination for it, sir. I might ask, why are not you?’

‘Not finding you there, I came here,’ he replied.

‘I am indeed flattered,’ said Miss Challoner.

He laughed. ‘It’s all I went for, my dear, I assure you. Why was that fellow holding your hands?’

‘For comfort,’ said Miss Challoner desolately.

He held out his own. ‘Give them to me.’