Devil's Cub (Alastair-Audley Tetralogy 2)

‘Then you have very little understanding of my character, ma’am. I do not desire a wife who could give me cause for jealousy.’

‘You need not have one, sir,’ said Miss Marling, her eyes very bright.

There was a short silence. Then Mr Comyn said, holding himself very erect: ‘I take your meaning, ma’am. I hope you will not live to regret this night’s work.’

Juliana gave a defiant laugh. ‘Regret it? Lord, why should I? You need not think you are the only gentleman who has done me the honour to solicit my hand in marriage.’

‘You have played fast and loose with my affections, ma’am. I could laugh at myself for having been so taken in. To be sure, I should have known what to expect from a member of your family.’

By this time each was in a royal rage. Juliana flashed back at him: ‘How dare you sneer at my family? ’Pon rep, it is the greatest piece of impudence ever I heard! Perhaps you are not aware that my family consider you a Nobody?’

Mr Comyn managed to keep his voice very level. ‘You are wrong, ma’am: I am well aware of it. But I was not aware until this moment that you would be guilty of the vulgarity of boasting of your noble connections. Allow me to point out to you that your manners would not be tolerated in my family.’

‘Your horrid family will not be called upon to tolerate me!’ Juliana replied, quivering with anger. ‘I cannot conceive how I could have been fool enough to fancy myself in love with you. Faith, I believe I pitied you, and mistook that for love. When I think what a mésalliance I have escaped, I vow I find myself shuddering!’

‘You should thank God, as I do, ma’am, that you have been saved from an alliance that could only end in the lasting misery of us both. I beg leave to bid you farewell, and I trust, ma’am, that you will be fortunate enough to be solicited in marriage next time by a man who will be blind to the folly and conceit of your nature.’ With which parting shot Mr Comyn executed a low bow, and went downstairs without one backward look.

Rejecting the lackey’s offer to summon a chair, he left the Hôtel Saint-Vire, and strode off down the street in the direction of his own lodging. He had not covered more than half the distance, when all at once he seemed to change his mind, and retraced his steps till he came to a side road. He turned down this, traversed a broad place and arrived presently, and for the second time that evening, at the Hôtel Charbonne.

The lackey who opened the door to him had ushered the Marquis of Vidal out not twenty minutes earlier, and his well-trained countenance betrayed surprise. Upon being asked if Miss Challoner were still up, he said cautiously that he would inquire, and left Mr Comyn (whom he began to suspect of clandestine intentions) to kick his heels in the hall.

Miss Challoner, who had been sitting in a brown study, by the fire, started when the servant came in, and glanced at the clock. The hands pointed to a quarter past midnight.

‘The Englishman who was here first to-night, mademoiselle, is here again,’ announced the lackey severely.

‘Mr Comyn?’ she asked, surprised.

‘Yes, mademoiselle.’

Wondering very much what could have happened to bring him back, Miss Challoner requested the man to admit him. The lackey withdrew, and said later to his colleagues downstairs that the customs of English demoiselles were enough to shock a decent Frenchman.

Meanwhile Mr Frederick Comyn stood once more before Miss Challoner, and said with less than usual precision: ‘I beg pardon, ma’am, to intrude upon you at this hour, but I have a proposal to make to you.’

‘A proposal to make to me?’ repeated Mary.

‘Yes, ma’am. Earlier this evening I informed you that if it lay within my power to serve you I should count myself honoured.’

‘Oh, have you found a way to escape for me?’ Mary said eagerly. ‘Is that what you mean? I would welcome any way!’

‘I am glad to hear you say as much, ma’am, for I fear that what I have to propose to you will take you by surprise, and even, perhaps, be repugnant to you.’ He paused, and she noticed how hard his eyes were. ‘Miss Challoner, in touching upon the extreme delicacy of your situation I do not desire, believe me, to offend you. But your story is known to me; you yourself have divulged as much to me as my Lord Vidal. Your plight is desperate indeed, and while I can readily understand your reluctance to wed his lordship, I am bound to hold with him that nothing save marriage can extricate you from a predicament that must necessarily blacken – though unjustly – your fair name. Madam, I humbly beg to offer you my hand in marriage.’

Miss Challoner, who had listened to this amazing speech with an expression of frank bewilderment on her face, recoiled. ‘Good gracious, sir, have you gone mad?’ she cried.

‘No, ma’am. Mad I have been for the past weeks, but I am now in the fullest possession of my faculties.’

Her suspicion that he had been drinking gave place to a more exact comprehension of the true state of affairs. ‘But, Mr Comyn, you are plighted to Juliana Marling!’ she said.

He replied very bitterly: ‘I am happy to be able to inform you, ma’am, that Miss Marling and I have cut the knot of what each of us

has been brought to regard as our entanglement.’

‘Oh!’ said Mary in distress. ‘Have you quarrelled with Juliana, then? Dear sir, I do not know what has passed between you, but if Juliana is to blame she will be sorry soon enough. Go back to her, Mr Comyn, and you will see that I am right.’

‘You mistake, ma’am,’ he replied curtly. ‘I have not the smallest desire to return to Miss Marling. Pray do not imagine that I am come to you in a fit of pique. I have for a week past realised the unwisdom of our betrothal. Miss Marling’s conduct is not what I wish for in my wife, and her decision to release me from my obligations I can only regard as the greatest favour she has ever bestowed upon me.’

Miss Challoner turned quite pale at this awful pronouncement, and sat weakly down on the couch. ‘But this is dreadful, sir!’ she said. ‘You are speaking in anger, in a way that you will regret when you have had time to reflect.’

‘Madam, I speak not from anger but from infinite relief. Whether you choose to accept of my offer or not my betrothal to Miss Marling is at an end. I shall not conceal from you that I fancied myself to be much in love with her; nor shall I insult your intelligence by pretending an ardour for yourself which I can naturally have had no time to acquire. If you will be content with my respect and deep regard, ma’am, I shall count myself fortunate to have secured the hand of one whose character and conduct command my sincere admiration.’