Devil's Cub (Alastair-Audley Tetralogy 2)

‘Good God, madame, what arrangement is possible now? In the eyes of the world I’ve ruined her, though I swear to you I did not seduce her. What can I do but give her my name?’

‘It is very difficult,’ admitted the Duchess. ‘But you cannot force her to marry you, Dominique.’

‘I can, and I will,’ he replied grimly. ‘After – it shall be as she wishes. I am a fiend and a brute, no doubt, but not such a fiend that I would force more than my name on her, be sure.’ His groom came out of the stables, leading a riding-horse. He caught his mother’s hands in a tight clasp. ‘Forgive me, maman!’ he said. ‘I must marry her.’

Her fingers clung to his. ‘Oh, my dearest dear, you shall do anything you like, but when you have found her bring her to me, and I will arrange it, and then perhaps Monseigneur will not be so very angry with you.’

He hesitated. ‘I’d do it, but I don’t desire his wrath should fall on you, maman.’

She smiled, and shook her head. ‘He will be angry with me a little, perhaps, but he will forgive me because he knows that I am not at all respectable, au cœur, and I cannot help doing outrageous things sometimes.’

‘I wish you had not come,’ he said. He released her hands, and turned away from her to order the groom to lead his horse round to the front of the inn. He glanced back at Léonie to say briefly: ‘I must get my riding-whip,’ and disappeared into the house.

She followed him down the passage to the private parlour. He went in quickly – too quickly for Juliana and her Frederick, who were seated hand in hand on the settle by the fire.

The Marquis cast them a cursory glance, and picked up his whip and greatcoat. Juliana said radiantly: ‘It was all a mistake, Vidal! We do love each other, and we have been monstrous unhappy, both of us, but we shall never, never quarrel again.’

‘You affect me deeply,’ said Vidal. He nodded to Comyn, and there was a glint of humour in his eyes. ‘Do you expect me to felicitate you? My God, I had her on my hands for three days. I should beat her if I were you.’

He turned to go out again, but the way was blocked by his uncle, who came in with a dusty bottle in one hand, and a glass in the other.

‘Is that you, Vidal?’ he said jovially. ‘’Pon my soul, I’m devilish glad we came to this place, though I’ll admit I was against it. That fat rogue there has six dozen bottles of this in his cellar. I’ve bought the lot, and as good a port as ever I tasted, too. Here, wait till you roll this round your tongue, my boy.’ He poured out a glass of the burgundy, and gave it to his nephew.

The Marquis tossed it off, and set down the glass. ‘Quite tolerable,’ he said.

‘God bless the boy, that’s no way to treat a wine like this!’ said Rupert shocked. ‘We’ll broach the port after dinner

, and if you throw that down your throat as though it was nothing in particular, I’ll wash my hands of you, and so I warn you.’

‘I’m not dining,’ the Marquis replied. ‘Out of the way, Rupert, I’m in a hurry.’

‘Not dining?’ echoed his lordship. ‘But Vidal, there’s a capon and a trifle of veal, and as sweet a game-pie in the oven as you could wish for.’ His nephew put him firmly aside, and strode out, leaving him to shake his head in great disapproval. ‘Mad!’ he said. ‘Stark staring crazy!’

‘It is you who are mad,’ said Léonie with conviction. ‘You have bought all those bottles of wine, which is a great madness, for how in the world can you take them to England? I will not sit in a chaise with six dozen bottles of burgundy. It is not at all comme il faut.’

‘I can hire a coach for ’em, can’t I?’ retorted Rupert. ‘Now don’t start arguing, Léonie: I’ve been dragged all over France on as silly an errand as ever I heard of, and never a word of complaint out of me. I’ll admit you were in the right about Dijon. If you hadn’t insisted on coming here I’d not have found this burgundy. And now I’ve found it, damme, I’m going to carry it back to London with me!’

‘But Rupert, it is not so important –’

‘It’s a deal more important than Vidal’s silly affairs,’ said his lordship severely. ‘There’s some sense in coming to Dijon to pick up wine like this.’

Mr Comyn, who had been gazing at him in wonderment, ventured to say: ‘Hire a coach to carry wine?’

‘Why not?’ said his lordship.

‘But –’ Mr Comyn could not go on.

‘Eh bien, if you hire a coach for it I do not mind at all,’ Léonie said, satisfied. ‘It seems to me a very good notion.’

Mr Comyn suddenly bowed his head in his hands and gave way to mirth.

Eighteen

Miss Challoner had much time for reflection during the stage-coach’s slow progress to Pont-de-Moine, and not many miles had been covered when, her first impetuous impulse to fly having abated, she became extremely fearful of the consequences of her action. Her purse was now woefully slim, and she supposed that the cost of a night’s lodging would make an end of the few remaining coins lent her by Miss Marling.

She did not know what to do, a state of affairs repugnant to one of her orderly habit of mind. To be stranded in the middle of a strange country seemed to her the worst fate that could befall any young female, and no amount of sensible argument could convince her that it was no worse than to be stranded, penniless, in England.

She first bent her mind to the problem of reaching Paris, but after some consideration she decided that her determination to return there was without reason. Having no acquaintance in Paris, and no intention of claiming assistance from the English Embassy, there could be little point in striving to get to the capital. It might even be better for her to seek employment in some smaller town. She reflected that if my Lord Vidal still sought her he would suppose Paris to be her objective, in which case anywhere in the world would be preferable to her.