While Ludovic lay in the back bedchamber, either playing piquet with his cousin or evolving plans for the recovery of his ring, Sir Hugh Thane continued to occupy one of the front rooms. His cold really had been a great deal worse on the morning of Shield’s first visit, and once having gained a hold on the unfortunate baronet, it ran the whole gamut of sore throat, thick head, watering eyes, loss of taste, and ended up with a cough on the chest which Sarah, with unwonted solicitude, declared to be bad enough to lead (if great care were not taken) to an inflammation of the lungs.
It was not, therefore, in the least difficult to persuade Sir Hugh to keep to his room. His only complaint was that he was without his valet, this indispensable person having gone to London in advance of his master with the major part of the baggage and Sarah’s abigail. It took all Sarah’s ingenuity to think out enough plausible reasons for not summoning Satchell to his master’s sick-bed. Satchell had been in Sir Hugh’s employment for some years, but Miss Thane did not feel that he could be trusted with the secret of Ludovic’s presence at the Red Lion. Luckily Clem proved himself a deft attendant, and beyond remarking two or three times a day that he wished he had Satchell with him, Sir Hugh made no complaint. He accepted Sarah’s story of the heiress fleeing from a distasteful marriage. It was doubtful whether the original tale of Ludovic’s misfortunes occupied any place in his erratic memory, but he did once ask his sister whether she had not mentioned having met a smuggler. She admitted it, but said that he had left the inn.
‘Oh!’ said Sir Hugh. ‘A pity. If you should see him again, you might let me know.’
What Sir Tristram Shield told Beau Lavenham the ladies did not know, but it brought him over to Hand Cross within two days. He came in his elegant chaise, a graceful affair slung on swan-neck perches, and upholstered with squabs of pale blue. He was ushered into the parlour, where Miss Thane and Eustacie were sitting, early one afternoon, and was greeted by his cousin with a baleful stare.
He had discarded his fur-lined cloak in the coffee-room so that all the glory of his primrose pantaloons and lilac-striped coat burst upon Miss Thane without warning. He wore the fashionable short boot, and bunches of ribbons at the ends of his pantaloons; his cravat was monstrous, his coat collar very high at the back, and he carried a tall sugar-loaf hat in his hand. He paused in the doorway and lifted his ornate quizzing-glass, smiling. ‘So here we have the little run-away!’ he said. ‘My dear cousin, all my felicitations! Poor, poor Tristram!’
‘I do not know why you have come here,’ responded Eustacie, ‘but I do not at all wish to see you. This is my cousin, Sarah. This is my friend, Miss Thane, Basil.’
He bowed, a hand on his heart. ‘Ah yes, the – er – acquaintance of Paris days, I believe. What a singularly happy chance it was that brought you to this unlikely spot, ma’am!’
‘Yes, was it not?’ agreed Miss Thane cordially. ‘Though until my brother was took ill, I had really no notion of remaining here. But the opportunity of seeing my dear Eustacie again quite reconciled me to the necessity of putting up at this inn. Pray, will you not be seated?’
He thanked her, and took the chair she indicated, carefully setting his hat down upon the table. Looking at Eustacie with an amused glint in his eyes, he said: ‘So you have decided not to marry Tristram after all! I liked the notion of your spirited flight to the arms of your friend. But how dark you kept her, my dear cousin! Now if only you had confided with me, I would have conveyed you to her in my carriage, and you would have been spared a singularly uncomfortable ride through the night.’
‘I preferred to go myself,’ said Eustacie. ‘It was an adventure.’
He said: ‘It is a pity you dislike me so much, and trust me so little, for I am very much your servant.’
To Miss Thane’s surprise Eustacie smiled quite graciously, and answered: ‘I do not dislike you: That is quite absurd. It is merely that I think you wear a silly hat, and, besides, I wanted to have an adventure all by myself.’
He gave a soft laugh. ‘I wish you did not dislike my hat, but that can be remedied. Shall I wear an old-fashioned tricorne like Tristram, or do you favour the chapeau-bras ?’
‘You would look very odd in a chapeau-bras,’ she commented.
‘Yes, I am afraid you are right. Tell me, what do you mean to do with your life, Eustacie, now that you have given Tristram his congé ?’
‘I am going to stay in town with Miss Thane.’
He looked thoughtfully at Miss Thane. ‘Yes? Have I Miss Thane’s permission to call upon her in London?’
‘Oh, but certainly! She will be delighted,’ said Eustacie. ‘Du vrai, she would like very much to call upon you at the Dower House, because it is such a very old house, and that is with her a veritable passion. But I said, No, it would not be convenable.’
Miss Thane cast her a look of considerable respect, and tried to assume the expression of an eager archaeologist.
The Beau said politely: ‘I should be honoured by a visit from Miss Thane, but surely the Court would be better worth her study?’
‘Yes, but you must know that I will not go to the Court with her,’ said Eustacie glibly. ‘Tristram is very angry, and I do not wish that there should be any awkwardness.’
The Beau raised his brows. ‘Is Tristram importuning you to marry him?’ he inquired.
Not having any exact knowledge of what Tristram had told him, Eustacie thought it prudent to return an evasive answer. She spread out her hands, and said darkly: ‘It is that he gave his word to Grandpère, you know. I do not understand him.’
‘Ah!’ sighed the Beau, running his hand gently up and down the riband of the quizzing-glass. ‘You are, of course, an heiress.’ He let that shaft sink in, and continued smoothly: ‘I have never been able to feel that you and Tristram were quite made for each other, but I confess your sudden flight took me by surprise. They tell me that your ride was fraught with adventure, too. Some tale of smugglers – but I dare say much exaggerated.’
‘I suppose,’ said Miss Thane opportunely, ‘that there is a great deal of smuggling done in these parts?’
‘I believe so,’ he responded. ‘I have always understood that my great-uncle encouraged the Trade.’
‘Basil,’ interrupted Eustacie, ‘is it permitted that I bring Miss Thane to the Dower House one morning, perhaps? I thought that you would be like Tristram, and try to make me go to Bath, but now I see that you are truly sympathique, and I do not at all mind coming with Sarah to call on you.’
He looked at her for a moment. ‘But, pray do!’ he said. ‘Have I not said that I shall count myself honoured?’
Miss Thane, summoning up every recollection of historical houses she had visited during the course of her travels, at once engaged him in conversation. Luckily she had her foreign journeys to draw upon. This she did with great enthusiasm, and no lack of imagination. The Beau was diverted from the topic of smugglers, and although his knowledge of antiques was slight and his interest in them almost non-existent, he was too well-bred to attempt to change the subject. Miss Thane kept his attention engaged for the remaining twenty minutes of his visit, and when he got up to go, thanked him profusely for his permission to visit the Dower House, and promised herself the treat of exploring his premises on the first fine day that offered. Eustacie thoughtfully reminded her that she would like to bring her sketching-book, to which she assented, as one in honour bound.
The Beau bowed himself out, was shepherded to his chaise by the mistrustful Nye, and drove off, watched from behind the parlour blinds by his gleeful cousin.