me—especially in this delicate affair.”
“Then you shouldn’t ally yourself with my family,” replied his lordship.
Chapter VI
the Marquis of Vidal had not expected to enjoy his interview with Avon, but it turned out to be more unpleasant than he was prepared for. To begin with, his grace was writing at his desk when Vidal was ushered into the room, and although the lackey quite loudly announced his lordship, his fine hand continued to travel across the paper, and he neither looked up nor betrayed by even the smallest sign that he had heard the announcement.
The Marquis paused for a moment on the threshold, eyeing him; then he walked across to the fireplace and stretched one elegantly shod foot to the warmth. To all appearances he was thoughtfully observing the extremely high polish on his top boot, but once he put up his hand to the Mechlin lace round his throat, and gave it a tug as though it were too tight.
He was dressed with unusual care, possibly out of deference to his grace’s known views, but, as was his habit in the forenoon, for riding. His buff breeches were of impeccable cut, his coat of blue cloth with silver buttons was somewhat severe, but admirably became his tall person. His fringed cravat was for once very neatly arranged, the ends thrust through a gold buttonhole, and his black locks strictly confined by a thin black riband. He wore no jewellery save a heavy gold signet ring, and his face was innocent of the patches and powder affected by the Macaronis.
The Duke had finished writing, and was now reading his letter through with maddening deliberation. Vidal felt his temper rising, and set his teeth. Having made some slight alteration in his letter, the Duke folded it, and dipping his quill in the standish, began to write the direction. Without turning his head he said: “You may sit down, Vidal.”
“Thank you, sir, I’ll stand,” replied his lordship curtly.
The Duke laid his letter aside, ready for sealing, and at last turned, shifting his chair so that he could survey his son. Vidal found himself wishing, for perhaps the hundredth time in his life, that it was possible to read his father’s expression.
The eyes, faintly disdainful, travelled from Vidal’s boots to his face, and there stayed. “I suppose I should count myself honoured that you have been able to visit me,” said his grace gently.
There did not seem to be anything to say in answer to this. After a moment’s uncomfortable silence the Duke continued: “Your presence in England is extremely—shall we say enlivening?—Vidal. But I believe I shall survive the loss of it.” At that the Marquis spoke. “Is he dead then?” Avon’s brows rose in polite surprise. “Is it possible that you don’t know?”
“I don’t, sir.”
“I envy you your light-heartedness,” said Avon. “So far, as I am aware the gentleman still lives. Whether he continues to do so or not is a question that does not at the moment concern me. It will make very little difference to you. Three months ago I warned you that your next killing would prove serious. You will allow me to point out that it is never wise to disregard my warnings.”
“Certainly, sir. I take it I may have to stand my trial?”
“Not at all,” said his grace coldly. “I am still somebody. But you may take it that for some appreciable time to come your residence will be upon the Continent. An affair of honour, conducted honourably, might have been condoned. A pot-house brawl can only be—one trusts—eventually forgotten.”
The Marquis flushed. “One moment, sir. My affairs, whether settled at Barn Elms or in a pot-house, are still honourably conducted.”
“I make you my apologies,” replied Avon, slightly inclining his head. “You must forgive my declining years, which make it difficult for me to appreciate the manners of your generation. In my day we did not fight in gaming-hells, or when we were in our cups.”
“A mistake, sir, I admit. I am
“Then you shouldn’t ally yourself with my family,” replied his lordship.
Chapter VI
the Marquis of Vidal had not expected to enjoy his interview with Avon, but it turned out to be more unpleasant than he was prepared for. To begin with, his grace was writing at his desk when Vidal was ushered into the room, and although the lackey quite loudly announced his lordship, his fine hand continued to travel across the paper, and he neither looked up nor betrayed by even the smallest sign that he had heard the announcement.
The Marquis paused for a moment on the threshold, eyeing him; then he walked across to the fireplace and stretched one elegantly shod foot to the warmth. To all appearances he was thoughtfully observing the extremely high polish on his top boot, but once he put up his hand to the Mechlin lace round his throat, and gave it a tug as though it were too tight.
He was dressed with unusual care, possibly out of deference to his grace’s known views, but, as was his habit in the forenoon, for riding. His buff breeches were of impeccable cut, his coat of blue cloth with silver buttons was somewhat severe, but admirably became his tall person. His fringed cravat was for once very neatly arranged, the ends thrust through a gold buttonhole, and his black locks strictly confined by a thin black riband. He wore no jewellery save a heavy gold signet ring, and his face was innocent of the patches and powder affected by the Macaronis.
The Duke had finished writing, and was now reading his letter through with maddening deliberation. Vidal felt his temper rising, and set his teeth. Having made some slight alteration in his letter, the Duke folded it, and dipping his quill in the standish, began to write the direction. Without turning his head he said: “You may sit down, Vidal.”
“Thank you, sir, I’ll stand,” replied his lordship curtly.
The Duke laid his letter aside, ready for sealing, and at last turned, shifting his chair so that he could survey his son. Vidal found himself wishing, for perhaps the hundredth time in his life, that it was possible to read his father’s expression.
The eyes, faintly disdainful, travelled from Vidal’s boots to his face, and there stayed. “I suppose I should count myself honoured that you have been able to visit me,” said his grace gently.
There did not seem to be anything to say in answer to this. After a moment’s uncomfortable silence the Duke continued: “Your presence in England is extremely—shall we say enlivening?—Vidal. But I believe I shall survive the loss of it.” At that the Marquis spoke. “Is he dead then?” Avon’s brows rose in polite surprise. “Is it possible that you don’t know?”
“I don’t, sir.”
“I envy you your light-heartedness,” said Avon. “So far, as I am aware the gentleman still lives. Whether he continues to do so or not is a question that does not at the moment concern me. It will make very little difference to you. Three months ago I warned you that your next killing would prove serious. You will allow me to point out that it is never wise to disregard my warnings.”
“Certainly, sir. I take it I may have to stand my trial?”
“Not at all,” said his grace coldly. “I am still somebody. But you may take it that for some appreciable time to come your residence will be upon the Continent. An affair of honour, conducted honourably, might have been condoned. A pot-house brawl can only be—one trusts—eventually forgotten.”
The Marquis flushed. “One moment, sir. My affairs, whether settled at Barn Elms or in a pot-house, are still honourably conducted.”
“I make you my apologies,” replied Avon, slightly inclining his head. “You must forgive my declining years, which make it difficult for me to appreciate the manners of your generation. In my day we did not fight in gaming-hells, or when we were in our cups.”
“A mistake, sir, I admit. I am
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