comte.
“Which of us will kill Miss Lamberton?” asked the other uneasily.
“Why me, dear boy,” smiled the comte. “I and my little wits—I will kill Constance Lamberton.”
Lady Eleanor looked down the long gleaming table to where her brother sat with his fiancée, and her massive bosom heaved.
“It’s disgraceful,” she whispered to her husband for the umpteenth time. “There’s bad blood in the Lambertons. They’re an old family, I’ll admit, but never a title among the lot of them. Disgraceful! This wedding must be stopped.”
“How?” queried her husband with a rare burst of irritation. “How will you stop it? By killing the girl?”
“I might,” said his wife grimly. “I just might!” And for one uneasy moment her husband wondered whether she were joking.
Despite all her ill-wishers Constance appeared to survive. She sat, on the evening before her wedding, in Lady Agatha Beance’s drawing room and tried to fight down an acute bout of premarital nerves. Philip’s aunt, Lady Agatha, had been extremely kind. She was a slightly deaf, elderly lady who appeared to have enjoyed Constance’s company immensely, having at last found someone willing to read novels to her by the hour. In the past month they had got through the four volumes of
The Rival Mothers
and three of
The Supposed Daughter
.
“If life were like a novel,” thought Constance, “Philip would have fallen in love with me by now.”
But she had hardly seen her fiancé except for a few carriage drives, and one terrible dinner at the Riders where Lady Eleanor had hissed and fumed at her like an aristocratic volcano all evening.
“He will never fall in love with me now,” thought Constance with a rare burst of insight. “He’s so pleased with himself for taking care of my future that I swear he looks on me in the light of a charity case.”
Lady Agatha lived among the fading glory of the chinoiserie phase of the last century. Constance stared vaguely at the little Chinese men walking over bridges and under willow trees up and down the wallpaper, and wondering with the front of her mind why Chinese artists were so bad when it came to perspective while the rest of her brain scuttled and fretted round the ever present worry. “Will he ever love me? You cannot love someone you pity. It is better to give than receive, except, of course, life is rather hard if one has been placed in a position always to be the receiver. Is
he
having second thoughts?”
Lord Philip was. No amount of blue blood flowing in his veins, no amount of titles or family crests or family pomp could protect him from that universal illness—premarital nerves.
Constance had been, well, not overwhelmed enough, he decided irritably. On the few occasions he had seen her since his proposal, she had been very quiet and timid and seemed distressingly unaware of his great condescension.
His bachelor life had assumed a rosy and enchanting glow it never had before.
He was roused from his thoughts by the arrival of Peter Potter who ambled in, in his usual way, unannounced.
He was impeccably dressed as ever but had crowned it all by his usual lapse of memory by having a red Kilmarnock cap pulled down over one ear. He looked for all the world like a extremely gentlemanly pirate.
“You are wearing your nightcap,” said Lord Philip grumpily, and then burst out with what was really worrying him. “I can’t help wishing I didn’t have to go through with this wedding tomorrow. Constance does not seen aware of the sacrifice. I could, after all, have looked higher.”
“‘Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so trim/When King Cophetua lov’d the beggar-maid,’” quoted Peter, “except in your case, Adam Cupid seems to have missed. I thought you loved the girl.”
“I am very fond of her,” said Philip stiffly.
“Oh, no you’re not,” said Peter. “You’re in love with the idea of the high and mighty Philip proposing to the penniless Miss Lamberton.
She
has no
“Which of us will kill Miss Lamberton?” asked the other uneasily.
“Why me, dear boy,” smiled the comte. “I and my little wits—I will kill Constance Lamberton.”
Lady Eleanor looked down the long gleaming table to where her brother sat with his fiancée, and her massive bosom heaved.
“It’s disgraceful,” she whispered to her husband for the umpteenth time. “There’s bad blood in the Lambertons. They’re an old family, I’ll admit, but never a title among the lot of them. Disgraceful! This wedding must be stopped.”
“How?” queried her husband with a rare burst of irritation. “How will you stop it? By killing the girl?”
“I might,” said his wife grimly. “I just might!” And for one uneasy moment her husband wondered whether she were joking.
Despite all her ill-wishers Constance appeared to survive. She sat, on the evening before her wedding, in Lady Agatha Beance’s drawing room and tried to fight down an acute bout of premarital nerves. Philip’s aunt, Lady Agatha, had been extremely kind. She was a slightly deaf, elderly lady who appeared to have enjoyed Constance’s company immensely, having at last found someone willing to read novels to her by the hour. In the past month they had got through the four volumes of
The Rival Mothers
and three of
The Supposed Daughter
.
“If life were like a novel,” thought Constance, “Philip would have fallen in love with me by now.”
But she had hardly seen her fiancé except for a few carriage drives, and one terrible dinner at the Riders where Lady Eleanor had hissed and fumed at her like an aristocratic volcano all evening.
“He will never fall in love with me now,” thought Constance with a rare burst of insight. “He’s so pleased with himself for taking care of my future that I swear he looks on me in the light of a charity case.”
Lady Agatha lived among the fading glory of the chinoiserie phase of the last century. Constance stared vaguely at the little Chinese men walking over bridges and under willow trees up and down the wallpaper, and wondering with the front of her mind why Chinese artists were so bad when it came to perspective while the rest of her brain scuttled and fretted round the ever present worry. “Will he ever love me? You cannot love someone you pity. It is better to give than receive, except, of course, life is rather hard if one has been placed in a position always to be the receiver. Is
he
having second thoughts?”
Lord Philip was. No amount of blue blood flowing in his veins, no amount of titles or family crests or family pomp could protect him from that universal illness—premarital nerves.
Constance had been, well, not overwhelmed enough, he decided irritably. On the few occasions he had seen her since his proposal, she had been very quiet and timid and seemed distressingly unaware of his great condescension.
His bachelor life had assumed a rosy and enchanting glow it never had before.
He was roused from his thoughts by the arrival of Peter Potter who ambled in, in his usual way, unannounced.
He was impeccably dressed as ever but had crowned it all by his usual lapse of memory by having a red Kilmarnock cap pulled down over one ear. He looked for all the world like a extremely gentlemanly pirate.
“You are wearing your nightcap,” said Lord Philip grumpily, and then burst out with what was really worrying him. “I can’t help wishing I didn’t have to go through with this wedding tomorrow. Constance does not seen aware of the sacrifice. I could, after all, have looked higher.”
“‘Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so trim/When King Cophetua lov’d the beggar-maid,’” quoted Peter, “except in your case, Adam Cupid seems to have missed. I thought you loved the girl.”
“I am very fond of her,” said Philip stiffly.
“Oh, no you’re not,” said Peter. “You’re in love with the idea of the high and mighty Philip proposing to the penniless Miss Lamberton.
She
has no
Similar Books
