‘Did you imagine that you would make me believe ill of Sophy with your foolish and spiteful letter!’ he demanded. ‘You have tried to set me against her from the outset, but you over-reached yourself today, my girl! How dared you write in such terms to me! How could you have been so crassly stupid as to suppose that Sophy could ever need your countenance to set her right in the eyes of the world, or that I would believe one word of slander against her?’
‘Sir!’ said Lord Bromford, with as much dignity as could be expected of a man with both feet in a mustard-bath. ‘You shall answer to me for those words!’
‘Certainly! When and where you please!’ replied Mr Rivenhall, with alarming promptitude.
‘I beg you will not heed him, Lord Bromford!’ cried Miss Wraxton, much agitated. ‘He is beside himself ! If a meeting were to take place between you on my account I could never hold up my head again! Pray be calm! I am sure your pulse is tumultuous, and how shall I ever face dear Lady Bromford?’
He clasped her restraining hand, and held it, saying a moved voice: ‘Too good, too excellent creature! With all your attainments, your scholarship, still to retain those attributes peculiar to your womanhood – ! I cannot but think of the poet’s lines –’
‘Take care,’ interpolated Mr Rivenhall disagreeably. ‘You thought of them in connection with my cousin, and it won’t do to repeat yourself !’
‘Sir!’ said Lord Bromford, glaring at him. ‘I was about to say that Miss Wraxton has shown herself in very sooth –’
‘A ministering angel! So I knew! Try for another poet!’
‘I must request you, sir,’ said Miss Wraxton icily, ‘to leave this room immediately – and to take that horrid little dog of Miss Stanton-Lacy’s with you! I can only be thankful that my eyes have been opened to your true character before it was too late! You will oblige me by sending an announcement to the Gazette that our engagement is at an end!’
‘It shall be done at once,’ said Mr Rivenhall, bowing. ‘Pray accept my profound regrets, and my earnest wishes for your future happiness, ma’am!’
‘Thank you! If I cannot felicitate you upon the contract you are no doubt about to enter into, at least I can pray that you may not be too sadly disappointed in the character of the lady you mean to marry!’ said Miss Wraxton, a spot of colour burning in either cheek.
‘No, I don’t think I shall be disappointed,’ said Mr Rivenhall, with a sudden and rueful grin. ‘Shocked, maddened, and stunned perhaps, but not disappointed! Come, Tina!’
Descending again to the hall, he found Sophy seated on the floor beside the ducklings’ box, preventing their attempts to escape. Without looking up, she said: ‘Sir Vincent has found several bottles of excellent burgundy in the cellar, and Sancia says we shall not be obliged to eat the pig’s cheek after all.’
‘Talgarth?’ exclaimed Mr Rivenhall, bristling with hostility. ‘What the devil brings him here?’
‘He came with Sancia. It is the most shocking thing, Charles, and how I am to face Sir Horace I don’t know! He has married Sancia! I cannot think what is to be done!’
‘Nothing at all: your father will be delighted! I forgot to inform you, my dear cousin, that he arrived in town sometime before I left, and is even now in Berkeley Square, awaiting your return. He appeared to feel no small degree of annoyance at learning of your efforts to save the Marquesa from Talgarth.’
‘Sir Horace in London?’ Sophy exclaimed, her face lighting up. ‘Oh, Charles, and I not there to welcome him! Why did you not tell me at once?’
‘I had other things to think of. Get up!’
She allowed him to pull her to her feet, but said: ‘Charles, are you freed from your engagement?’
‘I am,’ he replied. ‘Miss Wraxton has terminated our engagement.’
‘And Cecy has terminated hers to Augustus, so now I can –’
‘Sophy, I don’t pretend to know why she should have done so, any more than I understand why you keep a brood of ducklings in the house, but neither of these problems interests me very particularly at this present! I have something more important to say to you!’
‘Of course!’ said Sophy. ‘Your horse! Well, indeed, Charles, I am very sorry to have displeased you so much!’
‘No!’ said Mr Rivenhall, grasping her shoulders, and giving her a shake. ‘You know – Sophy, you know I could not mean – You did not run away from London because of that?’
‘But, Charles, naturally I did! I had to have some excuse! You must perceive that I had to!’
‘Devil!’ said Mr Rivenhall, and caught her into so crushing an embrace that she protested, and Tina danced round them, barking excitedly. ‘Quiet!’ commanded Mr Rivenhall. He took Sophy’s throat between his hands, pushing up her chin. ‘Will you marry me, vile and abominable girl that you are?’
‘Yes, but, mind, it is only to save my neck from being wrung!’ Sophy replied.
The opening of the library-door made him release her, and look quickly over his shoulder. Mr Fawnhope, wearing an expression of almost complete abstraction, came into the hall with a paper in his hand. ‘There is no ink in there,’ he complained, ‘and I have broken the point of my pencil. I have abandoned the notion of hailing you as Vestal virgin: there is something awkward in those syllables. My opening line now reads, Goddess, whose steady hands upheld – but I must have ink!’
With these words, and without paying the least heed to Mr Rivenhall, he walked across to the door leading to the back-premises, and disappeared through it.
Mr Rivenhall turned a face of undisguised horror upon Sophy. ‘Good God!’ he said. ‘You might have warned me that he was here! And what the deuce did he mean by that stuff ?’
‘Well, I think,’ said Sophy confidentially, ‘that he now means to be in love with me, Charles. He likes the way I hold a lamp, and he says he would like to see me with an urn.’
‘Well, he is not going to see you with an urn!’ said Mr Rivenhall, revolted. He cast a glance round the hall, saw a pelisse lying on one chair, and snatched it up. ‘Put this on! Where is your hat?’
‘But, Charles, we cannot leave poor Sancia with all these dreadful people in the house! It is too base!’
‘Yes, we can! You don’t imagine I am going to sit down to dinner with Eugenia and that damned poet, do you? Is this your muff ? Must we take these ducklings?’
‘No, it is Cecilia’s, and now they will be all over the floor again! Charles, how provoking of you!’
Sir Vincent, who had come into the hall with a couple of bottles, set them down in the hearth, saying: ‘How do you do, Rivenhall? Sophy, is there any ink in the house? The poet is searching for some in the larder, and driving my poor Sancia distracted.’
‘Talgarth,’ said Mr Rivenhall, firmly grasping Sophy by one wrist, ‘I beg you will take care of these infernal ducklings, and I wish you a very pleasant evening! Sir Horace has arrived in town, and I must instantly restore his daughter to him!’
‘Rivenhall,’ said Sir Vincent gravely, ‘I perfectly understand you, and I applaud your presence of mind. Allow me to offer you my felicitations! I will convey your apologies to my wife. Let me advise you to lose no time in taking your departure! The poet will all too shortly return!’
‘Sir Vincent!’ cried Sophy, dragged irresistibly to the door. ‘Give my portmanteau to Miss Wraxton, and beg her to make what use she pleases of the contents! Charles, this is crazy! Did you come in your curricle? What if it should begin to rain again? I shall be drenched!’
‘Then you will be well-served!’ retorted her unchivalrous cousin.
‘Charles!’ uttered Sophy, shocked. ‘You cannot love me!’
Mr Rivenhall pulled the door to behind them, and in a very rough fashion jerked her into his arms, and kissed her. ‘I don’t: I dislike you excessively!’ he said savagely.
Entranced by these lover-like words, Miss Stanton-Lacy returned his embrace with fervour, and meekly allowed herself to be led off to the stables.
About the Author<
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Author of over fifty books, Georgette Heyer is one of the best-known and best-loved of all historical novelists, making the Regency period her own. Her first novel, The Black Moth, published in 1921, was written at the age of fifteen to amuse her convalescent brother; her last was My Lord John. Although most famous for her historical novels, she also wrote twelve detective stories. Georgette Heyer died in 1974 at the age of seventy-one.
Table of Contents
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Seventeen
Eighteen
About the Author