“I shall deem it a curtesy, sir, if you will release Lady Dacre’s wrists.”
Thomas Lennard’s face had the cold fury of a blizzard. Yet he was utterly polite. The gallant whom he had taken by the collar had twisted round, and was staring with ludicrous vacuity into my lord’s eyes.
Stephen Gore watched the drama with an expression of angelic satisfaction.
“Hortense, my friend, let me see you stop a quarrel.”
She had moved forward from the window with all the atmosphere of the Sun King’s court.
“Pardon me, my lord. Your hand should be at my throat—if—you are offended.”
The husband still had a firm hold of Marmaduke Thibthorp, and was looking at him as though undecided whether it would be dignified to drop the fop down the stairs. The aristocratic apathy in him triumphed. He swept the youth aside, and with a curt bow to his wife, offered her his arm.
“Come. Madam, I wish you a boisterous evening.”
His young wife had hesitated, with a whimsical grimace in the direction of Hortense.
The Italian’s eyes met those of Lord Dacre. It was as though they challenged each other in their influence over the child.
“If my Lord Dacre will stay with us, I myself will put on the scarf. And perhaps my Lord Gore—here—”
The Lady Anne giggled, and then glanced furtively at her husband’s face.
“A thousand thanks. My Lord Gore should delight even the psalmist. But my coach is waiting. I wish you no broken furniture. Anne—come.”
There was a short, pregnant silence when he had departed with his child-wife on his arm. Stephen Gore shrugged his shoulders and smiled at Hortense.
“Most serious of swains! Oh, sage Solomon, who would grudge him the responsibility of taming even one wife!”
“Alas, another unfortunate who has not learned to laugh.”
Sir Marmaduke Thibthorp was standing sheepishly beside the door, striving to look amused.
“And such is a stool!” quoth Thomas Temple, sticking out a leg with a blotch of blood on his stocking.
My Lord Gore took leave of Hortense after talking with her a moment alone by the window.
“Bring her to me, my friend,” she said, as he made his bow.
He was crossing the park when a servant met him and handed him a note. It was sealed with pink wax and smelled of ambergris. My lord opened it as he strolled under the trees.