Fair Women And Brave Men

23

Fair Women And Brave Men

    The game of écarté having ended at around the time when a large section of the country was breaking its fast, Wilfred Rowbotham and Henri-Louis de Bourbon had assented amiably to Mr Amory’s generous suggestion that, it being so handily near, they should adjourn to his nephew’s house in Green Street for breakfast. Both Sir Noël and Colonel Amory were not only up, but fully dressed. As they were apparently about to sit down to the meal, the visitors sat themselves down also, smiling happily.

    “Got any more of that Black Berkshire?” asked Bobby.

    “Qu’est-ce qu’un Black Berkshire?” said Henri-Louis.

    “Un porc— No, dash it, forgotten the word,” explained Mr Rowbotham cheerfully. “You know, Prince: oink-oink.”

    “Qu’est-ce qu’un oink-oink?” he asked.

    “C’est un cochon, Prince, mais c’est d’un bon jambon que parle mon frère,” said Richard loudly.

    “Ah! Je mangerais volontiers du bon jambon de Westphalie,” responded the Prince amiably.

    “God!” muttered Noël.

    “Il n’y a pas de jambon ce matin. Mais puis-je vous offrir du rosbif?” said Richard politely. And loudly: Henri-Louis was now attempting to play some form of skittles with a cup, his quizzing-glass, and a knife and fork.

    “Le rosbif of Old England,” said Henri-Louis, smiling happily. “Wilf, mon ami, dis-moi, est-ce que j’aime le rosbif of old England?”

    “Don’t ask me, dear fellow, no good at all that diplomatic stuff, y’ know.”

    “Bobby,” said Noël grimly, “can’t you take your damned friends away? Richard and I are busy.”

    “So are we, dear fellow: busy eating breakfast. I say, I suppose there is none of that splendid Black Berkshire left, is there?”

    “Just leave it,” warned Richard as Noël opened his mouth angrily.

    “Yes, you’re right.” He grabbed the coffee-pot and poured for both of them. “Please take care of our guests,” he said grimly to the butler, rising. “Come on, Richard, we’ll go into the library.”

    “No, I say, Noël, manners! Henri-Louis ain’t nobody, y’know!” protested Bobby.

    “And I have remembered: I do not care for le rosbif of Old England. Mais surtout ne le révélez pas au Duc de Wellington!” he beamed.

    Mr Rowbotham looked plaintive. “I say, I wish you fellows would not talk this Froggy talk all the time. Well, beggin’ your pardon and all that, Henri-Louis, dear fellow, but not all of us fellows can manage it, y’know! –I say, know who we need here? Ceddie! Talks the lingo like nobody’s business! –I say, fellow: send for m’brother. Sir Cedric Rowbotham. Grosvenor Square.”

    Noël and Richard had got as far as the door, the Colonel having delayed their departure by providently pausing to carve them a plateful of cold roast beef.

    “Don’t send for anybody,” said Noël grimly to his butler. “And when—er—Crayshaw arrives, show him into the bookroom.”

    “Very good, Sir Noël.”

    “Who is Crayshaw?” asked Bobby with interest as the door closed behind his relatives.

    “A Dr Crayshaw, sir. I am afraid that is all I know of him.”

    Henri-Louis had successfully bowled the cutlery and the quizzing glass with a bread roll, though the cup was still standing. “Hop-là! Moi, je mangerais volontiers du bon jambon de Westphalie.”

    “Give him some of that beef, it will keep him quiet. Tell him it’s ham, if he asks,” said Bobby amiably to his nephew’s butler.

    “Er—very good, Mr Amory.” Nervously the butler placed some cold beef before the Prince. Henri-Louis began happily to eat it.

    “Ain’t that beef, Bobby?” said Mr Rowbotham.

    “Yes. –Is anybody ill?”

    “No, Mr Amory,” replied the butler limply.

    Bobby buttered a roll. “Then what do they want with a doctor?”

    “I have no notion, sir. Sir Noël merely informed me that I was to expect a Dr Crayshaw.”

    Mr Rowbotham helped himself lavishly to the butter. He buttered a roll but said to Henri-Louis through it: “I shay, ol’ fellow: jush—par’n me—jush remembered.” He swallowed. “You don’t like cold beef.’

    “Very true, mon cher Wilf. Mais surtout, ne le dis pas au Duc de Wellington.”

    “Got that,” said Mr Rowbotham proudly to Bobby. “Somethin’ about Wellington, hey?”

    “Yes: he does not wish you to tell Wellington that he dislikes roast beef.”

    “Oh, silent as the grave, dear old boy!” Mr Rowbotham assured the Prince.

    “Merci, mon cher. –Have some of this excellent ham?”

    “If no-one is ill,” said Bobby, swallowing his beef and rising: “there can be only one explanation for a doctor’s being called at this hour.”

    Since Noël and Richard were discovered in the library examining a case of duelling pistols they could hardly burst out with denials when Bobby walked in and said: “Thought so.”

    After a moment Richard said grimly: “It is neither of us.”

    “Didn’t think so. So who’s your principal?” He examined a pistol with interest. “Nice balance.”

    “Leave it,” said Noël grimly, taking it off him.

    “So who’s your principal?”

    Richard sighed. “When he’s like this, he will just go on asking until he gets an answer.”

    “Yes. Well, let’s hope he’s forgotten it by this time tomorrow. And if he hasn’t,” said Noël grimly, “I hereby volunteer to get round to his rooms and suggest he does.”

    “Seconded,” agreed Richard. “It’s Lewis Vane, Bobby, and pray do not breathe a word of it –Don’t tell me I’m wasting my breath: I know it,” he added to Noël .

    “Lewis Vane? Good gad, not Cousin Betsy’s Colonel Sour-Puss?”

    “What?” said Richard feebly.

    “Good, ain’t it?” he said, grinning.

    Noël looked at him with a wild surmise. “Dare we ask if Aunt Betsy’s entire household is referring to Vane as Colonel Sour-Puss?”

    “Mm? Think so. Well, all of them was two days since. Lewis Vane, eh? S’pose it ain’t another Portugee princeling?” he said hopefully.

    “No,” said Richard shortly, packing up the pistols.

    “Pity.” Bobby wandered out.

    “He may forget all about it,” said Richard with determined optimism.

    “I will lay you a pony that far from forgetting all about it, he not only insists on accompanying us, but brings those two other drunken imbeciles along as well!”

    Noël would have won the bet. When Dr Crayshaw arrived, the seconds had scarce a minute alone with him before all three gentlemen, with their hats on, appeared in the bookroom. Henri-Louis apologized profusely for the fact that he was not in evening wear: he had gone straight to Boodle’s from an afternoon engagement. It was not necessary for the Amorys to offer explanations: the doctor took one look at the three of them and noted grimly: “If your intention was to keep this matter quiet, as I apprehend, Colonel Amory, I wish you luck.”

    Noël sighed, but noted: “It could have been worse, I suppose.”

    “Er—how?” said Richard limply.

    “They could have been accompanied by young Baldaya.”

    Richard winced. “You’re right. Let us be thankful for small mercies, then.”

    They were not, however, to be left long to enjoy the small mercies.

    Dr Crayshaw having brought a closed carriage, the three revellers elected to keep him company in that, Bobby pointing out happily that with four, a hand of whist would be possible en route. The carriage followed Noël’s curricle, Richard now and then glancing round to make sure they had not lost it. After a while he said: “Noël, did you remark a carriage in the road when we left? Nearer to Sir Ned Jubb’s house.”

    “No. Why?”

    Richard grimaced. “It may be my imagination, but I fancy it is following us.”

    “Perhaps it is merely someone who has business in the direction of Hampstead Heath.”

    “Perhaps. But if word has leaked out and someone has set the Runners on us, it will be very easy to track us once we have left the metropolis.”

    At the moment they were in a press of vehicles, largely carts laden with produce. “See it now?” asked Noël.

    “Yes. There’s a stage and several carts between us, but I can see it.”

    “Better lose ’em now, to be on the safe side,” Noël decided. He judged his moment, and dropped his hands: the four chestnuts shot forward between a post-chaise laden with baggage and an oncoming dray, and they clattered onto a clear stretch of road.

    “I think we’ve lost it,” decided Richard in some relief.

    “Good. Well, may have been nothing, but better safe than sorry.”

    The hour was still very early: a little ground mist was just lifting from the heath when they drew up at the appointed spot.

    “A beautiful sight,” said Richard, on a grim note.

    “Yes.” Noël jumped down and turned to give his uncle a hand. “We should have collected Vane, as I suggested,”

    “He’ll be here.”

    “Aye... Well, I suppose we are a little early. No sign of Pom-Pom.”

    “I’m afraid there is no hope of his not turning up,” replied Richard grimly.

    It was not very long before three more carriages arrived in a bunch. A footman jumped down from the first and let the steps down. The Amorys, who were merely in riding dress, watched incredulously as first the Herr Major Gneissen-Maltzahn in full regimentals descended, and then Pom-Rom himself, exquisitely point de vice in a flowing pale grey cloak lined with silvery grey satin, flung back over a many-caped greatcoat of the same pale shade. The squashed von Maltzahn-Dressen cousin leapt down and relieved him of the cloak; Pom-Pom then unbuttoned the greatcoat, to reveal his large person clad in palest lilac pantaloons, a black coat with enormous mother-of-pearl buttons, and a silver brocaded waistcoat.

    “Is that bravado, or—or what?” croaked Noël.

    “No idea,” said Richard with a wince as, the second coach having drawn up, the Baron del Giglio emerged in an outfit similar to Pom-Pom’s but in shades of fawn with a waistcoat of tender pink.

    “That will be their doctor,” said Noël, as a quietly dressed man of grizzled appearance, carrying a leather case, then got down. “Uh—Hell.”

    “I suppose,” said Richard limply, as two more gentlemen descended from this coach: “that as we have got three, he is entitled to a couple.”

    “Yes, but what a couple! The short one weighed down by the military cloak and the braiding is Hans von Boltenstern from the Prussian Embassy, and the fat one is Paul de la Plante,” explained Noël.

    “I thought he went to Madame la Guillotine?”

    “Er—no, dear fellow, you are thinking of his father, Paul le Pot. This is the one they call Pretty Polly.”

    Richard winced.

    “He patronizes the same perruquier as Pom-Pom,” murmured his nephew.

    “He must do,” agreed Richard feebly: M. le Vicomte de la Plante was wearing a hat, but beneath it curls of the same bubbling golden variety as Pom-Pom’s were clearly visible. “I shan’t ask whether von Boltenstern has done anything to earn that— God, is that a dragoon’s uniform?”

    “Certainly. He is reputed to have been awarded it on the strength of bein’ able to wear it without fallin’ down under its weight. –Without the helmet.”

    “Don’t make me laugh, dear boy,” said Richard feebly.

    “I am beginning to have the strong feeling one must either laugh or cry! What did he bring them for?”

    “Um—well, what did we bring ours for?” said Richard weakly, as the third coach drew up near Noël’s curricle, and Dr Crayshaw got out. “Can we hope that you have administered a draught which has knocked all three of them out, Crayshaw?” he said as the doctor came up to them.

    “I’d have liked to, Colonel Amory, and that’s a fact! No, the foreign one had a pack of cards in his pocket and they started playing écarté.”

    “Continued playing,” murmured Noël.

    “Let’s hope they forget why they’re here, in that case,” noted Richard.

    “Which of these gentlemen is the principal?” asked Dr Crayshaw.

    “The one in the pale grey greatcoat,” Richard explained.

    The doctor shook his head.

    “Colonel Vane does not intend to aim at him, Doctor,” Richard reminded him.

    “Dare I say that is just as well, with the target he presents?”

    They waited about ten minutes, during which Pom-Pom’s party could be observed passing a silver flask from hand to hand, though His Highness did not partake, and then a shabby hire-coach drew up and Colonel Vane jumped out.

    “I hope I am not late?” he said without emotion, coming up to the Amorys.

    “No, we were all a trifle early,” returned Richard. He introduced the doctor and added awkwardly as the Colonel glanced at the Prince’s party and raised an eyebrow: “I’m afraid we have some spectators, too.”

    “Damned Bobby and his friends. They arrived out of the blue when we were about to set off. But I doubt any of them will remember a single thing of the day’s events,” added Noël.

    “I see,” said Colonel Vane evenly.

    Richard caught Noël’s eye. “Shall we?” Noël nodded, and they went off to confer with the Prince’s seconds.

    “He don’t look as if he could hit a house at twenty feet, but that is no indication,” said the doctor abruptly. “Best shot I ever saw weighed fifteen stone if an ounce, but he could take the pips out of a trey at fifty feet.”

    “Indeed? May I ask who that was, Doctor?”

    “Well, he wasn’t a gentleman, sir. Though he called himself Captain. He was a Sussex fellow: Captain Vincent, he was known as.”

    Lewis laughed suddenly. The doctor looked at him in astonishment.

    “I’m a Sussex man myself, Doctor, and many’s the time I’ve seen Captain Vincent do that trick at a county fair!”

    The doctor’s stolid face broke into a smile. “Well, fancy that, now, sir!”

    The seconds were pacing out the ground below the rise where the vehicles had drawn up, Pom-Pom, his colour much heightened, was arguing with the squashed cousin as to whether he should have a sip from the silver flask, and Colonel Vane and Dr Crayshaw were chatting placidly about the county fairs of their boyhood, when yet another coach arrived.

    “Mein Gott!” gulped Major Gneissen-Maltzahn as its door was flung open.

    “Oh, my God: women,” agreed Noël with a groan. “That’s all we need!”

    Richard looked: he bit his lip. “Not just women,” he muttered.

    Noël took another look. “Oh, Lord, the fat’s in the fire now! –Richard,” he said in a lowered voice: “the Portuguese Widow absolutely must affect Vane! This must be a last-ditch effort because she was unable to sway him earlier.”

    “She promised me she would do nothing more!” said Richard in dismay.

    “That sort of pretty woman considers a verbal promise worth the paper it is writ on.”

    “Very amus—My God, Noël!” he hissed, clutching at his arm. “That is never Cherry?”

    Noël had gone very red. “That is certainly the violet pelisse I bought her in Bath,” he said in a strangled tone. He paused. “At least she’s had the sense to wear something warm,” he said limply.

    “But not to leave the pug dog behind,” croaked Richard as Cherry turned, and they saw she was encouraging Pug Chalfont to jump to the ground.

    Noël gulped.

    “For God’s sake don’t laugh!” hissed Richard.

    “No,” he said limply. “—That’s never Mrs Stewart?”

    A third lady was now visible in the doorway of the coach.

    “Er—mm, I think it is,” agreed Richard. “Here to pluh-play propriety?”

    “Don’t you laugh,” warned Noël grimly.

    Richard swallowed hard and managed to get a grip on himself. “No. Well, I would not wish to wound Vane’s sensibilities.”

    Noël raised an eyebrow. “I doubt your help will be needed to do so. Er—should we—”

    “Yes,” said Richard, grimacing horribly. “Er—yes, you are right, Major,” he said to the now red-faced and protesting Major Gneissen-Maltzahn: “it is most irregular. We shall speak to the ladies.” He took his nephew’s arm and, leaning rather heavily on that on the one side and on his cane on the other, headed towards the newcomers.

    Colonel Vane got there before they did. “Even without the crimson fluff, you won’t persuade me. Go home,” he said grimly to Nan.

    She was very flushed. “I know I weell not persuade you, you are the most obsteenate man I have ever met! I am not come to speak to you, but to the Prince. I deed send heem a note, but he returned eet; but I shall see what speaking to heem een person weell do!”

    “I doubt that a plea for the preservation of my humble existence will sway him.”

    “What eef I tell heem you are a dead shot?” she retorted crossly.

    “Am I?” he said mildly.

    “I don’t know, and I do not weesh to find out! But at least I may try what scaring heem weell do!”

    “Sir, it is not at all sensible!” burst out Cherry, as flushed as Nan was.

    “Bringing that pug here was certainly not sensible,” returned the Colonel calmly. “Did the pair of you sally forth on the excuse you were exercising it? –I am assuming you are Miss Chalfont,” he added politely.

    “Eegnore heem, my dear Cherry: he would try the patience of a saint,” said Nan grimly.

    “Good morning,” interrupted Noël coolly.

    “I know what you are going to say!” said Cherry quickly. “But I had to come, I could not let Nan come alone!”

    “I deed try to stop her,” admitted Nan.

    “So did I,” said Mrs Stewart. “Oh—thank you, Colonel Amory,” she said weakly as he assisted her to alight. “Indeed, I tried to stop Lady Benedict also, but when I found she could not be persuaded, I thought the least I could do was accompany her.”

    “Very proper, ma’am, but a wasted precaution,” noted Colonel Vane.

    “Eef you theenk I give a feeg what Prince Pom-Pom and all hees horrible friends theenk of me, you are vairy much mistaken!” flashed Nan.

    Colonel Vane ignored this and said to Noël: “Amory, does it fall within the duty of a second to restrain a lady who has butted in upon the scene of an encounter? By force, if necessary.”

    “Not in the book of etiquette I read,” he returned smoothly.

    “Noël, really!” said his uncle crossly. “My dear Lady Benedict, I quite understand that you felt yourself obliged to come, but—”

    “Do not try to stop me!” said Nan through her teeth.

    Richard blinked. “Er—no. Come and speak to His Highness if you feel you must. Though I fear it will do no good.”

    “Richard,” said Colonel Vane smoothly, “in the book of etiquette that I read, it does not fall within the duty of a second to escort a lady to intercede with one of the principals in an encounter.”

    Noël choked, Cherry clapped her hand over her mouth and goggled at Colonel Vane in a mesmerized manner, and Mrs Stewart gulped. Richard, however, replied evenly: “It’s good of you to say so, Lewis, but nevertheless I think I’d better. I don’t wish to see this absurd thing continue any more than Lady Benedict does. –Come along, then, shall we try?” he said to Nan, offering her his arm.

    She took it with a great sigh. “You are the only sensible man een London, Colonel Amory!”

     “Well, no,” he said ruefully: “if I were that, I’d have stopped this business before it got off the ground.”

    “Or onto it,” said Noël thoughtfully as the pair moved off.

    “Don’t joke,” said Cherry in a tiny voice.

    He returned grimly: “How comes it that you are here?”

    “Pug must have heard Nan get up: he started barking, and woke me and Mrs Stewart.”

    “Inevitable,” he concluded.

    “Mm,” agreed Cherry uncomfortably, biting her lip.

    Noël hesitated. Then he said in a low voice: “I suppose you realise you may see a man die today?”

    “Yes,” said Cherry, her eyes filling with tears: “but indeed, I could not let Nan come alone! She—she appears so brave, now, but—but earlier she was in a terrible state!”

    “Oh: crying?” he said with a grimace.

    “No, indeed, Sir Noël,” said Mrs Stewart. “Cherry’s word ‘terrible’ is scarcely an exaggeration. She appeared almost feverish, and quite madly determined. We were both a little frightened, were we not, Cherry, my dear? We had some notion, Sir Noël, that she might—might attempt to throw herself between the participants.”

    “Yes,” said Cherry, shuddering. “We thought we must come, to try to stop her.”

    Noël sighed, and took her arm. “I see. Feverish determination—yes. I’ve seen young men like that before a battle.”

    “Young and not so young,” corrected Lewis coolly.

     They had almost forgotten he was there: all three of them jumped.

    “Exactly, Colonel,” said Noël, taking a deep breath and looking him in the eye.

    Lewis Vane laughed, and strolled away from them.

    “Help: you mean he was like that, too?” gasped Cherry.

    “Yes. He appears a cold fish, doesn’t he? But in battle— I only had the privilege of observing him at close quarters the once: I was but a miserable subaltern and he was already a major. I’ve never forgotten it...”

    “I think it is a case of still waters which run deep,” said Mrs Stewart shyly.

    “Aye,” Noël agreed grimly. “–Mind you hold very tight to Pug’s lead,” he said to Cherry. “And I think you had best get back into the coach. –Oh, Lor’,” he said under his breath as Bobby descended from the doctor’s coach.

    “Is that Mr Amory?” asked Mrs Stewart.

    “Yes. And I must apologize to you ladies for him and the friends with him.”

    “Apologize?” said Cherry in a wondering voice.

    “You’ll see.”

    The ladies were not left long in doubt as to his meaning.

    “Mrs Stewart; Miss Chalfont!” beamed Bobby, bowing deeply. “Delighted! Beautiful fresh morning, is it not?”

    Mrs Stewart replied faintly: “Good morning, Mr Amory,” but Cherry was incapable of speech.

    “Bobby, get back to your coach and sleep it off,” advised his nephew brutally.

    “Dear boy, no need for that tone: ladies present, y’know! Henri-Louis was sayin’ if we had but thought to bring the rest of that ham, we could have had a picknick,” he noted regretfully.—Cherry gasped; Mrs Stewart gulped.—“Though I dare say Colonel Sour-Puss would not wish to join in: don’t strike as the picknick type, do he? –I say, dear boy, is that old Pom-Pom von Maltzahn-Dressen over there?”

    Noël released Cherry’s arm, took a deep breath, grasped his uncle’s elbow firmly and said: “Yes. Come over here, please, Bobby, I wish to speak with you.”

    “Pray excuse me, ladies,” said Bobby with elaborate courtesy, doffing his hat. “At your service, dear boy.”

    Noël led him off, and the two ladies looked at each other limply.

    Eventually Cherry said timidly: “He appears amiable, at the least. Mrs Urqhart says that is the test of a gentleman’s character, if—if he still behaves amiably, when he—he is inebriated.”

    Mrs Stewart nodded. “Indeed! An uncle of my late husband’s was used to over-indulge in wine, and he became very unpleasant indeed when he had done so.”

    Cherry returned seriously “I see. I cannot conceive of Mr Amory becoming unpleasant, under any circumstances whatsoever.”

    Suddenly Mrs Stewart smiled at her. “No indeed, my dear, nor can I! –Shall we mount into the coach again, at least until we see whether Lady Benedict has managed to sway His Highness? I feel it would please Sir Noël an we did so,”

    Cherry blushed and nodded, and the two ladies, with some difficulty persuading Pug Chalfont to join them, got back into the coach.

    Meanwhile Richard had accompanied Nan over to where His Highness was standing pouting, having failed to persuade his cousin to let him sip from the flask. As they approached, the Prince’s two friends and the squashed civilian cousin conferred, the Prussian dragoon and the Frenchman then moving off, though the latter did not neglect to raise his quizzing-glass and survey Nan from top to toe as he went.

    “Good morning, Prince Frédéric,” said Nan, curtseying.

    “Franz, nous trouvons tout cela aucunement réglementaire!” said the Prince to his cousin in a high, cross voice.

    “En effet, mon prince,” he agreed, bowing deeply. “—Madam, you should not be here.”

    “Sir, I have come to beg Hees Highness not to continue weeth thees duel.”

    Herr von Maltzahn-Dressen translated this into French for His Highness. Pom-Pom pouted, shrugged, and turned away, saying: “Mais expliquez-lui que l’affaire doit se poursuivre absolument en dehors de nous.”

    The cousin bowed to Nan. “Madam, ve vould like to oblige you, but please understand that the affair is out of His Highness's hands. The rules of the duel must prevail.”

    “They must not; eet ees—” Nan took a deep breath and tried to speak calmly. “Ees there notheeng I can do or say to persuade Hees Highness that—that eet was all a meestake, and no eensult to heemself was intended? Hees—hees beautiful gift was much appreciated, but eet was eempossible for me to accept eet.”

    The cousin translated all of this in a confidential tone, but His Highness remained silent, half turned away.

    Herr von Maltzahn-Dressen turned back and with a desperate look in his eye said: “If you vill excuse me, I vill confer with His Highness’ seconds. They may be able to reconcile the matter. If you vould be so good, Colonel Amory, please explain to the lady that direct intervention is inappropriate at this juncture and vill not persuade His Highness.”

    Richard bowed, his mouth tight, and Herr von Maltzahn-Dressen hurried off to confer with the Barone and the Herr Major. Nan opened her mouth, but the Colonel nipped her arm and shook his head and she closed it again, frowning.

    “Your Highness, if I may be permitted to speak,” he said politely, “an unfortunate outcome to this affair can do neither yourself nor Colonel Vane any good. English law forbids the duel, and imposes the severest penalties on those who indulge in it.”

    His Highness remained half turned away from them.

    “And eef you keell heem, I shall shoot you myself!” said Nan in a high, shaking voice.

    “Hush, my dear,” said Richard with a sigh. “I am sure it will not come to that.”

    “Approchez, s’il vous plaît, Colonel, je voudrais vous confier deux mots,” said the Prince—still, however, not looking at him.

    Richard bowed very low. “Altesse.”

    “Par ici.” The Prince led him away a little. “My dear Colonel Amory, no-one is proposing to kill anyone, and I confess I am surprised, very surprised indeed, at your permitting an hysterical female to poke her nose into this thing!” he said irritably.

    Richard had to swallow: the tone was so very different from what he had expected. Not to say the language chosen. “I can only offer my deepest apologies, sir. Believe me, we had no notion she intended any such thing.”

    “No, well, what mere man is capable of controlling an hysterical woman?” he said, shuddering. “And to think I intentioned laying myself and my name at her feet!”

    “Er—quite, sir,” said Richard limply.

    “Shockin’,” said the Prince firmly. “I have had a lucky escape. I wish my opponent joy of her. And, dare I add it, they fully deserve each other!”

    Richard was reduced to a mere nod.

    Pom-Pom sniffed. “No doubt she has a fancy to become a viscountess. They say Stamforth cannot last. But whether Vane will take her after this—!” He shrugged a little. “It’s a proud name, y’know.”

    This time Richard was incapable of anything but a gulp.

    “And how is your dear Mamma?” he said graciously.

    Richard goggled at him. “Er—she keeps very well, thank you, sir.”

    “I am so glad to hear it. I recall back in... When was it? ’85, ’86? I was but a lad, it was my first visit to your so-delightful country: I had the pleasure of making one of a house party at Thevenard Manor. Your Mamma was most gracious to me. Ladies were poudrées for formal occasions then, of course, and I recall it was quite a little surprise—though a far from unpleasant one—to see her for the first time en cheveux, so to speak.”

    Richard smiled. “It was very red, was it not? Papa had her portrait taken en déshabillé. I have always been so glad, it is the most delightful reminder. The hair did not crop up again in my generation, but two of Noël’s sisters have it.”

    “Indeed? Delightful. –That would be the Reynolds, would it not? –Yes,” he said as Richard smiled and nodded: “it was in the green salon.”

    “It still is. My brother Mallory had the two little red-headed girls done, and it forms a most intriguing companion-piece.”

    “Charming. Do, pray, convey my compliments to Lady Amory, Colonel.”

    Richard bowed. “Thank you, sir.”

    Pom-Pom sighed. “Ah, me, the long ago...”

    “Indeed, sir,” said Richard respectfully, eyeing him in some awe as he whisked out a lace handkerchief and applied it to the corner of his perfectly dry eye.

    The Prince sighed again, and gave a gracious wave of dismissal. Richard bowed and withdrew, silently wondering if he was expected to do so backwards.

    “Well?” said Nan tensely, clutching his sleeve.

    Limply Colonel Amory replied: “The damned fellow’s English is better than mine is.”

    “I know that! What deed he say?”

    “Um— Well, he did assure me that he has no intention of shooting to kill, you may set your mind at rest on that score.”

    “But he weell not weethdraw?”

    “Er—well, no.”

    “You speak as eef there was some doubt!” said Nan eagerly.

    “No, I’m afraid I do not, my dear. –I’m sorry: the whole conversation was quite bizarre. He—well, I didn’t feel that he even exists on the same plane as we ordinary mortals.”

    “Colonel Amory, that ees not funny!”

    “I don’t know that I meant it to be,” he said ruefully. “I’m sorry, Lady Benedict: most of the conversation was about his memories of my mother in her younger days and a visit he made to our home in Devon when he was a lad.”

    Nan stared at him.

    “I’m sorry,” he repeated limply. “But you may at least set your mind at rest about his intentions in the duel. Oh, and about his intentions in general: if your coming here today has had no other result, it has at least determined him that his—er—laying of himself and his name at your feet would be a grave mistake.”

    “Oh,” said Nan numbly.

    Richard bit his lip. “Mm. If I may speak frankly, I fear it is pointless for you to wait here: His Highness feels all the impropriety of your being here, and though he spoke amiably enough to me, I think will not wish to address you or be addressed by you. May I take you back to your coach?”

    “No,” said Nan grimly, her nostrils flaring. “You may take me to the place where your surgeon weell stand during the fight, and I shall wait weeth heem.”

    Richard sighed a little, but duly conducted her to the doctor’s side. As they approached Dr Crayshaw, Colonel Vane moved away. Richard was sure she had noticed, but she said nothing.

    Herr von Maltzahn-Dressen having failed to persuade the Prince’s seconds to halt the thing, the duel proceeded. As the principals were positioned, Henri-Louis and Mr Rowbotham emerged from the doctor’s coach; Bobby immediately joined them and all three gentlemen went to stand by the steps of the coach which held Mrs Stewart and Cherry, it having by far the best view of the ground. There was evident hesitation amongst the Prince’s supporters, who were not so well positioned, and then the Vicomte de la Plante and Herr von Boltenstern came and ranged themselves at a little distance, just a little too far for greetings or acknowledgements to be necessary. This did not, however, stop Henri-Louis from waving enthusiastically; after a moment Pretty Polly de la Plante appeared to realize who it was, for his plump form rocked where it stood and he turned a very strange violet shade, before bowing as profoundly as a man of his girth could.

    Mr Rowbotham solemnly produced a pair of opera glasses from the pocket of his evening cloak. “Mamma is in town,” he informed the company. “Dragged me off to the opera with m’sister Diane. It won’t work out, y’know.”

    “What will not, sir?” asked Mrs Stewart limply, as no-one else seemed prepared to answer him.

    “Diane and Henri-Louis. Told her—Mamma, that is, not the girl, hasn’t a notion that Mamma’s goin’ gaga—told her, if you thinks as he will be allowed to marry a mere commoner, you is goin’ gaga. Flew up into the boughs, of course. –Ceddie said I should not have said it,” he noted mournfully. “But I told him, I have not the diplomatic touch.”

    “Er—I see,” said Mrs Stewart faintly.

    Mr Rowbotham focussed the glasses carefully. “Oh, by gad, that’s Pom-Pom! I say, wait till I tell Ceddie!” Possibly the tingling silence that emanated from certain of his companions alerted him to the fact that this utterance had not the diplomatic touch, either, for he looked round and said: “Eh? Oh, no, no, silent as the grave, of course! Matter of honour. –Oh, and I say, Amory, this ain’t fit for ladies, y’know. Surprised that Noël allowed it.”

    “Wilf, mon cher, be quiet!” said Henri-Louis loudly. Those who thought they had reason to thank the Prince were immediately disabused, for he added: “One cannot concentrate on the sport with all this chattering! –I say, Amory, dear man, should not have allowed these ladies to come,” he added in a low voice. “Pas même en Angleterre, non?”

    “I wish you would not chatter, Henri-Louis,” replied Bobby severely: “it ain’t considered the thing in England, y’know, to chat on at a duel as if you was at a rout party.”

    “Deepest apologies, mon cher. And dear ladies: deepest apologies. –Wilf, mon cher, deepest apologies.”

    “Please, sirs!” said Cherry desperately, almost in tears. “This is not a sport, or—or a game!”

    “She is right, y’know,” said Mr Rowbotham severely. “Cannot imagine what you fellows is about! Now, concentrate!”

    Everybody concentrated. Mrs Stewart took Cherry’s hand and held it tightly.

    “Vingt-cinq mètres,” ascertained Henri-Louis.

    “Yards,” corrected Bobby severely.

    “Mais non, ce sont des mètres: Pom-Pom ne s’engagerait qu’à la façon française.”

    “Eh? –Damn,” said Mr Amory under his breath.

    “What—what does that mean, Mr Amory?” faltered Cherry.

    Bobby wrinkled the straight Amory nose. “The directeur du combat—must be Richard, see him takin’ up position?—he will call ‘Feu!’ and then count to three. The principals can fire at will while he’s still counting but can’t fire after he gets to three.”

    “In the case honour is not satisfied he will reload and then the process repeats itself,” added Henri-Louis.

    “No, no, no: you have it wrong!” said Bobby testily. “—Young fellows these days, they have no idea!—Only if they had it writ into the procès-verbal that there will be the maximum of three shots.”

    “Three? But this is dreadful!” gasped Mrs Stewart.

    “Mm? Oh, well, can be; yes, ma’am,” he agreed politely.

    “The seconds may stop it at premier sang, madame,” said the Prince kindly.

    Mrs Stewart shuddered. She and Cherry held hands tightly.

    “I think they’re ready, Pom-Pom’s man’s tellin’ him to get rid of that damned roquelaure,” said Mr Rowbotham.

    They watched silently as Pom-Pom was divested of the greatcoat, the which was then tenderly draped over the civilian cousin’s arm. The cousin then retreated.

    “Colonel Amory will cry ‘Attention’,” explained Henri-Louis kindly, “before he gives the word to fire.”

    Cherry gulped. Mrs Stewart winced.

    On the ground Noël had noted: “Try not to be dazzled by the waistcoat.”

    “Or the buttons,” agreed Colonel Vane drily.

    He himself was in a dark coat and breeches: Noël eyed him dubiously. “I’d button that coat, your neckcloth makes a fair target.”

    “We’re at twenty-five metres, I doubt he can even see me, let alone my neckcloth.”

    Noël gave him a bitter look. “Go on, Vane, expose yourself the utmost possible; Lady Benedict will enjoy that.”

    “You evince a continued concern for Lady Benedict’s welfare, do you not?”

    Noël stared at him.

    “I witnessed a certain affecting scene at the theatre.”

    Noël reddened angrily. “There is nothing at all between me and Lady Benedict. I am unofficially engaged to Miss Chalfont, and it will be announced before the Season is out.”

    “I must congratulate you,” he said evenly.

    “Look, for the Lord’s sake, do your coat up, the poor creature is nigh distraught, don’t make it worse for her!”

    He shrugged a little, but fastened his coat collar. Pom-Pom could be observed similarly fastening his coat. The lilac pantaloons, however, still presented a considerable target.

    Colonel Vane then removed his hat, saying unemotionally: “Knew a fellow once whose hat blew over his eyes at the crucial moment.”

    “Charming. –All right?”

    The Colonel nodded.

    “Good luck. If I were you I would fire the moment Richard yells ‘Feu’.”

    “Nonsense,” he said placidly. “Off you go.”

    Noël ground his teeth a little, but retired.

    “Oh, why do they not get eet over weeth?” said Nan in agony as, instead of giving the word to fire, Colonel Amory produced a paper and read it out.

    Dr Crayshaw sighed. “I apprehend he’s reading the procedure that has been agreed upon, ma’am. Don’t tell me it’s stupid: I entirely agree with you.”

    Nan bit her lip, nodding.

    “I think they’re ready,” said the doctor.

    “Yes.”

    “Attention!” cried Richard.

    Nan’s nails dug into her palms.

    “Feu!”

     The protagonists’ arms jerked up. For a moment nothing happened.

    “Un!”

    Nobody fired. “Please,” whispered Nan under her breath.

    “Hell!” said the doctor, stiffening.

    In less time than it had taken him to say it Nan had seen what he had: a small, four-legged cream body with a trailing blue leash, hurling itself at full speed straight for Colonel Vane.

    “Deux!”

    Colonel Vane fired: the Prince’s hat shot off, and with it his wig of blond curls. Pom-Pom gave a scream of rage and fired. At the same instant, Pug Chalfont hurled himself at the Colonel’s legs, barking joyfully, and the Colonel staggered and fell.

    “NO!” shrieked Nan, rushing down the slope and across the grass. The doctor hastened after her.

    Noël reached the fallen figure first.

    “Only a flesh wound,” said Colonel Vane, grimacing, as he knelt beside him.

    “I make no doubt of it. Just hold still.” The ball had hit his upper-arm: Noel cut the sleeve open with his penknife. “Yes: taken a chunk out of the arm. The ball’s not in it.”

    “I said, it’s nothing. Help me up, for the Lord’s sake; the damned pug knocked me off-balance.”

    “Aye, or he would not have hit you.”

    Nan had reached them. “Ees he all right?” she gasped, falling to her knees beside him.

    “Yes. It’s only a flesh wound,” replied Noël.

    “It’s nothing,” said the Colonel impatiently, sitting up.

    “Keep still, man, you’re bleeding like a stuck pig!” said Noël irritably.

    “Yes; here.” Nan felt in her bulging reticule and produced a great wad of bandages.

    “Provident and practical,” approved the wounded hero drily.

    “Be silent, you are a complete eediot and not worth speaking to!”

    “It was not I,” he said, wincing, as she applied a pad of the bandages, “who brought a damned pug to a meeting.”

    “He at least has the excuse of being only an eennocent leetle creature and unable to help heemself,“ retorted Nan grimly. “Go away, Pug Chalfont, you have been vairy naughty!” she added in exasperation as Pug, panting loudly, attempted to lick the Colonel’s face.

    “Why does he love you so much?” wondered Noël, inspecting the wound.

    “He fed heem on a peeg’s cheek,” said Nan grimly. “—Eet’s steell bleeding.”

    The doctor had now reached them. “It’s nothing,” he said with some relief. “It will ooze for a bit.” He opened his bag. “Only needs to be cleaned and have some salve on it. –Who the Devil let that damned dog escape?”

    “Don’t look at me,” said Colonel Vane drily. “I’m merely the victim.”

    “You have brought eet on yourself,” stated Nan grimly.

    “Er—undoubtedly. Though dare I remind you, ma’am, that not only is it your blame he is here this morning at all, it was you who introduced me to his notice?”

    “Did you?” said Noël in some surprise, letting the doctor take over with the bandages.

    “Yes. Mrs Urqhart eenseested I take heem out the morning I went to visit the Colonel een a vain attempt to persuade heem against thees nonsense.” She gave him a bitter look.

    Noël swallowed. “You cuh-called on Vane to discuss his duel with Pug Chalfont in tow?”

    “Why not? I am not so silly as to believe, as gentlemen do, that duelling ees some sacred mystery which must be treated weeth respect and awe!”

    “Very sensible, ma’am,” approved the doctor, applying salve. “Put your finger here, please.” Nan applied her finger; the doctor bound the arm rapidly. “That will hold for the meantime, but we had best get off to the nearest inn and clean it.”

    “There’s one not far from here: countrified little place. Serves excellent ale and a damn’ good cheese,” offered Colonel Vane.

    “Had experience of it, have you?” returned the doctor drily.

    “Not in the way you imply,” he replied imperturbably.

    The doctor sniffed slightly. “Well, get up, man, you’re not incapacitated.”

    “I have been trying to get up for some time,” said the Colonel coolly, as Noël put a hand under his good elbow and assisted him to his feet, “but was prevented. Thank you, Amory. –Yes, Pug Chalfont, you’ve made a damn’ fool of yourself today, haven’t you?” he said, as Pug prostrated himself, little curled tail vibrating.

    Pug looked up at him adoringly.

    “Vane, can I beg you to give him more pig’s cheek and take him off my hands entirely?” said Noël in a faint voice.

    “Oh, thees ees all vairy amusing!” cried Nan loudly. “When he might be lying there dead!”

    “I am not lying there dead, however,” returned the Colonel.

    Richard had come up with Pom-Pom’s seconds. “No thanks to yourself, Lewis. We’ve agreed to stop it.”

    Nan gaped incredulously as the infuriating Colonel Vane replied coolly: “Good: I’ve just been telling these fellows there is an inn not far from here which serves very acceptable ale.”

    “Splendid. –Barone, Herr Major, perhaps you and His Highness’s party would care to join us?” said Richard courteously.

    “WHAT?” shouted Nan at the top of her lungs. “NO! Thees ees STUPEED! Suddenly you are the best of friends, because you have been trying to keell each other?”

    “It is characteristic of the male half of humanity, I fear, Lady Benedict,” said Colonel Vane, straight-faced.

    “OH!” she shouted. She picked up her sober black skirts and dashed away like a furious little whirlwind. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the fact that Pug, emitting a joyous series of yelps, immediately dashed after her.

    After a stunned moment in which none of the male half spoke, the Prince’s seconds politely refused Richard’s offer, bowed all round, and took themselves back to their master.

    “I must say, Lewis, that was a bit hard,” said Richard feebly.

    “Oh, you missed the really good bit,” said Noël sardonically. “When he pointed out to Lady Benedict that it was her fault that the pug was involved at all.”

    Richard bit his lip, but managed to say: “I think that directly it must have been Cherry’s fault. And you had best go and speak to her, Noël.”

    Cherry had born up remarkably well, considering that she felt it was her fault that Pug had escaped, but when Noël came up to the coach she burst into snorting sobs.

    “Don’t,” he said with a sigh. “Thank you, Mrs Stewart,” he added as she patted Cherry’s back and looked at him anxiously: “but I think this is my responsibility.”

    Mrs Stewart resigned her place in the coach to him. Noël sat down beside Cherry, sighing. The sobs did not abate: after a moment he cautiously put his arm round her. This did no good: she sobbed harder than ever, her hands to her face.

    Noël was rather at a loss: he gave her a little squeeze. “I am not angry.”

    “Could—dead!” she sobbed.

    “Mm, he could be dead, but he is not.”

    Cherry continued to sob. Noël sat there with his arm round her, feeling useless.

    Then Bobby poked his head into the carriage. “Er—Noël—”

    “Go away,” he said grimly.

    “No—Er— I say, splendid when he blew old Pom-Pom’s bat and wig away, were it not? Um, no, well,” he said feebly, meeting his nephew’s wrathful eye, “thing is, not Cherry’s fault. She had the damned pug on her knee and—um—damned Wilf opened the carriage door in the belief it would give the ladies a better view. And the creature escaped before we could blink.”

    Noël had discarded his hat. “God,” he said, running his hand through his curls. “Cherry, it was not your FAULT!” he said loudly.”

     “—let him—go!” she gulped.

    “But you had not expected Wilf to open the carriage door.”

    Cherry lifted a distraught, swollen and tear-stained face to his. “No. It was vuh-very sudden!”

    “Yes. Here,” he said with a sigh, giving her his handkerchief. “Go away, Bobby. Um—look, for God’s sake go and rescue Mrs Stewart, if you are sober enough to do so.” –Mr Rowbotham and Henri-Louis, judging from the gestures, were now re-fighting the thing for her benefit.

    “We Plantagenet-Amorys have always been able to hold our liquor better than a mere Rowbotham or Bourbon, y’know!” said Bobby with a wink. “—Very well, I can take a hint!” He ambled away.

    “I’m sorry,” gulped Cherry. “He’s so strong, and so quick. One minute he was sitting there, quite—quite soft and pluh-placid, and the next—”

    “Yes. You must learn to control him, my dear.”

    “I thought I had!” she wailed.

    “Hush: don’t cry again. No, well, he’s only a young dog. How would this be; we take him to the Park—”

    “No! Not the Park!”

    “Uh—oh.” Noël swallowed a smile. “We shall choose our spot very carefully. And give him some strict training in sitting, coming to heel, and so forth.”

    “Ye-es... Can you?”

    He rubbed his nose. “Well, he isn’t a gun dog... I shall give it my best sh—” He broke off.

    “That’s all right,” said Cherry limply.

    “No, it was a crass thing to say; I beg your pardon! But I shall do my utmost to make him the best-trained dog in England.”

    “Thank you,” said Cherry. She put out a timid hand and touched his.

    Noël picked up the little gloved hand. “You and Pug Chalfont are clearly unfit to be out alone. –What now?” he groaned, as Bobby reappeared.

    “Er—thought we had best tell you, dear boy: Lady Benedict has stolen Vane’s hire-coach from under his nose and gone off in it.”

    “Oh, dear!” gasped Cherry.

    Mrs Stewart was with Bobby. “I think she is only returning to town.”

    “Well, there’s nothing we can do about it, in any case,” said Noël. “Mrs Stewart, I have to thank you for having accompanied the young ladies.”

    “I could do no less. And—and I cannot apologize enough for not having been quick enough to stop Pug—”

    “No, no, that is all forgotten. I shall escort you ladies home. –Bobby, where’s the damned dog?”

    “Oh!” gasped Cherry. “Yes, where is he?”

    “He’s with Vane. Seems to think of him as his brother.”

    “He thinks of him as a donor of food,” said Noel grimly. “Get him.”

    “Me? –Oh, very well!” he said hurriedly.

    He returned not only with Pug Chalfont, but with Colonel Vane, who was gripping the miscreant’s lead tightly in his good hand.

    “Sir, I’m so sorry!” burst out Cherry.

    “Not at all: Mr Amory tells me it was entirely Mr Rowbotham’s doing. But may I beg you to leave him behind on any further such expeditions?”

    “She does not intend any further such expeditions,” said Noël grimly, taking the leash from him. “Get UP, sir! –Thank you, Vane.”

    Lewis Vane looked at him drily. “I apprehend she did not entirely intend this one. I have to thank both of you ladies for so kindly accompanying Lady Benedict,” he added formally, bowing.

    The ladles faltered that it had been nothing. Colonel Vane bowed again, unsmiling, added to Noël, unsmiling: “I’d train that to obey, if I were you; that or shoot it;” and went away.

    Mrs Stewart sank back against the upholstery and looked limply at her companions.

    “He is generally reckoned to be the coolest hand in London, ma’am,” said Noël on an apologetic note.

    “So I should think,” she said feebly.

    “Pooh: mad as a hatter,” said Bobby, getting in. He seated himself beside Mrs Stewart. “We goin’ or not?” he demanded of his nephew.

    “Did not you come here escorted?”

    “Pooh, not goin’ on with them! They is arguin’ over the rules of the duel: Henri-Louis is tryin’ to claim that the first shot must be disallowed, on account of the pug.”

    “Very well, let’s go home.”

    Bobby leaned back in his seat with a sigh. “Yes. Had enough excitement for one day. –Tell you what, I feel quite exhausted.”

    “That is because,” said his nephew acidly, as the coach jolted forward over the uneven ground: “you have not been to bed!”

    “En? Oh, no, nor I have. –I must apologize to you two ladies for my appearance.”

    “And your condition,” noted his nephew.

    “And my condition, absolutely: not the thing in front of ladies!”

    “Bobby,” said Noël grimly: “just hold your peace and go to sleep.”

    The ladies watched in fascination as Mr Amory closed his eyes and apparently fell asleep on the instant.

    “So?” said Mrs Urqhart, coming into Nan’s room without ceremony. “And don’t give me your version, I’ve had it once from Noël and Mrs Stewart, what seemed coherent enough, and once from Cherry, what bawled all over the show, and a garbled version from Bobby.”

    “I had to try. I am vairy sorry if you disapprove, dear Mrs Urqhart.”

    “Dunno as if I approve or disapprove. What’s the verdict on Colonel Sour-Puss, then?”

    Nan’s lips tightened. “He ees eenfuriating.”

    “Aye, well, he don’t like to be ordered round by a slip of a girl. Dunno what made you imagine ’e would.”

    Nan glared indignantly.

    “Ugly feller, ain’t he?” she said casually.

    Nan took a deep breath. “You have been vairy, vairy kind and forbearing, and I would not for anytheeng weesh to be rude, but I must beg you not to attempt subtlety weeth me.”

    “Yes, well,” returned Mrs Urqhart with the utmost placidity: “if you sees right through me and out the other side like a pane o’ glass, funny you couldn’t do the same with Colonel Sour-Puss, ain’t it?”

    Nan glared impotently.

    “So were he wild with you for bargin’ in upon it, or not?” enquired Mrs Urqhart genially.

    “I could not TELL!” she shouted furiously.

    Shaking helplessly, Mrs Urqhart retreated.