Clad in his customary black and silver, with raven hair unpowdered andelaborately dressed, diamonds on his fingers and in his cravat, HughTracy Clare Belmanoir, Duke of Andover, sat at the escritoire in thelibrary of his town house, writing.
He wore no rouge on his face, the almost unnatural pallor of whichseemed designedly enhanced by a patch set beneath his right eye. Browsand lashes were black, the former slanting slightly up at the corners,but his narrow, heavy-lidded eyes were green and strangely piercing. Thethin lips curled a little, sneering, as one dead-white hand travelled toand fro across the paper.
... but it seems that the Fair Lady has a Brother, who, finding MeEnamoured, threw down the Gauntlet. I soundly whipt the presumptuousChild, and so the Affair ends. Now, as you, My dear Frank, also tooksome Interest in the Lady, I write for the Express Purpose of informingYou that at my Hands she has received no Hurt, nor is not like to. ThisI in part tell You that You shall not imagine Yr self in Honor boundagain to call Me out, which Purpose, an I mistake not, I yesterday readin Yr Eyes. I should be Exceeding loth to meet You in a Second Time,when I should consider it my Duty to teach You an even severer Lessonthan Before. This I am not Wishful of doing for the Liking I bear You.
"So in all Friendship believe me, Frank,
"Your most Obedient, Humble
"DEVIL."
His Grace of Andover paused, pen held in mid-air. A mocking smile dawnedin his eyes, and he wrote again.
"In the event of any Desire on Yr Part to hazard Yr Luck with my lateParamour, Permit Me to warn You 'gainst the Bantam Brother, who is inVery Truth a Fire-Eater, and would wish to make of You, as of Me, oneMouthfull. I shall hope to see You at the Queensberry Rout on Thursday,when You may Once More strive to direct mine Erring Footsteps on to theThorny Path of Virtue."
His Grace read the postscript through with another satisfied, sardonicsmile. Then he folded the letter, and affixing a wafer, peremptorilystruck the hand-bell at his side.
And the Honourable Frank Fortescue, reading the postscript half-an-hourlater, smiled too, but differently. Also he sighed and put the letterinto the fire.
"And so ends another affaire. ... I wonder if you'll go insolently tothe very end?" he said softly, watching the paper shrivel and flare up."I would to God you might fall honestly in love—and that the lady mightsave you from yourself—my poor Devil!"
Chadber was the name of the host, florid of countenance, portly ofperson, and of manner pompous and urbane. Solely within the walls of theChequers lay his world, that inn having been acquired by hisgreat-grandfather as far back as the year 1667, when the jovial StuartKing sat on the English throne, and the Hanoverian Electors were not yetdreamed of.
A Tory was Mr. Chadber to the backbone. None so bitter 'gainst thelittle German as he, and surely none had looked forward more eagerly tothe advent of the gallant Charles Edward. If he confined his patriotismto drinking success to Prince Charlie's campaign, who shall blame him?And if, when sundry Whig gentlemen halted at the Chequers on their wayto the coast, and, calling for a bottle of Rhenish, bade him toss down aglass himself with a health to his Majesty, again who shall blame Mr.Chadber for obeying? What was a health one way or another when you hadrendered active service to two of his Stuart Highness's adherents?
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