A Blot on the Scutcheon Part 46

Heaven have mercy on his soul!

But there were the living to think of--and justice to be done.

Michael was not one to lose opportunity in vain reveries and regrets.

He must ride with the hotter haste to Varenac, even though only his enemies awaited him there.

He told Olerie this briefly, promising that, if the dealing of justice lay in his hands, the innocent should not suffer for the guilty.

She thanked him tearfully, allowing him to lift her upon his horse; and thus, together, the strange companions rode, as quickly as they might in the gathering dusk, to Varenac.

CHAPTER XXVIII

LORD DENNINGHAM FIGHTS ONCE TOO OFTEN

Lord Denningham was waiting, not patiently--that virtue had never been his--but with a growing irritation.

After all this was a fool's game.

Notoriety was cheap, and he could--if he had willed--have sought and found it in far more amusing paths than those of political intrigue.

He had a good mind to throw up the whole business and return to England by the next boat.

A fit of indigestion--or was it spleen? Perhaps the latter, for he was thinking of pretty Gabrielle Conyers.

If he went to England she should go with him. Yes! he had sworn that, and she might think herself a lucky woman that he would take her as Lady Denningham. He smiled over the thought, and then set his lips in a thin, tight line.

My Lady Denningham! Yes; he would teach the chit who was master, and she would love him the more for it.

As for this business of Trouet's, it was the means to an end.

He would masquerade as a converted marquis, teach a crowd of loutish peasants the tune of the Ma.r.s.eillaise, consign a few of these mock-heroic aristos to the devil, and take home his bride by way of reward, with the substantial thanks of the Committee of Public Safety and France in general.

It was a perfectly satisfactory picture. In the meantime he was more than ready for the first act of the little comedy wherein the ci-devant Marquis de Varenac would make his bow to good patriots as the Citizen Morice.

Involuntarily he chuckled as he thought of one morning, a few days since, when he had put a superfluous Morice de Varenac safely out of the way.

Confound that fellow Trouet! was he never coming?

My lord was getting restless.

A pa.s.sing curiosity led him to the library.

Pity old Steenie had met such a paltry fate; he might have helped wile away a heavy hour with the cards.

Poor Steenie!

Jack Denningham slowly took a pinch of snuff as he looked down at the still figure at his feet.

A sight to point a moral.

The handsome but bloated face, the rich dress, helpless hands, and the broken bowl, with the sickening smell of punch-fumes mingling with the close atmosphere of the room.

Faugh! My lord turned to throw open a window, and came face to face with the dead man's son.

It might have been an embarra.s.sing situation for most, but Jack Denningham was noted for his sang-froid.

"In good time," quoth he. "My condolences and congratulations, Sir Michael. The loss of a father is not always a bereavement his heir finds it hard to bear."

One swift glance towards the hearth, then back at the sneering, smiling face before him.

"I await explanations," said Michael sternly.

Denningham burst into a loud laugh.

"Stap me, sir, but you take it coolly," quoth he. "One would almost have thought you were prepared for the blow."

"As I am to find the striker," replied Michael coldly.

"Ha, ha! You do me the honour of suspecting my hand in the matter? A pretty compliment, my young friend. May I repay it?"

The speaker's tone was yet more insolent. Michael looked his adversary full in the face. Perhaps he guessed why my lord was so ready to pick a quarrel.

Denningham was still smiling mockingly.

"Berrington Manor needed a new master--_and mistress_!" he questioned.

"But you must be careful, my friend, in your daydreams, or there will be an unexpected awakening."

"You will explain your words, my lord, or give me satisfaction."

"Ha, ha! You have been a frequenter of the King's Theatre. I grant you John Parkington is superb; but I prefer melodrama _only_ on the stage. I am too prosaic for you, Sir Michael."

"Your prose should be readable then."

"Have I not made it so already? But I a.s.sure you, sir, that you must be careful which way you look. Mistress Gabrielle will have the honour of being Lady Denningham one day soon."

"You lie!"

"Tut, tut! ugly words, ugly words, my Irish mongrel. You will do well to be discreet, seeing----"

He nodded towards the hearth.

"You dare----"

Lord Denningham had succeeded admirably; his adversary was ablaze with unrestrainable anger.