Lord Tony’s Wife - Baroness Orczy (red novels txt) 📗

his pocket. Quite deliberately he took out some money and gave a piece of silver to the woman.

“I thank you very much,” he said somewhat haltingly. “I quite understand everything now.”

The woman curtseyed and thanked him; tears were in her eyes, for it seemed to her that never had she seen such grief depicted upon any human face. She preceded him to the hall door and held it open for him, while he passed out. After the brief gleam of sunshine it had started to rain again, but he didn’t seem to care. The woman suggested fetching a hackney coach, but he refused quite politely, quite gently: he even lifted his hat as he went out. Obviously he did not know what he was doing. Then he went out into the rain and strode slowly across the Place.

VI The Scarlet Pimpernel

Instinct kept him away from the more frequented streets⁠—and instinct after awhile drew him in the direction of his friend’s house at the corner of The Circus. Sir Percy Blakeney had not gone out fortunately: the lackey who opened the door to my lord Tony stared astonished and almost paralysed for the moment at the extraordinary appearance of his lordship. Rain dropped down from the brim of his hat on to his shoulders: his boots were muddy to the knees, his clothes wringing wet. His eyes were wild and hazy and there was a curious tremor round his mouth.

The lackey declared with a knowing wink afterwards that his lordship must ’ave been drinkin’!

But at the moment his sense of duty urged him to show my lord⁠—who was his master’s friend⁠—into the library, whatever condition he was in. He took his dripping coat and hat from him and marshalled him across the large, square hall.

Sir Percy Blakeney was sitting at his desk, writing, when Lord Tony was shown in. He looked up and at once rose and went to his friend.

“Sit down, Tony,” he said quietly, “while I get you some brandy.”

He forced the young man down gently into a chair in front of the fire and threw another log into the blaze. Then from a cupboard he fetched a flask of brandy and a glass, poured some out and held it to Tony’s lips. The latter drank⁠—unresisting⁠—like a child. Then as some warmth penetrated into his bones, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands. Blakeney waited quietly, sitting down opposite to him, until his friend should be able to speak.

“And after all that you told me on Monday night!” were the first words which came from Tony’s quivering lips, “and the letter you sent me over on Tuesday! Oh! I was prepared to mistrust Martin-Roget. Why! I never allowed her out of my sight!⁠ ⁠… But her father!⁠ ⁠… How could I guess?”

“Can you tell me exactly what happened?”

Lord Tony drew himself up, and staring vacantly into the fire told his friend the events of the past four days. On Wednesday the courier with M. de Kernogan’s letter, breathing kindness and forgiveness. On Thursday his arrival and seeming ill-health, on Friday his departure with Yvonne. Tony spoke quite calmly. He had never been anything but calm since first, in the house in Laura Place, he had received that awful blow.

“I ought to have known,” he concluded dully, “I ought to have guessed. Especially since you warned me.”

“I warned you that Martin-Roget was not the man he pretended to be,” said Blakeney gently, “I warned you against him. But I too failed to suspect the duc de Kernogan. We are Britishers, you and I, my dear Tony,” he added with a quaint little laugh, “our minds will never be quite equal to the tortuous ways of these Latin races. But we are not going to waste time now talking about the past. We have got to find your wife before those brutes have time to wreak their devilries against her.”

“On the high seas⁠ ⁠… on the way to Holland⁠ ⁠… thence to Coblentz⁠ ⁠…” murmured Tony, “I have not yet shown you the duc’s letter to me.”

He drew from his pocket the crumpled, damp piece of paper on which the ink had run into patches and blotches, and which had become almost undecipherable now. Sir Percy took it from him and read it through:

“The duc de Kernogan and Lady Anthony Dewhurst are not on their way to Holland and to Coblentz,” he said quietly as he handed the letter back to Lord Tony.

“Not on their way to Holland?” queried the young man with a puzzled frown. “What do you mean?”

Blakeney drew his chair closer to his friend: a marvellous and subtle change had suddenly taken place in his individuality. Only a few moments ago he was the polished, elegant man of the world, then the kindly and understanding friend⁠—self-contained, reserved, with a perfect manner redolent of sympathy and dignity. Suddenly all that was changed. His manner was still perfect and outwardly calm, his gestures scarce, his speech deliberate, but the compelling power of the leader⁠—which is the birthright of such men⁠—glowed and sparkled now in his deep-set eyes: the spirit of adventure and reckless daring was awake⁠—insistent and rampant⁠—and subtle effluvia of enthusiasm and audacity emanated from his entire personality.

Sir Percy Blakeney had sunk his individuality in that of the Scarlet Pimpernel.

“I mean,” he said, returning his friend’s anxious look with one that was inspiring in its unshakable confidence, “I mean that on Monday last, the night before your wedding⁠—when I urged you to obtain Yvonne de Kernogan’s consent to an immediate marriage⁠—I had followed Martin-Roget to a place called The Bottom Inn on Goblin Combe⁠—a place well known to every smuggler in the county.”

“You, Percy!” exclaimed Tony in amazement.

“Yes, I,” laughed the other lightly. “Why not? I had had my suspicions of him for some time. As luck would have it he started off on the Monday afternoon by hired coach to Chelwood. I followed. From Chelwood he wanted to go on