“Lynborough.’ ”
Stillford ended his reading, and handed the scroll to the Marchesa with a bow. She took it and looked at Lynborough’s signature. Her cheeks were flushed, and her lips struggled not to smile. The rest were silent. She looked at Stillford, who smiled back at her and drew from his pocket—a stylographic pen.
“Yes,” she said, and took it.
She wrote below Lynborough’s name:
“In Witness whereof, in a desire for peace and amity, in all mutual trust and honourable confidence, the said Marchesa has affixed her name on this same Eve of the said Feast of St John Baptist. Helena di San Servolo.”
She handed it back to Stillford. “Let it dry in the beautiful sunlight,” she said.
The Ambassadors rose to their feet. She rose too and went over to Stabb with outstretched hands. A broad smile spread over Stabb’s spacious face. “It’s just like Ambrose,” he said to her as he took her hands. “He gets what he wants—but in the prettiest way!”
She answered him in a low voice: “A very knightly way of saving a foolish woman’s pride.” She raised her voice. “Bid Lord Lynborough—ay, Sir Ambrose Athelstan Caverly, Baron Lynborough, attend here at Nab Grange to pay his homage to-morrow at noon.” She looked round on them all, smiling now openly, the red in her cheeks all triumphant over her olive hue. “Say I will give him private audience to receive his homage and to ask his friendship.” With that the Marchesa departed, somewhat suddenly, into the house.
Amid much merriment and reciprocal congratulations the Ambassadors were honourably escorted back to their coach and four.
“Keep your eye on the Castle to-night,” Roger Wilbraham whispered to Norah as he pressed her hand.