Sharsley, thus abandoned, was consigned to the care of a tall, dashing housekeeper, known as Mrs. Bates, who wore rich silk gowns, expensive jewellery, rouged heavily, and knew all about the best brands of champagne. To do her justice, she was a capable and active person, thoroughly experienced in the management of servants, had a tongue like a whip-lash, and understood the art of getting work out of her subordinates—whilst she looked on. Two or three times a year there were house-parties for shooting and hunting, and on these occasions Lady Rashleigh, who, needless to add, had always kept on the best of terms with her brother, was the jolly, easy-going hostess; a totally different châtelaine to her frigid mother, and not easily surprised, daunted, or shocked. Few were aware that Connie had a very small income, (though her extravagant tastes were well-known,) and it was important that she should stand well with Hugo. He paid the rent of her London flat, her hotel bills when she accompanied him abroad, made her presents of frocks and furs, and was altogether a really generous brother. For her part, she listened to his grievances with sympathetic interest, cultivated his particular friends, gave charming little dinners and suppers, and was ever ready to play chaperon, buffer, or confidante.
Blagdon had naturally a wide circle of acquaintances, and was a good deal spoiled by the flattery which is habitually offered to an open-handed bachelor with the income of a prince. He had a special coterie of associates, known to envious scoffers as the ‘pack.’ Chief in importance was Lord Robert Cheyne (first cousin to Blagdon on the Scrope side); this hard-riding, round-backed little gentleman, had bright, twinkling brown eyes, and a forehead so lofty that it seemed to stretch half-way across his poll—and imparted a worshipful, sedate, and middle-aged appearance,—flatly contradicted by his lordship’s character and years. He had a kind heart, a dull brain, and a lean purse, and believed Cousin Hugo, “who gave him lots of shootin’ and huntin’,” to be a rare good sportin’ sort, and one of the best!
Next, the Baron Van Krab, a fair, well-set-up man of forty, a Britisher of Dutch extraction, and not unknown in the City. Captain Herdby, a retired cavalryman, handsome, well bred, well groomed, somewhat mysterious as to his antecedents, but knowing (or pretending to know) the great world, and ready to ride, dine, shoot, dance, or fill any gap at a moment’s notice. Sir Thomas and Lady Slater, ‘Foxy and Shocky’ as they were nicknamed; he being a little man with a bright, cunning eye, a bushy red moustache, and the legs of a jockey; a conspicuous patron of the turf; his wife, also devoted to racing, was a tall, showy-looking woman, with a large mouth, magnificent teeth, and an ever-ready laugh. She made an imposing figure in evening dress, told the most outrageous stories, and had an insatiable appetite for gossip and presents. But Mr. Blagdon’s most particular friend was Mrs. Fred Corbett, an attractive free-lance, with a willowy form, and a pair of wonderful amber eyes; a glittering creature, all frivolity, extravagance, and selfishness, separated from her husband, (who, it was said, had some vague occupation in the Argentine,) and Connie Rashleigh’s chère amie.
When Hugo arrived at Monte Carlo, he found the two ladies already installed at the Hermitage, the Baron and the Slaters were at the Paris.
The great man was naturally hailed with sincere and fervent joy, and, for his part, he was not indifferent to the adulation of his little court; he enjoyed listening to their spicy gossip, delicate and highly seasoned flatteries, whilst he steeped himself in sunshine and luxury. He gave his circle dinners and luncheons, yes and loans; lavished flowers and attentions on his sister and Lola Corbett, and was altogether in unusual good-humour, and as the guests put it, ‘great form.’
By the end of a fortnight, Monte and his associates had begun to pall on Blagdon; even the rooms had lost their fascination. The Baron had bet him a hundred pounds on pigeon-shooting—and won. Foxy Slater had put him on an outsider and let him in heavily, and the Slaters and Connie talked racing or roulette by the hour, and bored him to death.
As for Lola, she made awful play with her eyes, said poisonous things of other women, and was losing her looks! It was just at this critical period, that Letty Glyn was once more introduced to his attention. A casual remark from an utter stranger, threw, so to speak, this beautiful, innocent, unhappy girl, into Blagdon’s arms.
The gay season at Monte had reached high water, and he daily came across acquaintances. Lounging one morning against the parapet below the Casino with Colonel Roland—a man who belonged to his club—they idly watched the gay world go by. Here were men and women of all nations, and reputations; the most famous names in Europe were pacing that sunny promenade. The two noted and remarked on various familiar faces—princesses, duchesses, dancers, statesmen, actors, authors, and flocks of ordinary, and extraordinary, birds of passage.
“Full-dress parade,” said Roland, chucking away the end of an excellent cigar. “They are all very well—fine feathers make fine birds!—but if you ask me, there isn’t a woman here can touch that little Miss What’s-her-name that was at the Brakesby Hunt Ball; she could give every one of ’em a stone and a beating. Yes”—with a nudge—“and I saw you dancing with her, you dog! Oh, you have an eye in your head, and know what’s what. Of course, she is very young, and does not realise her own value, yet—but if she had half a chance, her beauty would be—be—” casting about for a simile, “famous, the talk of England!”
Blagdon looked hard at his friend, and drawled indifferently—