“A thousand thanks! my brother will hasten to repay you.”
Audley bowed. “Your brother, I hope, will repay me in person, not before. When does he come?”
“Oh, he has again postponed his visit to London; he is so much needed in Vienna. But while we are talking of him, allow me to ask if your friend, Lord L’Estrange, is indeed still so bitter against that poor brother of mine?”
“Still the same.”
“It is shameful!” cried the Italian, with warmth; “what has my brother ever done to him that he should actually intrigue against the count in his own court?”
“Intrigue! I think you wrong Lord L’Estrange; he but represented what he believed to be the truth, in defence of a ruined exile.”
“And you will not tell me where that exile is, or if his daughter still lives?”
“My dear marchesa, I have called you friend, therefore I will not aid L’Estrange to injure you or yours. But I call L’Estrange a friend also; and I cannot violate the trust that—” Audley stopped short, and bit his lip. “You understand me,” he resumed, with a more genial smile than usual; and he took his leave.
The Italian’s brows met as her eye followed him; then, as she too rose, that eye encountered Randal’s.
“That young man has the eye of an Italian,” said the marchesa to herself, as she passed by him into the ballroom.