Would it not be the most bitter irony of which Fate was capable if the tailor's daughter became Countess of Stowmaries after all?
Such a thing had become possible now, nay, probable, thanks to the blunder made by Sir John. As for my lord, he seemed unaware of the danger—he was too fond of laughing at Michael Kestyon's pretensions, and was ever inclined to dismiss them as puerile and beneath contempt; mayhap, too, that he was fatuous enough to think that even without wealth or title his adored one would become his.
But the adored one had no such intention.
Like unto the adventurer himself up in that squalid garret above the roofs of London, Mistress Peyton could not rest that night. Her active mind was troubled with plans of how to undo the blunders of the past hour.
And whilst Michael dreamed of future glory, of power and of wealth, Julia racked her woman's brain to find a means to bring him back to the dust.
PART III
CHAPTER XVII
Her eyes were deeper than the depth