She rose and found the stranger full before her in the doorway, gazing at her with an enormous pair of sloe-black eyes, under heavy inky brows, set in a hard, red-complexioned face. She burst into a loud, hoydenish laugh as Loveday tried to stammer something about a friend of her own.
“Never mind, the murder’s out, good Mrs. Abigail,” she cried, “it is me. I was determined to see the wench that has made such a fool of young Belamour. I vow I can’t guess what he means by it. Why, you are a poor pale tallow-candle, without a bit of colour in your face. Look at me! Shall you ever have such a complexion as mine, with ever so much rouge?”
“I think not,” said Aurelia, with one look at the peony face.
“Do you know who I am, miss? I am the Lady Bella Mar. The Countess of Aresfield is my mamma. I shall have Battlefield when she dies, and twenty thousand pounds on my wedding day. The Earl of Aresfield and Colonel Mar are my brothers, and a wretched little country girl like you is not to come between me and what my mamma has fixed for me; so you must give it up at once, for you see he belongs to me.”
“Not yet, madam,” said Aurelia.
“What do you say? Do you pretend that your masquerade was worth a button?”
“That is not my part to decide,” said Aurelia. “I am bound by it, and have no power to break it.”
“You mean the lawyers! Bless you, they will never give it to you against me! You’d best give it up at once, and if you want a husband, my mamma has one ready for you.”
“I thank her ladyship,” said Aurelia, with simple dignity, “but I will not give her the trouble.”
She glanced at her wedding ring, and so did Lady Belle, who screamed, “You’ve the impudence to wear that! Give it to me.”