“Not very old,” said Miss Challoner, “or you would have more sense.” She smiled at him, a warm smile of understanding. “Please permit this poor man to blood you, my lord.”
“Oh, very well!” snapped his lordship, relaxing again. “And for the future, ma’am, I’ll thank you not to interfere in my concerns.”
“I’ll try and remember your expressed wish, sir,” promised Miss Challoner.
My lord gave his wrist up to the surgeon, but continued to look at Mary. “If I don’t end by wringing your neck, my girl, you will be in no way to blame,” he informed her.
The cupping left his lordship too weak to attempt the journey to Paris. He slept most of the day, and when he lay awake seemed disinclined to talk. Miss Challoner, a capable female, took charge of the entire party, and issued a number of orders concerning my lord’s well-being that made Mr. Fletcher exchange startled looks with Mr. Timms. Both these highly discreet gentlemen treated her from the first with proper respect (which surprised her), but by the end of the day their respect was no longer due to their fear of his lordship.
The Marquis had the first intimation of the change that was taking place in his household at four in the afternoon, when Fletcher, his face like a mask, presented him with a bowl of thin gruel. He had received it from Miss Challoner, and meeting Mr. Timms upon the stairs, had said with great presence of mind: “You may take this to his lordship, Horace.”
Mr. Timms, after one glance at the tray, declined the office. “And if I was you, Mr. Fletcher, I would send it by one of these Frenchies,” he recommended.
The suggestion offended Mr. Fletcher’s dignity, and he said stiffly: “And why, my lad, can you not wait upon his lordship?”
“Because I don’t want a basin of gruel thrown at my head,” replied Mr. Timms with brutal frankness.
The Marquis looked at the contents of the bowl in the silence of amazement. Then he looked at his major-domo, who stared woodenly at the bed-post. “My good fool,” said the Marquis, “what is this repulsive pap?”