It was only a little past noon on the following day when her Grace of Avon, accompanied most unwillingly by Lord Rupert, first called at Vidal’s home. The Marquis’s major-domo responded to his lordship’s anxious look with the smallest of bows. Lord Rupert heaved a sigh of relief. One never knew what might be found in Vidal’s apartments.
“I want my son,” her grace stated flatly.
But it appeared that the Marquis had not returned from Newmarket.
“There, what did I tell you?” said Rupert. “Leave a note for him, my dear. The devil alone knows when he’ll be back, eh, Fletcher?”
“I have no precise knowledge myself, my lord.”
“I shall come back again later,” announced her grace.
“But, Léonie — ”
“And again, and again, and again until he has returned,” said her grace obstinately.
She kept her word, but on her last visit, in full ball dress at seven in the evening, she declared that she would enter the house and await her son there.
Lord Rupert followed her weakly into the hall. “Ay, but I’m on my way to Devereaux’s card party,” he expostulated. “I can’t stay here all night!”