Mary heard the door shut, and turned. Vidal had thrown down his whip and gloves, and was watching her in some amusement. “Well, Mistress Discretion?” he said. “Do you take off that mask, or must I?”
She put up her hands to the strings, and untied it. “I think it has served its turn,” she said composedly, and put back her hood.
The smile was wiped from his face; he stood staring at her. “What the devil — ?” he began.
She took off her cloak and laid it carefully on a chair; she had quite forgotten her pistol, for she had a part to play. She tried to smile archly, as Sophia could, and hoped she did not boggle it.
“Oh, my lord, I vow you are too easy to trick!” she said, and tittered, quite in Sophia’s manner.
He strode up to her, and caught her wrists in a painful grasp. “I am, am I? We shall see, my girl. Where’s your sister?”
“La, where should she be but in her bed?” Mary answered. “Lord, how we laughed when she showed me your letter! She was all for playing some jest on you to punish you for your impudence. So we put our heads together, my lord, and hit on the very thing. Oh, she will die of laughing when I tell her how you never suspected ’twas I you had in the coach, and not her at all!” There was not a tremor in Miss Challoner’s voice as she spoke her part; she was all flippant vulgarity upon the surface. But under the surface, good God, is he going to murder me? she thought.
Murder certainly looked out of his eyes, his grip on her wrists made her wince. “A jest, is it?” he said. “Her jest — or yours? Answer me!”
Her rôle was hard to maintain, but she continued airily enough: “Oh well, to be sure ’twas I carried it through, and I dare say I should have thought of it if she had not.”
“She thought of it?” he interrupted.