He stopped short in his tracks, an arrested expression in his face. “I had forgot her aunt! Deb, I believe I should journey into Wales to see her, and to beg for her support! What do you think?”
“It seems to me an excellent plan. She may well be able to assist you. In the meantime, I will keep Phoebe here, where she will be quite safe, depend upon it! You will not mention the matter to your mother, or to your cousin, until things are in a way to be settled.”
He grasped her hands gratefully. “You are the best of creatures, Deb! I do not know where we should be without you! I will come round tomorrow to talk the thing over with Phoebe, and to learn her aunt’s direction.”
She agreed to this, and he then took his leave of her, going home with his head in the clouds, so divorced from earthly considerations that he quite forgot to think out a convincing reason to account for his absence all day to his anxious parent. The result of this oversight was that he blurted out the truth when she questioned him, and then felt very guilty, because Lady Mablethorpe at once expressed her intention of calling in Grosvenor Square the very next morning to favour Mr Ravenscar with her opinion of his wicked callousness in exposing her only son to all the risks of curricle-racing.
On the following day, Miss Laxton stationed herself soon after breakfast at the window in the Yellow Saloon, to watch for Lord Mablethorpe’s arrival, while Miss Grantham went to her aunt’s dressing-room to see how that afflicted lady did.
Lady Bellingham’s spirits had undergone a further buffet by the arrival of a bill from her milliner. She had just thrust this iniquitous document into Deborah’s hands when her black page scratched on the door, and, upon being told to come in, handed a packet to Miss Grantham on a silver tray.
She picked it up, recognizing Mr Ravenscar’s bold fist, and observing that it had been brought round by hand, asked the boy if art answer was expected. No, he said: the messenger had not waited for any answer.
She dismissed him, and broke the seal, spreading open the stiff sheet of paper. A slim sheaf of bills was disclosed and, attached to them, one of Mr Ravenscar’s visiting-cards, with a curt message written across the top of it.
“With my compliments,” she read, and sat staring at the card in stunned silence.
Lady Bellingham eyed her with misgiving. “What is it, my love?” she asked uneasily. “Who is it from?”