The Viscount nodded. “Mighty good of you, Pom. I’ll have to see my sister first thing. You’d best come with me.”
He got up and reached for his waistcoat. Someone scratched on the door, and upon being told to come in, the valet entered with a sealed letter on a salver. The Viscount picked it up and broke the seal.
The note was from Horatia, and was evidently written in great agitation. “ Dear Pel: The most Dredful thing has happened. Please come at once. I am quite Distracted. Horry.”
“Waiting for an answer?” the Viscount asked curtly.
“No, my lord.”
“Then send a message to the stables, will you, and tell Jackson to bring the phaeton round.”
Sir Roland, who had watched with concern the reading of the note, thought he had rarely seen his friend turn so pale, and coughed a second time. “Pel, dear old boy—must remind you—she hit him with the poker. Laid him out, you know.”
“Yes,” said the Viscount, looking a trifle less grim. “So she did. Help me into my coat, Pom. We’ll drive round to Grosvenor Square now.”
When, twenty minutes later, the phaeton drew up outside Rule’s house, Sir Roland said that perhaps it would be better if he did not come in, so the Viscount entered the house alone and was shown at once to one of the smaller saloons. Here he found his sister, looking the picture of despair.
She greeted him without recrimination. “Oh, P-Pel, I’m so glad you’ve come! I am quite undone, and you must help me!”