She awoke next morning heavy-eyed and despondent. Her chocolate was brought in on a tray with her letters. She sipped it, and with her free hand turned over the billets in the hope of seeing the Viscount’s sprawling handwriting. But there was no letter from him, only a sheaf of invitations and bills.
Setting down her cup she began to open these missives. Yes, just as she had thought. A rout-party; a card-party; she did not care if she never touched a card again; a picnic to Boxhill: never! of course it would rain; a concert at Ranelagh: well, she only hoped she would never be obliged to go to that odious place any more!... Good God, could one have spent three hundred and seventy-five guineas at a mantua-maker’s? And what was this? Five plumes at fifty louis apiece! Well, that was really too provoking, when they had been bought for that abominable Quesaco coiffure which had not become her at all.
She broke the seal of another letter, and spread open the single sheet of plain, gilt-edged paper. The words, clearly written in a copper-plate hand, fairly jumped at her.
If the Lady who lost a ring-brooch of pearls and diamonds in Half-Moon Street on the night of the Richmond House Ball will come alone to the Grecian Temple at the end of the Long Walk at Vauxhall Gardens at Midnight precisely on the twenty-eighth day of September, the brooch shall be restored to her by the Person in whose possession it now is.
There was no direction, no signature; the handwriting was obviously disguised. Horatia stared at it for one incredulous minute and then, with a smothered shriek, thrust her chocolate tray into the abigail’s hands and cast off the bed-clothes. “Quick, I m-must get up at once!” she said. “Lay me out a w-walking dress, and a hat, and my g-gloves! Oh, and run d-downstairs and tell someone to order the l-landaulet—no, not the l-landaulet! my town-coach, to c-come round in half an hour. And take all these l-letters away, and oh, d-do please hurry!”
For once she wasted no time over her toilet, and half an hour later ran down the stairs, her sunshade caught under her arm, her gloves only half on. There was no sign of Rule, and after casting a wary glance in the direction of the library door, she sped past it and was out in the street before anyone could have time to observe her flight.
The coach was waiting, and directing the coachman to drive to Lord Winwood’s lodging in Pall Mall, Horatia climbed in and sank back against the cushions with a sigh of relief at having succeeded in leaving the house without encountering Rule.
The Viscount was at breakfast when his sister was announced, and looked up with a frown. “Lord, Horry, what the devil brings you at this hour? You shouldn’t have come; if Rule knows you’ve dashed off at daybreak it’s enough to make him suspect something’s amiss.”
Horatia thrust a trembling hand into her reticule and extracted a crumpled sheet of gilt-edged paper. “Th-that’s what brings me!” she said. “Read it!”
The Viscount took the letter and smoothed it out. “Well, sit down, there’s a good girl. Have some breakfast... Here, what’s this?”