The spinney down the road, referred to by Beverley in his assignation with Captain Trimble, was not hard to locate. A careless question put to one of the ostlers elicited the information that it formed part of the grounds of Crome Hall. Leaving Pen to keep a sharp look-out for signs of an invasion by her relatives, Sir Richard set out shortly before eleven o’clock, to keep Captain Trimble’s appointment. The impetuous Captain had indeed called for his horse, and had set off in the direction of Bristol, with his cloak-bag strapped on to the saddle. He had paid his shot, so it did not seem as though he contemplated returning to Queen Charlton.
At the end of a ten-minute walk, Sir Richard reached the outskirts of the spinney. A gap in the hedge showed him a trodden path through the wood, and he followed this, glad to be out of the strong sunlight. The path led to a small clearing, where a tiny stream ran between clumps of rose-bay willow herb in full flower. Here a slightly built young gentleman, dressed in the extreme of fashion, was switching pettishly with his cane at the purple heads of the willow-herb. The points of his collar were so monstrous as to make it almost impossible for him to turn his head, and his coat fitted him so tightly that it seemed probable that it must have needed the combined efforts of three strong men to force him into it. Very tight pantaloons of a delicate biscuit-hue encased his rather spindly legs, and a pair of tasselled Hessians sneered at their sylvan surroundings.
The Honourable Beverley Brandon was not unlike his sister Melissa, but the classic cast of his features was spoiled by a pasty complexion, and a weakness about mouth and chin not shared by Melissa. He turned, as he heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and started forward, only to be fetched up short by the sight, not of Captain Trimble’s burly figure, but of a tall, well-built gentleman in whom he had not the slightest difficulty in recognizing his prospective brother-in-law.
He let his malacca cane drop from suddenly nerveless fingers. His pale eyes stared at Sir Richard. “W-w-what the d-devil?” he stammered.
Sir Richard advanced unhurriedly across the clearing. “Good-morning, Beverley,” he said, in his pleasant, drawling voice.
“W-what are you d-doing here?” Beverley demanded, the wildest surmises chasing one another through his brain.
“Oh, enjoying the weather, Beverley, enjoying the weather! And you?”
“I’m staying with a friend. F-fellow I knew up at Oxford!”
“Indeed?” Sir Richard’s quizzing-glass swept the glade, as though in search of Mr Brandon’s host. “A delightful rendezvous! One would almost suspect you of having an assignation with someone!”
“N-no such thing! I was j-just taking the air!”