“That or Disaster,” said Sir Richard. “I shall know which when I am sober. But, to tell you the truth, I don’t care a jot! En avant, mon cousin!”
It was past midday when Lady Trevor, accompanied by her reluctant husband, called at her brother’s house in St James’s Square. She was admitted by the porter, obviously big with news, and handed on by him to the butler. “Tell Sir Richard that I am here,” she commanded, stepping into the Yellow Saloon.
“Sir Richard, my lady, is not at home,” said the butler, in a voice pregnant with mystery.
Louisa, who had extracted from her lord a description of Sir Richard’s proceedings at Almack’s on the preceding night, snorted. “You will tell him that his sister desires to see him,” she said.
“Sir Richard, my lady, is not upon the premises,” said the butler, working up to his climax.
“Sir Richard has trained you well,” said Louisa dryly. “But I am not to be put off so! Go and tell him that I wish to see him!”
“Sir Richard, my lady, did not sleep in his bed last night!” announced the butler.
George was surprised into indiscreet comment. “What’s that? Nonsense! He wasn’t as foxed as that when I saw him!”
“As to that, my lord,” said the butler, with dignity, “I have no information. In a word, my lord, Sir Richard has vanished.”
“Good Gad!” ejaculated George.