“Has he, by Jupiter?”
They were interrupted by the sound of an impatient step on the stair, to be followed an instant later by the hasty entrance into the room of Mr. Rivenhall, who held an open sheet of letter paper in one hand and had not stayed even to divest himself of his driving coat before dashing upstairs in search of his mother.
Mr. Rivenhall was looking extremely forbidding and also a little pale. After stabling the chestnut that afternoon, he had first gone off to Bond Street to work off some of his fury in a sparring bout with Gentleman Jackson and had then repaired to White’s, where he had spent an hour playing billiards and fighting an impulse to go back to Berkeley Square to tell his provoking cousin that he had not meant a word of it. It was when he left the billiard room that he encountered his friend Mr. Wychbold. Mr. Wychbold, obedient to his orders, asked him whither Miss Stanton-Lacy was bound, and upon his replying curtly, “Nowhere, to my knowledge,” said, not without an inward qualm, “Yes, she is, dear boy! Saw her driving off in a post chaise and four. What’s more, she had Charlbury with her.”
Mr. Rivenhall stared at him. “Driving off in a post chaise and four? You are certainly mistaken!”
“Couldn’t have been!” said Mr. Wychbold, sustaining his role manfully.
“Foxed, then. My cousin is at home!” He added, as his friend seemed inclined to argue the matter, “What’s more, Cyprian, I’ll thank you not to spread such a tale about the town!”
“On, no, shouldn’t dream of doing so!” Mr. Wychbold made haste to assure him.
Mr. Rivenhall then went off to the subscription room, with the intention of playing a rubber or two of whist. The tables were all made up, and it was while he stood watching the play of a hand, his eyes on the cards and his mind dwelling obstinately and uneasily on Mr. Wychbold’s ridiculous delusion, that Miss Wraxton’s note was brought to him. The perusal of it had the effect of instantly killing any desire to play whist and of sending him off to Berkeley Square without one word of excuse to those who had invited him to take part in the next rubber. He let himself into the house, found Sophy’s letter to him laid upon the table in the hall, read it, and straightway went up the stairs two at a time in search of Lady Ombersley.
“Perhaps, Mama, you may be able to explain to me — ” he began to say, in a furious voice, and then broke off short, perceiving that she was not alone. “I beg your pardon! I did not know — ” Again he broke off, as Sir Horace raised his quizzing-glass, the better to observe him. “Oh!” he said, a wealth of sinister meaning in his voice. “So it’s you, is it, sir? Famous! You could not have come at a better moment!”
Shocked at the most unrespectful tone he had adopted, Lady Ombersley ventured on a feeble protest. “Charles! Pray — !”