“My dear ma’am—this shocking intelligence—my poor nephew! I was so much upset I was obliged to have half a pint of blood taken from me!” he uttered.
“Ah, a wise precaution, my lord!” nodded Miss Beccles. “I have the greatest faith in the good effects of judicious cupping.”
He turned to her eagerly. “There is nothing like it!” he assured her. “My dear friend, his Royal Highness the Prince Regent, swears by it, you know! I do not know how many pints he has not had taken from him! But this is not to the point! My poor nephew! Ah, no one but myself had a value for the boy!”
Elinor thought it prudent to keep her gaze discreetly lowered.
His lordship applied his handkerchief to his eyes again. “Carried off so young!” he sighed. “I had always a kindness for him, for you must know he was so like my dear brother it could not but affect me profoundly! But I do not properly understand—in short, ma’am, I had no notion he was married! Indeed, I doubted that it could be so, but I perceive—It is very strange!”
“My marriage to Mr. Cheviot, sir,” said Elinor, in a low tone, “took place when he lay upon his deathbed. Our—our betrothal was a secret known only to—known only to my Lord Carlyon!”
He looked much struck. “Known to Carlyon! You amaze me, ma’am! I had not supposed—He cannot have known of this marriage!”
She replied with more firmness, “You are mistaken: I owe my marriage solely to Lord Carlyon’s exertions to bring it about.”
“Impossible!” he exclaimed. “Why, it cuts up all his hopes! That is, if the poor boy made his will before he died, but I dare say he had no time.”
“On the contrary, my lord, Mr. Cheviot drew up his will in my favor.”