“Why?” asked Shield.
“There’s no one else,” replied Sylvester bluntly. “My fault, of course. I should have provided for her—taken her up to London. But I’m old, and I’ve never pleased anyone but myself. I haven’t been to London above twice in the last three years. Too late to think of that now. I’m dying, and damme, the chit’s my grandchild! I’ll leave her safely bestowed. Time you was thinking of marriage.”
“I have thought of it.”
Sylvester looked sharply at him. “Not in love, are you?”
Shield’s face hardened. “No.”
“If you’re still letting a cursed silly calf affair rankle with you, you’re a fool!” said Sylvester. “I’ve forgotten the rights of it, if ever I knew them, but they don’t interest me. Most women will play you false, and I never met one yet that wasn’t a fool at heart. I’m offering you a marriage of convenience.”
“Does she understand that?” asked Shield.
“Wouldn’t understand anything else,” replied Sylvester. “She’s a Frenchwoman.”
Sir Tristram stepped down from the dais, and went over to the fireplace. Sylvester watched him in silence, and after a moment he said: “It might answer.”
“You’re the last of your name,” Sylvester reminded him.