“No,” said Sherry. “No. George — ”
Lord Wrotham adjusted the monstrous nosegay he wore as a buttonhole. “Lady Sherry ready to drive out with me?” he asked. “Going to tool my curricle down to Richmond. Trying out my new pair. Prime bits of blood! Heard about Gil?”
“Gil ...” said Sherry. “What about Gil?”
George laughed. “Why, only that that old uncle of his looks like obliging him at last! Seems to be in a pretty bad way. Gil’s posted down to Hertfordshire to be in at the death. By God, I wish I had an uncle to leave me a handsome fortune!”
Sherry stared at him, a frown in his eyes. “George, are you sure of that?” he demanded.
“Saw him off not two hours ago. Why?” responded George.
“Nothing,” Sherry said, passing a hand across his brow. “I only wondered — No reason at all.”
Lord Wrotham, who was finding it increasingly difficult to meet his friend’s gaze, fell to contemplating the polish on one topboot. He had not expected to enjoy this interview, and he was not enjoying it. Sherry looked positively haggard, he thought; and if he had not promised Hero not to divulge her whereabouts to Sherry he would have felt extremely tempted to have told him the truth. But when he had seen the little party off from Stratton Street earlier in the morning he had given his word to Hero, and he was not the man to go back on that. He hoped that his confidence in Mr Ringwood’s judgment would not prove to have been misplaced, and said, as casually as he could: “Does Kitten mean to come with me, Sherry?”
The Viscount pulled himself together. “No. The fact is, she’s not feeling quite the thing. Asked me to make her apologies.”
“Good God, I trust nothing serious, Sherry?”