“Did you, indeed!”
It was a facer. And yet it might have been foreseen. Perhaps the ladies had been a little too elated by their coup de main; or, had they assumed too confidently that at last they had made an end of a shameless intriguer?
Yes, a facer. Charlotte could have slain her brother. He had given away the whole position. It was the act of a traitor. In a voice shaken with anger she proceeded in no measured terms to tell him what she thought of him.
His Grace bore the tirade calmly and with fortitude. He had an instinct for justice—long a source of inconvenience to its possessor!—which now insisted that there was something to be said for the enemy point of view. Still he might not have borne its presentment so patiently had Charlotte not shown her usual cunning. “She did not speak for herself,” she was careful to assure him, “but for the sake of the Family as a whole.” The presence of this woman at Bridport House could no longer be tolerated.
To this the Duke said little, but he committed himself to the statement that Mrs. Sanderson was much maligned and that they all owed a great deal to her devotion.
This was too much for Charlotte. She bubbled over. “You must be mad!” Her voice was like the croak of a raven.
“Personally,” rejoined his mellifluous Grace, “I am particularly grateful that she has consented to stay on.”
“You’re mad, my friend.”
“So are we all.” His Grace folded the Times imperturbably.
Lady Wargrave was defeated. She abruptly decided to drop the subject. However, she did not quit the room until one last bolt had been winged at her adversary, yet in order to propel it she had to impose an iron restraint on her feelings.