“To kill you.”
Wilfrid’s smile implied that the Prince was welcome to try.
“He evidently imagines he has some grievance against you. I don’t ask for confidences, but I suppose some woman is the cause of it all?”
“It’s probable. He thinks that—but no matter what he thinks,” muttered Wilfrid, with a dark frown, as he recalled the night at the Silver Birch. If Ouvaroff could believe that of the Duchess, there would be a pleasure in slaying him.
“Well,” continued Lord St. Helens, “Ouvaroff now considers himself sufficiently skilled in his art, and it’s his intention to be present at this masquerade with the object of forcing a quarrel upon you.”
“You seem pretty well versed in his movements.”
“I have learned all this from a friendly minister, whose name I am not at liberty to disclose. He was not aware that you are my nephew, and referred to you as that eccentric Englishman, Lord Courtenay. He seems to have a kindly feeling towards you, for he suggested to me that to avoid a possible scandal, it might be as well if I were to exert my influence in persuading you to leave St. Petersburg secretly.”
“’Twas very kind of him! And your answer?”
“Can you not guess it?—‘Our house does not breed cowards, Monsieur le Comte. It is not our fashion to run away from any man. My nephew has no quarrel with Ouvaroff, but if Ouvaroff be bent upon forcing a quarrel with him, he’ll find he has the devil to deal with.’”
“Precisely my sentiments,” commented Wilfrid.