LORD DENNINGHAM FIGHTS ONCE TOO OFTEN
Lord Denningham was waiting, not patiently—that virtue had never been his—but with a growing irritation.
After all this was a fool's game.
Notoriety was cheap, and he could—if he had willed—have sought and found it in far more amusing paths than those of political intrigue.
He had a good mind to throw up the whole business and return to England by the next boat.
A fit of indigestion—or was it spleen? Perhaps the latter, for he was thinking of pretty Gabrielle Conyers.
If he went to England she should go with him. Yes! he had sworn that, and she might think herself a lucky woman that he would take her as Lady Denningham. He smiled over the thought, and then set his lips in a thin, tight line.
My Lady Denningham! Yes; he would teach the chit who was master, and she would love him the more for it.
As for this business of Trouet's, it was the means to an end.
He would masquerade as a converted marquis, teach a crowd of loutish peasants the tune of the Marseillaise, consign a few of these mock-heroic aristos to the devil, and take home his bride by way of reward, with the substantial thanks of the Committee of Public Safety and France in general.