Michael's eyes grew grimmer at the thought, recalling the solemn vow to his grandfather that he would do his best to save the Berrington honour from further stain, and wipe out—if possible—that dark debt which a Berrington owed a Conyers.
Yes, for that reason, as well as the knowledge that he was Gabrielle's brother, he had sought to win Morice's friendship. But ever between them loomed the dark figures of John Denningham and Marcel Trouet.
That both the latter hated him he was aware, returning their animosity with interest.
Left to himself, Morice Conyers had the making of an honourable gentleman, but a fatal weakness and vanity had drawn him down into dark paths of vice and intrigue.
It does not do to look deep into the lives of the town-bred beaux and bucks of that vicious period; but Michael, made of stronger and better stuff, had turned with loathing and disgust from the enjoyments and pastimes into which the necessary shadowing of his father led him.
After many years of privation Sir Stephen was tasting greedily of the pleasures of life.
And Marcel Trouet took care that these should not lack the delicate spice of political intrigue. There are men who court notoriety, clean or unclean. There are others who love their flatterers so much that they allow themselves to be drawn into affairs for which they have no taste, and against which their better instincts cry out lustily enough.
Of such were Sir Stephen Berrington and Morice Conyers.
No wonder Michael found his task a hard one, for the two, pitted against him in his work of rescue, were no fools.
The leaders of the glorious Revolution had the greatest confidence in Marcel Trouet.