“Indeed, madam, I think he would as lief kiss you as a queen,” Alice said blushing, “the bold gallant! He is here—and who is he?”
Lady Clancarty clasped and unclasped her bracelet while the roses deepened in her cheeks.
“He is called Richard Trevor,” she said softly; “a pretty name, Alice, Richard—rich-hearted, lion-hearted—like our great Plantagenet.”
Alice looked at her in bewilderment. Lady Betty had as many moods as April: did she mean to fall in love, at last, after all her loyalty to that unknown and terrible exile? Alice wondered. But saying nothing she stooped down, instead, to smooth the shining folds of the beautiful gown.
“Go fix the candles, Alice,” Lady Clancarty said, with a soft little sigh, “and place a table for cards—and the lute and guitar—place them there also. Presently my guests will be here.”
The handmaid obeyed, too perplexed by this new mood of my lady’s to venture on the smallest observation. She had arranged the room with simple taste when Lady Betty entered it a few moments later. It was not as large a room as her mother’s, but it was furnished, too, with an open fireplace where a single log burned, for the nights were chilly. Candles were set on the mantel and the table, while through the open door came the buzz of conversation, for Lady Sunderland was deep in a game of basset with Lady Dacres and his Grace of Bedford. Betty did not disturb them but observed them from a distance, noticing her mother’s rouged face and nodding headdress, and Lady Dacres’s pinched and eager features. The old dame was as keen as any gamester. The mother and daughter had so little in common that they seemed like strangers, and the younger countess stood looking at the log in deep thought when Richard Trevor was announced. As she courtesied, she gave him a quick, keen glance, but made nothing of that bold handsome face of his, though quick to note the distinction of his appearance and bearing, those of a man used to courts as well as camps. She saw it all at a glance, as she had seen it at first, but she chose to receive him with cool politeness.
“You play basset, of course, sir?” she said demurely.
But he saw the pitfall.
“I’m too poor, madam,” he replied smiling. “I can remember hearing an old courtier tell how he lost his fortune to King Charles at basset.”
“I trust the king gave it back to him,” she said quickly.