“By God, sir, you are a daring rogue!” cried Albemarle.
Sir Rowland's eyes blazed. “Anon, Your Grace, when, having failed of your proofs, you shall be constrained to restore me to liberty, I shall ask Your Grace to unsay that word.”
Albemarle stared, confounded, and in that moment the door opened, and Trenchard sauntered in, cane in hand, his hat under his arm, a wicked smile on his wizened face.
Leaving Blake's veiled threat unanswered, the Duke turned to the old rake. “These rogues,” said he, pointing to the prisoners, “demand proofs ere they will admit the truth of the impeachment.”
“Those proofs,” said Trenchard, “are already in Your Grace's hands.”
“Aye, but they have asked to be confronted with their accuser.”
Trenchard bowed. “Is it your wish, then, that I recite for them the counts on which I have based the accusation I laid before Your Grace?”
“If you will condescend so far,” said Albemarle.
“Blister me...!” roared Blake, when the Duke interrupted him.
“By God, sir!” he cried, “I'll have no such disrespectful language here. You'll observe the decency of speech and forbear from profanities, you damned rogue, or by God! I'll commit you forthwith.”