“It were to give yourselves useless trouble, gentlemen,” said Trenchard, with so much assurance that it was plain Albemarle hesitated.
“Beware of Mr. Trenchard, Your Grace,” cried Ruth. “He is Mr. Wilding's friend, and if there is a plot he is sure to be in it.”
Albemarle, startled, looked at Trenchard. Had the accusation come from either of the men the Duke would have silenced him and abused him; but coming from a woman, and so comely a woman, it seemed to His Grace worthy at least of consideration. But nimble Mr. Trenchard was easily master of the situation.
“Which, of course,” he answered, with fine sarcasm, “is the reason why I have been at work for the past four-and-twenty hours to lay proofs of this plot before Your Grace.”
Albemarle was ashamed of his momentary hesitation.
“For the rest,” said Trenchard, “it is perfectly true that I am Mr. Wilding's friend. But the lady is even more intimately connected with him. It happens that she is his wife.”
“His... his wife!” gasped the Duke, whilst Phelips chuckled, and Colonel Luttrell's face grew dark.
Trenchard's wicked smile flickered upon his mobile features. “There are rumours current of court paid her by Sir Rowland, there. Who knows?” he questioned most suggestively, arching his brows and tightening his lips. “Wives are strange kittle-kattle, and husbands have been known before to grow inconvenient. Upon reflection, Your Grace will no doubt discern the precise degree of faith to attach to what this lady may tell you against Mr. Wilding.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Ruth, her cheeks flaming crimson. “But this is monstrous!”
“Tis how I should myself describe it,” answered Trenchard without shame.