His lordship frowned inquiry. “And who may those be?”
“Most decent folk, I should conceive, if this be an example of your ways.”
“By God, sir! You are a thought too pert. We'll mend that presently. I will first convince you of your error, and you, Hortensia.”
“It will be interesting,” said Mr. Caryll, and meant it.
Rotherby turned from him, keeping a tight rein upon his anger; and so much restraint in so tempestuous a man was little short of wonderful. “Hortensia,” he said, “this is fool's talk. What object could I seek to serve?” She drew back another step, contempt and loathing in her face. “This man,” he continued, flinging a hand toward Jenkins, and checked upon the word. He swung round upon the fellow. “Have you fooled me, knave?” he bawled. “Is it true what this man says of you—that ye're no parson at all?”
Jenkins quailed and shriveled. Here was a move for which he was all unprepared, and knew not how to play to it. On the bridegroom's part it was excellently acted; yet it came too late to be convincing.
“You'll have the license in your pocket, no doubt, my lord,” put in Mr. Caryll. “It will help to convince the lady of the honesty of your intentions. It will show her that ye were abused by this thief for the sake of the guinea ye were to pay him.”
That was checkmate, and Lord Rotherby realized it. There remained him nothing but violence, and in violence he was exceedingly at home—being a member of the Hell Fire Club and having served in the Bold Bucks under his Grace of Wharton.
“You damned, infernal marplot! You blasted meddler!” he swore, and some other things besides, froth on his lips, the veins of his brow congested. “What affair was this of yours?”
“I thought you desired me for a witness,” Mr. Caryll reminded him.