“That you would understand, my lady, and that he would be with you himself this afternoon.”
The servant was looking at the lady respectfully enough, but behind the respect lurked curiosity, for even a servant may question the drolleries and vagaries of his masters. And here, indeed, was a most droll mass of absurdities.
But the lady was not looking at the servant at all. Rather was she looking at Mr. Ashley, and something that she read in his narrowing eyes, in the smile that curved but one corner of his lips, caused her cheeks to blossom once again into damask roses—nay, not in damask roses; rather were they peonies and poppies that dyed her cheeks. She spoke no word at all, and only with a gesture of her hand did she dismiss the servant, a gesture of the hand that held the withered rose and the jeweled rings.
There was a long silence in the boudoir. My Lady Barbara was playing nervously with the rings Lord Farquhart’s servant had returned to her. Mr. Ashley was watching the girl.
“So my Lord Farquhart masqueraded as our gentleman of the highways?” Mr. Ashley’s voice was full of scorn.
A quick gleam shone in Barbara’s eyes. Her breath fluttered.
“Masqueraded!” she whispered.
There was another silence, and then Mr. Ashley spoke again, his voice, too, but little above a whisper.
“You mean, Barbara, that Lord Farquhart is this gentleman of the highways?”
“Oh, why, why do you say so?” she stammered.