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The Shot
Lady Fanny turned the page.
“… My Heart bleeds for my deare Master. Give him Love, and Tell him howe Grately I do feel for him. The Newes of King Charles His Deathe shocked me beyond Measure. I dare not think what must be my Lord His Feelings. Howe I wish thatt I might be with Him nowe! Alas, it cannot be, but I am looking forward eagerly to the Day when I may once againe press His Hand. I do hope to come to England soone for a shortt Time. I cannot tell you howe I am longing to see You once more. I thank Heaven I came to Holland, for I have found Peace, and, in a Measure, Happiness. But after these Many Yeares my whole being is crying out to see You againe, and my deare Lord. I live for the Moment when I shall once more hear His Beloved Voice. …”
“I wish he might come now,” sighed Frances. “Indeed, indeed, Roxhythe needs him.”
Mr. Trenchard held counsel with Mr. Wildmay.
“Roxhythe knows too much. He will not join us.”
“And Sunderland?”
“Wavers. I think he will always play for safety. He will hazard naught. But Roxhythe. …” He paused, pursing his lips. “He knows too much.”
“What does he know?”
“That Argyle is coming, and that Sunderland is irresolute.”
“Gad, Trenchard! If he splits—!”
“He will. Somehow he must worm himself back into favour at Court. What surer way than to warn James ’gainst us? Since he refuses to join us that must be his intention.”
“Unless he is with Sunderland, and waits.”
“He is not with Sunderland; I know that. And I misliked his bearing: ’twas a thought too sinister.”
Wildmay was dismayed.
“What then is to be done?”
Trenchard drew his chair a little closer.
Across the ballroom Lady Frances espied her cousin. She beckoned him.
“You, David?”
“Why not?” he asked.
“No reason. I am very glad to see you. I have a message for you.”
“From Chris. … What does he say?”
“Yes, from Chris. How did you know?”
“I suppose I was thinking of him. How is he?”
“Very well. He sends his dear love to you and wishes he might be at your side during this—unhappy time.”
Roxhythe shook his head.
“Too late,” he said.
“Yes. He hopes to come to England soon, though, and bids me tell you that—well, I’ll give you his own words—that he is living for the moment when he may once more hear your beloved voice.”
Roxhythe’s eyes softened.
“Does he say that? And is he coming soon?”
“So he says. You—you will like to see him, David?”
“Can you ask? After seven years. … And he still loves me. He is very faithful.”
“Dear Chris! Yes, he’s faithful. He left his whole heart with you.”
“I had thought he would have recalled it long since—for little Hooknose.”
“He writes admiringly of William, but I think he does not love him.”
“Foolish. William would make a fine heroic figure.”
Fanny drew him closer.
“Do you think William—will strike at the King?”
“You are growing treasonable, Fanny. It seems possible. But he will only strike at the right moment. There is nothing foolhardy about the Orange.”
“No. I don’t like James. I think that there will be trouble.”
“You are really most unwise, my dear. You will find yourself clapped up in the Tower if you speak these shocking sentiments aloud,” said Roxhythe.
“Jasper is most annoyed. I think he hopes for William.”
Roxhythe was amused.
“I shall enjoy seeing Jasper turned intriguer. But tell him to leave Monmouth alone.”
Frances started.
“Heavens! Is Monmouth to rise?”
“I should not be surprised. He planned once—why not again?”
“He could never be King!”
“Of course he could not. He has not the head.”
“And Jasper would never support him.”
“Then all is well.” Roxhythe glanced round the room. “I counsel you, Fanny, to remark Mrs. Challis. The fair woman with the roguish smile. Yes, with Birchwood.”
Lady Frances looked, obediently.
“What of her?”
“She is rather piquante, is she not?”
“Am I to believe that you are once again in love?”
“Oh, no! She serves to distract me for the time.”
Frances tapped his arm with her fan.
“David, I am sure you have some dark scheme in mind! What do you purpose doing?” She found it quite impossible to read his face.
“You are so inquisitive,” sighed Roxhythe.
“Belike I am. Do you intend to win James his favour?”
“If you were a man, my dear, I should offer you my comfit-box.”
She stared.
“What am I to understand by that?”
“I forgot. You do not know. It was an old joke of Saint-Aignan’s. He used to aver that when I wished to turn the subject I offered him a sweetmeat.” He smiled a little, remembering. She pouted.
“Then I am snubbed. How hateful of you! I don’t want you to go over to James.”
“Tut-tut! I suppose you would like me to join the Orange?”
“Well! … Why not?”
“Cordieu, I could name an hundred reasons! Have you ever spoken with him?”
“No. What is he like?”
“He resembles nothing so much as an iceberg. And his Court is composed of Puritanical gentlemen who give themselves the airs of small sultans. I wish you had met him; it would have amused you.”
Fanny laughed.
“I think it would have depressed me! I was never Puritanical, David!”
“No,” he said. “Certainly not that. Do you remember the little Vicomte, I wonder?”
Fanny was not yet too old to blush.
“David, how dare you? I’ll not be reminded of my youthful indiscretions! How frightened I was to be sure! Papa was so strict for all his wickedness.”
“You were perturbed. So was the Vicomte.”
She chuckled behind her fan.
“Luckily you were in Paris at the time. I was so thankful!”
“So was not the Vicomte.”
“No. Dear me, how long ago it is! I cried when I heard that you had wounded him.”
“Did you? But then, you were young and foolish.”
“So I was. And now I am old and foolish. Very virtuous, however.”
Roxhythe nodded.
“Strange. …” he pondered. “I never thought Jasper would have held any fascination for you.”
“Like to unlike,” she retorted. “We are prosaically blissful.”
“You are. Quite depressing, in fact. Had you married me—pouf!” he snapped his fingers.
“Oh, I was never as foolish as that!” she said.
“Say rather that we were neither of us as foolish as that.”
“You are most objectionable,” she dimpled, and beckoned to Sedley who was passing.
My lord descended the steps of Lady Mitcham’s house, drawing on his gloves. As was always his custom, he was leaving the ball early. His coach awaited him.
It was a fine moonlight night, very still and beautiful. My lord stood for a moment on the steps, looking round. The door closed behind him. He walked to where his coach stood, and there he paused again, looking into the shadows by the wall. A little smile that was almost triumphant curved his lips. He turned his head.
“Shoot, my friend.”
The footman stared at him in amazement. My lord stood still.
Something moved in the shadows. There was a flash, a roar, and then smoke.
The Most Noble the Marquis of Roxhythe fell back into the footman’s arms.
“Touché!” he gasped. “No! Let him—go!”
The other footman stopped in his pursuit.
“Let—him go, my lord?” he asked, stupidly.
“What else, fool?” My lord’s hand was pressed to his side. “Take me home!”
“Sir, you are hurt! I’ll carry you into the house!” said William distractedly.
“No.” Roxhythe held fast to his consciousness. “I command—you—take—me—home!”