There was only one person who guessed, and he seemed to derive a certain sardonic amusement from it. Robert, Baron Lethbridge, could usually derive amusement from the frailty of his fellows.

Upon an evening two days after the Earl of Rule’s second visit to the Winwood establishment, Lady Massey held a card-party in Hertford Street. These parties were always well attended, for one might be sure of deep play, and a charming hostess, whose cellar (thanks to the ungenteel but knowledgeable Sir Thomas) was excellently stocked.

The saloon upon the first floor was a charming apartment, and set off its mistress to advantage. She had lately purchased some very pretty pieces of gilt furniture in Paris, and had had all her old hangings pulled down, and new ones of straw-coloured silk put in their place, so that the room, which had before been rose-pink, now glowed palely yellow. She herself wore a gown of silk brocade with great panniers, and an underskirt looped with embroidered garlands. Her hair was dressed high in a pouf au sentiment, with curled feathers for which she had paid fifty louis apiece at Bertin’s, and scented roses, placed artlessly here and there in the powdered erection. This coiffure had been the object of several aspiring ladies’ envy, and had put Mrs Montague-Damer quite out of countenance. She too had acquired a French fashion, and had expected to have it much admired. But the exquisite pouf au sentiment made her own chien couchant look rather ridiculous, and quite spoiled her evening’s enjoyment.

The gathering in the saloon was a modish one; dowdy persons had no place in Lady Massey’s house, though she could welcome such freaks as the Lady Amelia Pridham, that grossly fat and free-spoken dame in the blonde satin who was even now arranging her rouleaus in front of her. There were those who wondered that the Lady Amelia should care to visit in Hertford Street, but the Lady Amelia, besides being of an extreme good nature, would go to any house where she could be sure of deep basset.

Basset was the game of the evening, and some fifteen people were seated at the big round table. It was when Lord Lethbridge held the bank that he chose to make his startling announcement. As he paid on the couch he said with a faintly malicious note in his voice: “I don’t see Rule tonight. No doubt the bridegroom-elect dances attendance in South Street.”

Opposite him, Lady Massey quickly looked up from the cards in front of her, but she did not say anything.

A Macaroni, with an enormous ladder-toupet covered in blue hair-powder, and a thin, unhealthily sallow countenance, cried out: “What’s that?”

Lord Lethbridge’s hard hazel eyes lingered for a moment on Lady Massey’s face. Then he turned slightly to look at the startled Macaroni. He said smilingly: “Do you tell me I am before you with the news, Crosby? I thought you of all people must have known.” His satin-clad arm lay on the table, the pack of cards clasped in his white hand. The light of the candles in the huge chandelier over the table caught the jewels in the lace at his throat, and made his eyes glitter queerly.

“What are you talking about?” demanded the Macaroni, half rising from his seat.

“But Rule, my dear Crosby!” said Lethbridge. “Your cousin Rule, you know.”

“What of Rule?” inquired the Lady Amelia, regretfully pushing one of her rouleaus across the table.

Lethbridge’s glance flickered to Lady Massey’s face again.

“Why, only that he is about to enter the married state,” he replied.

There was a stir of interest. Someone said “Good God, I thought he was safe to stay single! Well, upon my soul! Who’s the fortunate fair one, Lethbridge?”

“The fortunate fair one is the youngest Miss Winwood,” said Lethbridge. “A romance, you perceive. I believe she is not out of the schoolroom.”

The Macaroni, Mr Crosby Drelincourt, mechanically straightened the preposterous bow he wore in place of a cravat. “Pho, it is a tale!” he said uneasily. “Where had you it?”

Lethbridge raised his thin, rather slanting brows. “Oh, I had it from the little Maulfrey. It will be in the Gazette by tomorrow.”

“Well, it’s very interesting,” said a portly gentleman in claret velvet, “but the game, Lethbridge, the game!”

“The game,” bowed his lordship, and sent a glance round at the cards on the table.

Lady Massey, who had won the couch, suddenly put out her hand and nicked the corner of the Queen that lay before her. “Paroli!” she said in a quick, unsteady voice.

Lethbridge turned up two cards, and sent her a mocking look. “Ace wins, Queen loses,” he said. “Your luck is quite out, my lady.”

She gave a little laugh. “I assure you I don’t regard it. Lose tonight, win tomorrow. It goes up and down.”

The game proceeded. It was not until later when the company stood about in little chatting groups, partaking of very excellent refreshments, that Rule’s betrothal was remembered. It was Lady Amelia, rolling up to Lethbridge, with a glass of hot negus in one hand and a sweet biscuit in the other, who said in her downright way: “You’re a dog, Lethbridge. What possessed you to hop out with that, man?”

“Why not?” said his lordship coolly. “I thought you would all be interested.”

Lady Amelia finished her negus, and looked across the room towards her hostess. “Diverting,” she commented. “Did she think to get Rule?”

Lethbridge shrugged. “Why do you ask me? I’m not in the lady’s confidence.”

“H’m! You’ve a trick of knowing things, Lethbridge. Silly creature. Rule’s not such a fool.” Her cynical eye wandered in search of Mr Drelincourt, and presently found him, standing apart, and pulling at his underlip. She chuckled. “Took it badly, eh?”

Lord Lethbridge followed the direction of her gaze. “Confess, I’ve afforded you some amusement, my lady.”

“Lord, you’re like a gnat, my dear man.” She became aware of little Mr Paget inquisitively at her elbow, and dug at his ribs with her fan. “What do you give for Crosby’s chances now?”

Mr Paget tittered. “Or our fair hostess’s, ma’am!”

She gave a shrug of her large white shoulders. “Oh, if you want to pry into the silly woman’s affairs—!” she said, and moved away.

Mr Paget transferred his attention to Lord Lethbridge.

“’Pon my soul, my lord, I’ll swear she went white under the rouge!” Lethbridge took snuff. “Cruel of you, my lord, ’pon my soul it was!”

“Do you think so?” said his lordship with almost dulcet sweetness.

“Oh, positively, sir, positively! Not a doubt she had hopes of Rule. But it would never do, you know. I believe his lordship to be excessively proud.”

“Excessively,” said Lethbridge, with so much dryness in his voice that Mr Paget had an uncomfortable feeling that he had said something inopportune.

He was so obsessed by this notion that he presently confided the interchange to Sir Marmaduke Hoban, who gave a snort of laughter and said: “Damned inopportune!” and walked off to replenish his glass.

Mr Crosby Drelincourt, cousin and heir-presumptive to my Lord of Rule, seemed disinclined to discuss the news. He left the party early, and went home to his lodging in Jermyn Street, a prey to the gloomiest forebodings.

He passed an indifferent night, and awoke finally at an uncommonly early hour, and demanded the London Gazette. His valet brought it with the cup of chocolate with which it was Mr Drelincourt’s habit to regale himself on first waking. Mr Drelincourt seized the journal and spread it open with agitated fingers. The announcement glared at him in incontrovertible print.

Mr Drelincourt looked at it in a kind of daze, his nightcap over one eye.

“Your chocolate, sir,” said his valet disinterestedly.

Mr Drelincourt was roused out of his momentary stupor. “Take the damned stuff away!” he shouted, and flung the Gazette down. “I am getting up!”

“Yes, sir. Will you wear the blue morning habit?”

Mr Drelincourt swore at him.

The valet, accustomed to Mr Drelincourt’s temper, remained unmoved, but found an opportunity while his master was pulling on his stockings to peep into the Gazette. What he saw brought a faint, sour smile to his lips. He went away to prepare a razor with which to shave Mr Drelincourt.

The news had shocked Mr Drelincourt deeply, but habit was strong, and by the time he had been shaved he had recovered sufficient mastery over himself to take an interest in the all-important question of his dress. The result of the care he bestowed upon his person was certainly startling. When he was at last ready to sally forth into the street he wore a blue coat with long tails and enormous silver buttons, over a very short waistcoat, and a pair of striped breeches clipped at the knee with rosettes. A bow served him for cravat, his stockings were of silk, his shoes had silver buckles and heels so high that he was obliged to mince along; his wig was brushed up en herisson to a point in the front, curled in pigeons’ wings over the ears, and brought down at the back into a queue confined in a black silk bag. A little round hat surmounted this structure, and to complete his toilet he had a number of fobs and seals, and carried a long, clouded cane embellished with tassels.

Although the morning was a fine one Mr Drelincourt hailed a chair, and gave the address of his cousin’s house in Grosvenor Square. He entered the sedan carefully, bending his head to avoid brushing his toupet against the roof; the men picked up the poles, and set off northwards with their exquisite burden.

Upon his arrival in Grosvenor Square Mr Drelincourt paid off the chairmen and tripped up the steps to the great door of Rule’s house. He was admitted by the porter, who looked as though he would have liked to have shut the door in the visitor’s painted face. Mr Drelincourt was no favourite with Rule’s household, but being in some sort a privileged person he came and went very much as he pleased. The porter told him that my lord was still at breakfast, but Mr Drelincourt waved this piece of information aside with an airy gesture of one lily-white hand. The porter handed him over to a footman, and reflected with satisfaction that that was a nose put well out of joint.

Mr Drelincourt rarely waited upon his cousin without letting his gaze rest appreciatively on the fine proportions of his rooms, and the elegance of their appointments. He had come to regard Rule’s possessions in some sort as his own, and he could never enter his house without thinking of the day when it would belong to him. Today, however, he was easily able to refrain from the indulgence of his dream, and he followed the footman to a small breakfast-room at the back of the house with nothing in his head but a sense of deep injury.

My lord, in a dressing-gown of brocaded silk, was seated at the table with a tankard and a sirloin before him. His secretary was also present, apparently attempting to cope with a number of invitations for his lordship, for as Mr Drelincourt strutted in he said despairingly: “But, sir, you must surely remember that you are promised to her Grace of Bedford tonight!”

“I wish,” said Rule plaintively, “that you would rid yourself of that notion, my dear Arnold. I cannot imagine where you had it. I never remember anything disagreeable. Good-morning, Crosby.” He put up his glass the better to observe the letters in Mr Gisborne’s hand. “The one on the pink paper, Arnold. I have a great predilection for the one writ on pink paper. What is it?”

“A card-party at Mrs Wallchester’s, sir,” said Mr Gisborne in a voice of disapproval.

“My instinct is never at fault,” said his lordship. “The pink one it shall be. Crosby, really there is no need for you to stand. Have you come to breakfast? Oh, don’t go, Arnold, don’t go.”

“If you please, Rule, I wish to be private with you,” said Mr Drelincourt, who had favoured the secretary with the smallest of bows.

“Don’t be shy, Crosby,” said his lordship kindly. “If it’s money Arnold is bound to know all about it.”

“It is not,” said Mr Drelincourt, much annoyed.

“Permit me, sir,” said Mr Gisborne, moving to the door.

Mr Drelincourt put down his hat and his cane, and drew out a chair from the table. “Not breakfast, no!” he said a little peevishly.

The Earl surveyed him patiently. “Well, what is it now, Crosby?” he inquired.

“I came to,” said Mr Drelincourt, “I came to speak to you about this—this betrothal.”

“There’s nothing private about that,” observed Rule, addressing himself to the cold roast beef.