“Indeed?” Denzell said dangerously.
The word struck with stunning force in his own head.Indeed?He could almost hear her saying it. The recognition blanked out all his earlier antagonism, leaving him with an inward, groaning protest. Not again. If there was one thing more galling than the tinsel emptiness of this season, it was the persistent, unwanted remembrance of a certain person whom he had several times over sworn that he would forget. And just at this moment, when his friends were making ready to quiz him on matters upon which he preferred to remain silent. Damnation!
He pushed the thoughts away. Very well. Certain people — unspecified — did not have a monopoly on keeping their countenance in public. He maintained his languid stance, allowing his glass to dangle in his fingers.
He was sitting leaning his forearm on one raised leg, which was supported on a rung of the chair occupied by Frederick Lord Rowner, the fourth member of the group, who had pushed himself back and was resting his booted feet on the seat of another chair filched from an adjoining table.
Before either of his two friends could pursue their queries, this gentleman, a puzzled frown gathering in his rather vacant, if handsome features, looked round at Denzell.
“What must you explain, Hawk?”
“It’s no use asking me, dear boy,” Denzell told him lightly, and quite untruthfully. “I haven’t the remotest guess what they would be at.” And if he had, he decided savagely, he was damnedif he would explain a thing. Especially as he did not understand himself.
But Mr Congleton, his thin countenance drawn into lines of careful severity, rapped the table. “It won’t do, Hawk. Ye know perfectly well.”
“Do I?” Denzell drawled, wondering how he could find a way to turn the subject. It wanted only an opportunity.
“That’s right,” repeated Bedale, blinking somewhat owlishly. “And if you don’t, we do.”
Denzell dredged up a laugh, and cast up his eyes. “You’re foxed, Cyril.”
“No, I ain’t. Only on the second bottle. Can’t be foxed yet.”
“Never mind that,” put in Congleton, once again rapping the table as he addressed himself this time to Lord Rowner. “Lookee, Freddy. When have ye ever known Hawk to absent himself from a ball, eh?”
“What ball?”
“He means Lady Breachwood’s party,” Denzell explained, adding as he turned back again, “And why the devil shouldn’t I absent myself, Cong? Can you seriously suggest Lady Breachwood’s daughter to be an attraction?”
“Lady Breachwood’s party?” Freddy repeated before the other gentleman could reply. “Is that tonight?” He glanced down in consternation at his own person, clad like the others in raiment quite unsuitable for a ball. “Lord, I think I accepted that one!”
Lord Rowner was known for his vagueness, and Congleton said so.
“No one could be in the least surprised that you don’t turn up, Freddy — too late now, in any event — and everyone knows Cyril don’t dance. But Hawk? Now I ask ye, is it like him not to present himself where he is bound to meet every debutante on the town? Not to mention the Breachwood girl, though I grant ye, Hawk, she ain’t your style.”
“How do you know what is my style, Cong?”
“Ought to, damme. Been watching you at your tricks for years.”
Mr Congleton leaned across the table again, a smile of sly triumph under the pointing nose. “Ah, but there’s more to it than that. Got the whole tale from Ruishton in a letter.”
“The devil you did,” Denzell swore. What had Ossie told him? With Unice so close to her time, Osmond had put in no appearance in town this season. But deuce take him for a confoundedly literary fellow! Why he must needs engage so avidly in the epistolary arts with Cong was a matter passing Denzell’s comprehension. What the devil did he mean by this base betrayal?
Honesty compelled him to toss away this thought. Ossie had thought the whole affair to be a matter upon which he might exercise his wit at Denzell’s expense. Could he reasonably blame his friend for that? It was in such terms that he had begun it — to his shame and regret. Only he had not known then with what he was dealing.
Still, willingly could he have strangled Ossie. The last thing he had wanted was for his cronies to get hold of the story. Bad enough that he had thought they were seeking a reason to explain his unutterable tedium. Disastrous that they should have already found it.
How could he turn it off? As he must. Make light of it. Could he bear to be the cause of her name being bandied about the gentlemen’s clubs? He would not have that on his conscience — not in addition.
“I have no doubt at all,” he said, “that Ossie has exaggerated the matter out of all recognition.”
“Stuff,” scoffed Bedale. “If I know Ossie, I’d wager he understated the case.”
Lord Rowner was looking confused. “Hey! What is all this? What case are you talking of?”
“Pay no attention, Freddy. They’re both foxed.”
“No, we ain’t,” grinned Congleton. “And there’s no need thinking ye can turn it off. Ye see, Freddy, Ossie says our boy here tried a fall with a woman he calls the ice maiden. Tried — and failed. Had to retire defeated after the first two rounds.”
