This time even Renforth allowed himself the faintest alteration of expression. “I have every confidence in your powers of persuasion should you choose to dust them off.”
“He means your endurance,” said Baines.
“Or your surrender,” Stuart added.
Arch turned on them both. “Do either of you imagine yourselves to be helpful?”
“Not at all,” said Baines cheerfully.
The laughter, though brief, did something to lift the press of danger from the room—not by diminishing it, but by rendering it momentarily bearable. Yet beneath it, Arch felt the full force of Renforth’s meaning. This was no mere social manoeuvre. If Kendall suspected Miss Vale, then every hour she spent unprotected multiplied the hazard. Whatever foolishness Society might see in a gentleman escorting a lady too often was preferable to the alternative.
He said at last, more quietly, “She will demand an explanation.”
“Then give her one,” Renforth replied. “Not the whole, perhaps, but enough. She is already involved beyond what is ideal. She has earned the courtesy of the truth where it concerns her own safety.”
Fielding nodded once. “He is right.”
“I know he is right,” Arch returned. “I merely do not relish the prospect of being the bearer of it.”
Stuart, straightening from the mantel, said, “That is because you do not yet appreciate the elegant absurdity of the situation. You must call more often, escort her everywhere, and perhaps declare yourself in tones of solemn admiration—all in the name of preserving appearances. It is a burden almost too cruel to be borne.”
“Oh, I understand the absurdity, I assure you.”
Stuart placed a sympathetic hand to his chest, then glanced towards the clock. “By the by, Patience has returned from Taywards, so I think I will excuse myself.”
Baines’ head came up at once. “Returned, has she?”
“This evening.” Stuart reached for his gloves with an ease which, to anyone who did not know him, might have suggested indifference. To those in the room, it did no such thing.
Fielding murmured, “Then we understand the urgency.”
“A man may face assassins with equanimity, but not keep a wife waiting,” Baines teased.
Stuart paused in the act of drawing on one glove and gave Baines a cool look. “I am not led about by sentiment.”
“No,” said Baines, “only by the noose.”
At this, even Renforth looked away, which Arch suspected was the nearest the Colonel ever came to open amusement. Stuart, however, merely narrowed his eyes.
“You mistake me entirely,” he said. “It is not a noose.”
“No?” said Fielding. “I do not mind the analogy myself.”
“Certainly not. A noose implies constraint. I go willingly.”
“Ah,” said Baines. “Then you have already placed your own head in it. That is a distinction of some importance.”
Stuart pulled on his second glove with unnecessary force. “When your own turn arrives, I shall endeavour to show equal generosity.”
Baines pressed a hand to his heart. “I rely upon it.”
“Be off with you, Stuart,” said Renforth at last, in the tone of a man who had judged the exchange sufficient and no more. “Give Patience my best wishes. We begin inquiries at first light.”
Stuart sobered at once. “Of course, sir.” He inclined his head to Renforth, then to the others. At the door, however, he paused and looked back at Arch with a glint of renewed mischief. “Do let us know how Miss Vale receives your suit.”
The door closed as Baines renewed his laughter.
Arch exhaled slowly. “I dislike him.”
