‘No. I know you would not!’ she said quickly. She rose and held out her hand. ‘I must go back to the house. But you?’
‘In about twenty minutes’ time,’ said Lord Stavely, ‘I shall drive up to the front door, with profuse apologies and excuses!’
‘Oh, shall you indeed do that?’ giggled Miss Abingdon. ‘It must be close on midnight! Papa will be so cross!’
‘Well, I must brave his wrath,’ he said, raising her hand to his lips.
***
Her hand clung to his; Miss Abingdon jerked up her head and stood listening. In another instant Lord Stavely had also heard what had startled her: footsteps which tried to be stealthy, and a voice whose owner seemed to imagine himself to be speaking under his breath: ‘Do you go that way, Mullins, and I’ll go this, and mind, no noise!’
‘Papa!’ breathed Miss Abingdon, in a panic. ‘He must have heard me: I tripped on the gravel! Depend upon it, he thinks we are thieves: Sir Jasper was robbed last month! What am I to do?’
‘Can you reach the house without being observed if I draw them off?’ asked his lordship softly.
‘Yes, yes, but you? Papa will very likely have his fowling piece!’
‘Be sure I shall declare myself before he fires at me!’ He picked up the bandboxes and gave them to her.
She clutched them and fled. Lord Stavely, having watched her disappear round a corner of the shrubbery, set his hat on his head and sauntered in the opposite direction, taking care to advertise his presence.
He emerged from the shrubbery into the rose garden, and was almost immediately challenged by an elderly gentleman who did indeed level a fowling-piece at him.
‘Stand! I have you covered, rogue!’ shouted Sir Walter. ‘Mullins, you fool, here!’
Lord Stavely stood still, waiting for his host to approach him. This Sir Walter did not do until he had been reinforced by his butler, similarly armed, and sketchily attired in a nightshirt, a pair of breeches, and a greatcoat thrown over all. He then came forward, keeping his lordship covered, and said with gleeful satisfaction: ‘Caught you, my lad!’
‘How do you do, sir?’ said Lord Stavely, holding out his hand. ‘I must beg your pardon for presenting myself at this unconscionable hour, but I have been dogged by ill fortune all day. A broken lynch-pin and a lame horse must stand as my excuses.’
Sir Walter nearly dropped his piece. ‘Stavely?’ he ejaculated, peering at his lordship in amazement.
Lord Stavely bowed.
‘But what the devil are you doing in my garden?’ Sir Walter demanded.
Lord Stavely waved an airy hand. ‘Communing with Nature, sir, communing with Nature!’
‘Communing with Nature?’ echoed Sir Walter, his eyes fairly starting from his head.
‘Roses bathed in moonlight!’ said his lordship lyrically. ‘Ah – must Mullins continue to point his piece at me?’
‘Put it down, you fool!’ commanded Sir Walter testily. ‘Stavely, my dear fellow, are you feeling quite the thing?’
‘Never better!’ replied his lordship. ‘Oh, you are thinking that I should have driven straight up to the house? Very true, sir, but I was lured out of my chaise by this exquisite scene. I am passionately fond of moonlight, and really, you know, your gardens present so charming a picture that I could not but yield to temptation, and explore them. I am sorry to have disturbed you!’
Sir Walter was staring at him with his jaw dropping almost as prodigiously as the butler’s. ‘Explore my gardens at midnight!’ he uttered, in stupefied accents.
‘Is it so late?’ said his lordship. ‘Yet I dare say one might see to read a book in this clear light!’
Sir Walter swallowed twice before venturing on a response. ‘But where’s your carriage?’ he demanded.
‘I told the post-boys to wait in the lane,’ replied his lordship vaguely. ‘I believe – yes, I believe I can detect the scent of jasmine!’
‘Stavely,’ said Sir Walter, laying an almost timid hand on his arm, ‘do but come up to the house, and to bed! Everything is prepared, and this night air is most unwholesome!’
‘On the contrary, I find that it awakens poetry in my soul,’ said Lord Stavely. ‘I am inspired to write a sonnet on roses drenched with moonshine.’
‘Mullins, go and find his lordship’s chaise, and direct the postilions to drive up to the house!’ ordered Sir Walter, in an urgent under-voice. ‘Sonnets, eh, Stavely? Yes, yes, I have been a rhymester in my time, too, but just come with me, my dear fellow, and you will soon feel better, I dare say! You have had a long and a tedious journey, that’s what it is!’