Had Mr Markham heard my Lord Barham’s laugh, he might not have felt quite so sanguine; and had he heard my lord giving sundry instructions to a respectable middle-aged servant he might have entertained serious doubts as to my lord’s good faith. My lord said quite a lot to this man on the subject of coaching stages, and at the close of that interview the unresponsive servant had orders to keep an eye not only on the movements of Miss Grayson, but also to discover what horses were ordered at the first stage on the North Road, for what date, and by what gentlemen. The servant received these instructions impassively, and seemed to foresee no difficulties ahead of him. The truth was that he had performed far harder tasks for my Lord Barham. It would not have appeared from his demeanour that he either understood or approved his orders, but he had nothing to say beyond a resigned: ‘This is more of your devilry I suppose, my lord.’
Far from resenting this familiar form of address, my lord was flattered, and admitted the impeachment, adding a rider to the effect that it was a positive masterpiece of subtlety, whereupon the servant grunted, and went off.
But Mr Markham had no knowledge of this transaction, and he had no suspicion of foul play. All the foul play in the business was to be performed by himself, though it is doubtful whether he phrased it quite so candidly.
He foresaw few obstacles: this time there should be no hitch. The only difficulty, and that a small one, was to gain a hearing with Miss Grayson, and a little careful espionage soon disclosed an opportunity. Miss Grayson was to be present at a ball in town for which Mr Markham might quite easily procure an invitation. With the help of a friend this was contrived, and midway through the evening, Mr Markham was presented to Miss Grayson by a kindly hostess.
There was no aunt to play dragon, for the elder Miss Grayson had joined the rest of the dowagers in the card-room. Even Miss Merriot was away at the other end of the long room, flirting outrageously with Sir Anthony Fanshawe. Letitia, unskilled in the dealing of snubs, blushed fiery red, hesitated, stammering over a refusal to dance, and found that the kindly hostess had gone away to supply other young ladies with eligible partners. Very cross, Letty blurted out: ‘I do not want to dance with you, sir!’
It seemed that Mr Markham had no desire to dance either. He wanted to talk to Letitia.
‘You know very well I don’t want to have anything to do with you,’ said Letty, still very red.
‘Don’t be so unforgiving,’ Mr Markham said. ‘I have something of very great importance to say to you. It can’t be said here. It is a secret and a dangerous matter.’
That sounded prodigious exciting to be sure, but Letty was still suspicious. ‘You will lure me out and abduct me,’ she said.
‘All I ask of you is that
you should come into the little ante-room, across the passage, with me. How could I abduct you here? If you don’t come you will regret it all your life. You do not know how weighty a matter it is I have to disclose.’
Letty reflected that Mr Markham would indeed find it hard to carry her off from a crowded ball against her will, and rose undecidedly to her feet. Anything in the nature of a mystery intrigued her at once. She intimated graciously that she would hear what Mr Markham had to say. Unobserved of the Merriots or of Sir Anthony Fanshawe, she went out with Mr Markham.
She had leisure to repent her action when Mr Markham made his startling disclosure. He allowed her but a glimpse of her father’s incriminating letter, and sat back in his chair watching her with a satisfied smile.
Her big eyes grew round in horrified wonder. ‘B-but my papa is not a Jacobite!’ she exclaimed.
‘Do you suppose anyone will believe that if I show this letter?’ Mr Markham inquired.
‘But you won’t, sir! You won’t, will you?’
Mr Markham leaned forward. ‘Not if you will marry me, Letty,’ he said softly.
She recoiled instinctively. ‘No, no!’
‘What, you had rather see your father’s head adorning London Bridge?’
Letty’s cheeks grew pale at that, and she shuddered. It was impossible not to feel sick horror at the thought. All who lived in London had seen those ghastly sights in the past months. The picture conjured up was terribly real to her. ‘You would not! You would not do such a cruel, wicked thing!’
‘I would do anything to win you, Letty!’ Mr Markham said, with fine lover-like ardour.
‘Papa will never let me marry you!’ cried Letty, cowering away.
‘But could you not fly with me again? We set out once, did we not, my little Letty? It can be done again – this time with a difference.’
‘No, no, I won’t!’
‘Not even to save your father?’ persuaded Mr Markham.
Miss Letty’s bosom rose and fell quickly. ‘If you forced me – if you did such a wicked thing, sir – I should hate you all the rest of my life! Do you want a wife who loathes you?’
Mr Markham laughed indulgently. ‘You’ll soon get over that when we are married, my dear. Won’t you care for me a little when I give you this letter to burn?’
She stretched out her hand. ‘Give it to me now, sir, and indeed, indeed, I shall never think hardly of you again!’
‘On our wedding day,’ said Markham. ‘Not before, but just as soon as my ring is on your finger.’
‘It will never, never be there,’ she declared, bursting into tears.