She agreed to it, and went up to her room after breakfast to put on her hat and gloves. She hoped Lord Worth would not be angry with them for having come to London against his advice, but now that she was so near to seeing him in person she owned to a slight feeling of nervousness. But Peregrine was right: nothing could be done until they had presented th
emselves to their guardian.
Since neither she nor Peregrine had the least notion where Cavendish Square was to be found, and since neither of them cared to betray their ignorance by inquiring the way, Peregrine called up one of the hackneys with which the streets seemed to abound and gave the coachman the direction.
Cavendish Square was soon reached, and the hackney, drawing up before a great stucco-fronted house with an imposing portico. Peregrine handed his sister down, paid off the coachman, and said stoutly: ‘Well, he can’t eat us, Ju, after all.’
‘No,’ said Miss Taverner. ‘No, of course not. Oh Perry, wait! Do not knock! There is a straw in your shoe; you must have picked it up off the floor of that horrid carriage.’
‘Lord, what a lucky chance you saw it!’ said Peregrine, removing the straw, and giving a final twitch to the lapels of his coat. ‘Now for it, Ju!’ He raised his hand to the knocker, and beat a mild tattoo on the door.
‘They will never hear that!’ said his sister scornfully. ‘If you are afraid I certainly am not!’ She stepped forward and grasping the knocker firmly, beat an imperious summons with it.
In the middle of this operation the door opened, rather to Miss Taverner’s discomfiture. A very large footman confronted them, inclining his head slightly to learn their business.
Miss Taverner, recovering her composure, inquired if Lord Worth were at home, and upon being asked civilly for her name, replied grandly: ‘Be good enough to inform his lordship, if you please, that Sir Peregrine and Miss Taverner are here.’
The footman bowed, as though he were much impressed by this speech, and held the door wide for them to pass through into the house. Here a second footman took them in charge, and begging them to follow him, led the way across what seemed to be a vast hall to a mahogany door which opened into a saloon. He ushered them into this apartment and left them there.
Peregrine passed a finger inside his cravat. ‘You carried that off mighty well, Ju,’ he said approvingly. ‘I hope you may handle the old gentleman as prettily.’
‘Oh,’ said Miss Taverner, ‘I don’t expect there will be the least need. Do you know, Perry, I have been thinking that we have made Lord Worth into an ogre, between us, and ten to one but he is perfectly amiable?’
‘He may be, of course,’ conceded Peregrine, without much hope. ‘He has a devilish fine house, hasn’t he?’
It was indeed a fine house, fitted up, apparently, in the first style of elegance. The saloon in which they stood was a noble apartment hung with a delicate blue paper, and with tall windows giving on to the square. The curtains, which were of blue and crimson silk, were draped over these in tasteful festoons, and tied back with cords, to which were attached huge silken tassels. An Axminster carpet covered the floor; there were one or two couches with gilded scroll ends and crimson upholstery; a satinwood sofa-table; some Sheraton chairs; a secretaire with a cylinder front and the upper part enclosed in glazed doors; a couple of thimble-footed window-stools; and a handsome console-table, supported by gilded sphinxes.
There were a number of pictures on the walls, and Miss Taverner was engaged in contemplating one of these when the door opened again and someone came in.
She turned quickly, just as a stifled exclamation broke from Peregrine, and stood rooted to the ground, staring in blank astonishment at the man who had entered. It was the gentleman of the curricle.
He was no longer dressed in a caped greatcoat and top-boots, but in spite of his close-fitting coat of blue cloth, and his tight pantaloons, and his shining Hessians with their little gold tassels, she could not mistake him. It was he.
He gave no sign of having recognised her, but came across the room and bowed formally. ‘Miss Taverner, I believe?’ he said. Then, as she did not answer, being quite bereft of speech, he turned to Peregrine, and held out his hand. ‘And you are, I suppose, Peregrine,’ he said. ‘How do you do?’
Peregrine put out his own hand instinctively and almost snatched it back again. ‘What are you doing in this house?’ he blurted out.
The thin black brows rose in an expression of faint hauteur. ‘I can conceive of no one who has a better right to be in this house,’ the other replied. ‘I am Lord Worth.’
Peregrine recoiled. ‘What!’ An angry flush mounted to his cheeks. ‘This is nothing but an ill-mannered jest! You are not Lord Worth! You cannot be!’
‘Why can I not be Lord Worth?’ said the gentleman.
‘It is impossible! I don’t believe it! Lord Worth is – must be – an older man!’ cried Peregrine.
The gentleman smiled slightly, and drew an enamelled snuffbox from his pocket, and unfobbed it with a flick of his forefinger. The gesture brought the picture of him, as he had stood in the hall of the George Inn, back to Judith’s mind. She found her tongue suddenly, and engaging Peregrine’s silence with a move ment of her hand, said in a level voice: ‘It is true? Are you indeed Lord Worth?’
His glance swept her face. ‘Certainly I am,’ he said, and took a pinch of snuff from the box, and delicately sniffed it.
She felt her brain to be reeling. ‘But it is surely – You, sir, cannot have been a friend of my father?’
He shut the box again, and slipped it back into his pocket. ‘I regret, madam, I had not that honour,’ he said.
‘Then – oh, there is some mistake!’ she said. ‘There must be a mistake!’
‘Quite possibly,’ agreed his lordship. ‘But the mistake, Miss Taverner, was not mine.’
‘But you are not our guardian!’ Peregrine burst out.