Cherished Enemy Read Online Free PDF Page B

affectionate puppy (whose tri-colour coat had secretly worried his breeder) had doubled in size. Any resemblance to a spaniel, even an Irish water spaniel, had ceased to exist. If his fluffy ears had stopped growing, his legs had not; what his paws lacked in the way of tassels they made up for in size and digging ability; and if he belonged on a lap, it might better have been that of a Mongolian war-lord than of a gentle eighteenth-century lady of Quality. His assault on the towel ending when the rack parted from the wash-stand, Trifle was hurled precipitously against the chest, the jolt sending the music box sailing to the floor. One of the drawers in the little box fell open and, this being the means to start the mechanism, the delicate strains of “Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day?” added to the uproar of wind, rain, Mrs. Estelle’s lamentations, and Trifle’s apparent need to sing with the music.
    Estelle truly valued her little box, knowing which, Rosamond sprang up and hurried to rescue it before it was irretrievably damaged.
    She had chosen an unpropitious moment. A great gust caught the packet broadside, and it heeled over and plunged down another green wall. Flung to the side, Rosamond knew an instant of frightened confusion, then a great shock reduced cabin, packet, and storm to nothingness.
    *   *   *
    The afternoon had become a ravening fury, and the wind, growing ever colder, drove salt spray hissing through the air. The packet, which had looked enormous at the quayside, was now a toy thing to be tossed about contemptuously by the towering seas, its masts, denuded of sail, seeming almost to brush the waves as the vessel pitched and swung.
    A few crew members fought with ropes and tackle, but the passengers on the spray-lashed deck were for the most part pathetic creatures who hung over the rail, or collected in cold, sodden groups on the benches, rather than endure the stuffy cabins. The port side was all but deserted, with only two young men in evidence. One, pale and miserable, huddled at the rail; the other gazed with frowning grey eyes towards the north and England.
    Through the comparative quiet of a lull in the wind, a faint voice moaned, “Sacre … bleu!”
    The sound brought Robert Victor’s head around. “Poor fellow,” he said, in French. “Can I help?”
    â€œNot unless you chance to—to have a loaded pistol in your pocket.”
    â€œNot a good sailor, eh? You might better have waited out the weather, monsieur.”
    â€œ Assurément. Regrettably, this, it was not possible.” The packet wallowed sickeningly. He gulped, “Forgive, but—” and bowed over the rail again.
    After a pause, the dark head being dragged up once more, Victor shouted, “I believe I saw you at the Fontblanque ball on Tuesday night. Are you related to the comtesse, perhaps?”
    â€œNo. You are not … French, I think?”
    â€œNot much doubt about that, I fancy.” Victor grinned and said in English, “My French is execrable. You are Parisian, monsieur?”
    â€œNo.” And, speaking also in English: “Nor would I say … your French is execrable. Only that you have a rather—unusual accent.”
    â€œAnd I am being unpardonably rude and asking altogether too many questions. Pray accept the apologies of Robert Victor, sir.”
    â€œFairleigh. Roland Fairleigh.” His trembling, cold and clammy hand was taken in a firm grip. “I’m—English born,” he went on feebly, “as was my father. My mother … was French, and various members of her … family still live near Paris. Ah! I recollect now—you’re the fellow old—old Bowers-Malden was roaring at. Doctor, isn’t it?”
    A faint irritation came into Victor’s eyes. He said grudgingly, “Yes. And—”
    Fairleigh slumped, groaning. When he roused, limp and