Knaves' Wager Read Online Free PDF Page A

me," the nephew replied. "Really, you ought not dote upon me so extravagantly at mealtime. I cannot see my beef-steak for my tears." All the same, Lord Brandon cut into his beefsteak accurately enough.
    He had just come down to breakfast, It was proof of his aunt's determination that she had risen from her bed before noon, only to be on hand first thing to nag at him,
    The Marchioness of Fineholt was a small, fragile-looking woman with a will of iron and a tongue, her relative reflected silently, like a meat axe.
    "I had always thought your sire the greatest villain who ever lived," she went on. "Yet worthless reprobate that he was, my brother Alec at least knew what was due his name and family. Though why I expect you to care about anyone's name when you don't trouble with your own — "
    "My dearest Auntie, my name came to me when I was bom and has remained with me ever since without my bothering about it at all."
    "Thirty-five years old," she snapped, "and you haven't got a wife — not to speak of an heir."
    "I can understand your wish not to speak of him," the marquess answered sadly, "His mama was so misguided as to have been born in Philadelphia — to a haberdasher. I cannot imagine what she was thinking of."
    "I don't mean those dratted Yankee cousins, and you know it, Brandon. You haven't got a son — not on the right side of the blanket at any rate, though I don't doubt there's a score or more of the other sort peppering the countryside, here and abroad."
    "Wicked girl," said the nephew between mouthfuls. ''Will you not spare my blushes?"
    "Spare you?" she echoed wrathfully. 'There is your poor uncle — a sad invalid these last five years — and even he took pen in his poor, trembling hand to plead with that unspeakable woman. While you, strong and healthy as an ox, spend your days lolling about upon the sofa, refusing even to discuss this debacle."
    Lord Belbridge entered the breakfast room at this juncture,
    "Now, Mother," he placated as he sat down beside her. "You know Julian's not been lollin' about. He's been gravely ill."
    "And bound to send me to an early grave in his place," she grumbled. "I should have expected it. Not a male in the lot with an ounce of ingenuity. Or if they've got any," she added with a darkling look at her nephew, "they'd rather spend it coaxing the next trollop into their bed."
    "You mean to say there are trollops about this fair green countryside. Aunt?" Lord Brandon turned to his cousin in reproach. "You might have mentioned it, Georgy."
    "Julian, please — "
    "Don't beg him, George. It isn't dignified, and you've made a sorry enough spectacle of yourself as it is. There's the tart showing you her letters, and what do you do but politely give 'em back."
    "Mother dearest, I couldn't well bind her hand and foot while I searched the premises. Besides, she's too dashed clever to keep 'em all with her. Stands to reason she'd have 'em locked up with a solicitor, or someplace safe."
    "Reason," her ladyship repeated scornfully. "When were you and Reason ever acquainted, pray tell? Oh, that ever I should live to see this day." Her voice grew tremulous, and a very dainty lace handkerchief was applied to very dry eyes. "My baby, caught in the toils of a French drab, and no one will lift a finger to save him."
    "Now, Mother — "
    "You have no conscience, Brandon," she went on, ignoring her son, "No feeling for your kin."
    "I am positively bubbling with feeling, ma'am. Unfortunately, the situation is beyond mending."
    "Fiddlesticks! You have made a profession of bending women to your will. You will not persuade me you cannot wrap this baggage about your finger, clever though she may be. You are simply too lazy to trouble with any matter not pertaining to your own pleasure."
    She rose to deliver her parting shot. "You are spoiled, vain, selfish, and far too clever and good-looking for your own good. I pray that one day — and may I be alive to see it — a woman will cut up your peace.