Devil's Cub

by Georgette Heyer

‘You are contemplating a mésalliance.’ Miss Marling stiffened in every line of her small figure. ‘It’s no such thing! He may not be a brilliant match, or have a title, but all the men I have met who are brilliant matches are just like you, and would make the most horrid husbands.’ ‘You may as well let me know the worst,’ said my lord. ‘If you think it would annoy Aunt Fanny, I’ll do what I can for you.’ She clasped both hands on his arm. ‘Dear, dear Dominic! I knew you would!

‘What highwayman?’ ‘Oh, it was nothing but just to match the rest of his conduct. He shot one last night on Hounslow Heath, and must needs leave the body upon the road.’ ‘He is a very good shot,’ Léonie said. ‘For me, I like best to fight with swords, and so does Monseigneur, but Dominique chooses pistols.’ Lady Fanny almost stamped her feet. ‘I declare you are as incorrigible as that worthless boy himself!’ she cried. ‘It’s very well for the world to call Dominic Devil’s Cub, and place all his wildness at poor Avon’s door, but for my part I find him very like his mamma.’ Léonie was delighted. ‘Voyons, that pleases me very much!’ she said. ‘Do you really think so?’

I don’t know whether I should cackle or be horrified

‘I apprehend, my love, that Fanny is referring to your son.’ A blank look came into Léonie’s face. ‘Dominique? But –’ She stopped and looked at Fanny. ‘No,’ she said flatly. Lady Fanny was hardly prepared for anything so downright. ‘Lord, my dear, what can you mean?’ ‘I do not at all want Dominique to marry Juliana,’ Léonie explained. ‘Perhaps,’ said Lady Fanny, sitting very erect in her chair, ‘you will be good enough to explain what that signifies.’ ‘I am sorry if I seemed rude,’ Léonie apologised. ‘Did I, Monseigneur?’ ‘Very,’ he answered, shutting his snuff-box with an expert flick of the finger. ‘But, unlike Fanny, beautifully frank.’

‘Ah, my little one! Voyons, this makes me very happy!’ He put his arms around her. The red light went out of his eyes, and a softer look transformed his face. ‘“My dear and only love,” I give you good morrow,’ he said. He shot a glance of mockery at his aunt, and took both Léonie’s hands in his. ‘‘‘My dear – and – only – love,”’ he repeated maliciously, and kissed her fingers.

I can’t stand him but I can appreciate his pettiness

She had, moreover, grave disadvantages. Those fine eyes of hers had a disconcertingly direct gaze, and very often twinkled in a manner disturbing to male egotism. She had common-sense too, and what man wanted the plainly matter-of-fact, when he could enjoy instead Sophia’s delicious folly? Worst of all she had been educated at a very select seminary – Mrs Challoner was sometimes afraid that she was almost a Bluestocking.

One day the patriarchy will crumble

‘In my eyes,’ declared Joshua, ‘you are the prettier.’ Miss Challoner seemed to consider this. ‘Yes?’ she said interestedly. ‘But then, you chose puce.’

‘Now don’t do that, my boy!’ he said. ‘Damme, when you start talking like Avon I’m off! If you’ve not come to borrow money –’ ‘Boot’s on the other leg,’ interrupted the Marquis. Lord Rupert’s jaw dropped. ‘Ecod, was it you lent me five hundred pounds last month? When did I say I’d pay?’ ‘Judgment Day, belike,’ said his undutiful nephew.

‘Is it loaded?’ ‘I don’t know,’ said Miss Challoner, incurably truthful. He began to laugh again, and walked forward. ‘Shoot then,’ he invited, ‘and we shall know. For I’m coming several steps nearer, my lady.’ Miss Challoner saw that he meant it, shut her eyes and resolutely pulled the trigger. There was a deafening report and the Marquis went staggering back. He recovered in a moment. ‘It was loaded,’ he said coolly.

“Shoot Me” the epitaph of a man who was shot

The Marquis had the first intimation of the change that was taking place in his household at four in the afternoon, when Fletcher, his face like a mask, presented him with a bowl of thin gruel. He had received it from Miss Challoner, and meeting Mr Timms upon the stairs, had said with great presence of mind: ‘You may take this to his lordship, Horace.’ Mr Timms, after one glance at the tray, declined the office. ‘And if I was you, Mr Fletcher, I would send it by one of these Frenchies,’ he recommended. The suggestion offended Mr Fletcher’s dignity, and he said stiffly: ‘And why, my lad, can you not wait upon his lordship?’ ‘Because I don’t want a basin of gruel thrown at my head,’ replied Mr Timms with brutal frankness.

‘You’re in a rage, my love, don’t tell me! You’ve forgotten your English, which is a very sure sign, though I can’t conceive why you should become so vastly French as soon as you lose your temper.’ Léonie stalked to the mantelpiece, picked up a vase from it, and quite deliberately smashed it. Lady Fanny shrieked, and cried out: ‘My precious Sèvres vase!’ Léonie looked down, conscience-stricken, at the pieces of porcelain lying on the floor. ‘I do not behave like a lady,’ she said. ‘I did not know it was Sèvres. It was very ugly.’

‘I await your departure – but not for long,’ said his lordship. The Vicomte gave an exaggerated start. ‘A threat, Juliana! I scent it unerringly. He will presently shoot me: I am as good as dead, but if you give me the roses you wear at your breast I shall die happy.’ Vidal’s eye gleamed. ‘Will you go as happily through that window?’ he inquired.

‘Burn it, if we do get rid of Vidal’s wench there’s still that silly chit Juliana. What’s to be done with her?’ Juliana said in a small, dignified voice: ‘I am here, Uncle Rupert.’ ‘Of course you’re there. I’ve eyes in my head, haven’t I?’ said his lordship testily.

Lord Vidal forced me to go on board his yacht, and carried me to Dieppe.’ The gentleman felt for his quizzing-glass, and raised it. Through it he surveyed Miss Challoner. ‘May I ask what were his lordship’s tactics?’ he inquired. ‘I feel an almost overwhelming interest in the methods of daylight abduction employed by the modern youth.’