The Dorset House Affair by Norman Russell Read Free Book Online Page B

into his pocket.
    ‘That is quite in order,’ said De Bellefort. ‘Has the third party ordered you to check the authenticity of the letter that I have just given you?’ There was a sneering condescension in the Frenchman’s voice, and in his choice of the word ‘ordered’, that prompted Box to reply in kind.
    ‘Certainly not, sir. I will hand it to him, unsealed, first thing tomorrow morning. If it’s not the letter in question, then the third party knows that a polite request to Field Marshal Claygate will put him on your tail.’
    De Bellefort blushed with anger, but said nothing. He turned on his heel and left the room. As Box carefully secured the inside pocket of his suit with a pin, he thought of the trembling arrogance of Peter Sullivan – an arrogance that had led him to the gallows.

    ‘Elizabeth,’ said Maurice Claygate, ‘I’ve been wanting to have a private word with you all day, but I never seemed to get the chance. Come into the gallery with me. We can be private there for a few minutes.’
    She had seen him catch sight of her, and detach himself from his little coterie of friends. They had glanced in her direction, and one of them had whispered something in Maurice’s ear. The others had laughed, but Maurice had waved them away angrily. Whatever could he want with her, on this night, of all nights?
    He led her out of the grand saloon into a quiet, stone-flagged gallery, where portraits of his ancestors hung. The curtains were closed and the room was unlit, but sufficient light filtered in from the brilliantly lighted saloon for them to see each other. Maurice made no attempt to touch her, and they stood awkwardly beneath a great painting of a seventeenth-century Claygate in scarlet uniform and full-bottomed wig. They were both conscious of the babel of voices echoing from the vaulted ceiling of the grand saloon.
    Maurice looked ill at ease, but he was as handsome as ever, with the unconscious allure that had enslaved her when she had first seen him. She was free of his magical attraction, now. She watched him silently, waiting for him to speak. She knew instinctively what he was going to say, and had already rehearsed her reply.
    ‘I say, Beth,’ he began, stammering a little, ‘you don’t mind about Julia, do you? Really mind, I mean? You and I will always be special friends. You never wrote a word to me after you returned to France. I wanted to write, but Mother said it would be unwise. Why didn’t you write? Did you hate me so much?’
    She laughed, and making a Herculean attempt to mask her revulsion, she placed a hand gently on his arm.
    ‘Dear Maurice,’ she said, ‘don’t be so silly! When we parted, I wished to leave you quite free to form other attachments without being plagued by a ghost from the past. Of course I don’t mind, as you put it. Although I’ve never met Julia Maltravers, I’m sure she’ll make you an excellent wife.’
    ‘I don’t want you to feel let down, Beth, that’s all. A fellow at the club the other night took me to task about it, and I’ve remembered what he said. You see, I may have given you the impression that you and I – that we would perhaps marry one day. Maybe we would have done, but then Julia—’
    ‘But then Julia came along, and swept you off your feet! Do go away, Maurice, and stop being morbid! Go back to your friends.We both made foolish mistakes. Our intimacy was not all your fault.’
    She saw him relax in relief. He gave a carefree laugh, and kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘Bless you, Elizabeth,’ he said, and walked lightly from the gallery.
    Elizabeth de Bellefort sat down at a table in the centre of the gallery, and listened to the noise of revelry from the great chamber beyond. How happy everybody seemed! Would they feel so elated when that night’s grim work was done?
    Earlier in the evening, she had stood in the sitting-room of her private suite on the first floor of the great mansion, watching her brother as he had