She knew quite
well that Cliffe was in Venice; though, true to her secretive temper,
she had not mentioned the fact to her father.
Of course he was in Venice on Kitty's account. It would be too absurd to
suppose that he was here by mere coincidence. Mary believed that nothing
but the intervention of Cliffe's mighty kinsman from the north had saved
the situation the year before. Kitty would certainly have betrayed her
husband but for the
force majeure arrayed against her. And now the
magnate who had played Providence slumbered in the family vault. He had
passed away in the spring, full of years and honors, leaving Cliffe some
money. The path was clear. As for the escapade in the Balkans, Geoffrey
was, of course, tired of it. A sensational book, hurried out to meet the
public appetite for horrors--and the pursuance of his intrigue with Lady
Kitty Ashe--Mary was calmly certain that these were now his objects. He
was, no doubt, writing his book and meeting Kitty where he could. Ashe
would soon have to go home. And then! As if that girl Margaret French
could stop it!
Well, William had only got his deserts! But as her thoughts passed from
Kitty or Cliffe to William Ashe, their quality changed.
Pages:
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509