The Knave of Diamonds by Ethel May Dell (book recommendations for teens TXT) 📖

that you were the Knave of Diamonds?"
"You've been asleep," he said rather curtly.
She gave a slight shudder as the night air brought her back, and in a moment, like the soft dropping of a veil, her reserve descended upon her.
"I am afraid I have," she said, "Please excuse me. Are we already at the Manor? Yes, I have the key."
She took his hand and stepped down beside him.
"Good night, Mr. Errol," she said. "And thank you."
He did not offer to accompany her to the door. A light was burning within, and he merely stood till he heard the key turn in the lock, then stepped back into the motor and slammed it shut without response of any sort to her last words.
Anne Carfax was left wondering if her dream had been a cause of offense.


CHAPTER IV
CAKE MORNING

"Oh, bother! It's cake morning." Dot Waring turned from the Rectory breakfast-table with a flourish of impatience. "And I do so want to hear all about it," she said. "You might have come down earlier, Ralph."
"My good sister," said the rector's son, helping himself largely to bread and honey, "consider yourself lucky that I have come down at all after dancing half the night with Mrs. Damer, who is no light weight."
"You didn't, Ralph! I am quite sure you didn't! I'm not going to believe anything so absurd." Nevertheless she paused on her way to the door for further details.
"All right. I didn't," said Ralph complacently. "And Sir Giles didn't get drunk as a lord and tumble about the ballroom, and yell comic--awfully comic--songs, till someone hauled him off to the refreshment-room and filled him up with whiskey till he could sing no more!"
"Oh, Ralph! Not really! How utterly beastly! Was Lady Carfax there?"
"She was at first, but she cleared out. I don't know where she went to."
"Oh, poor Lady Carfax! How horrid for her! Ralph, I--I could kick that man!"
"So could I," said Ralph heartily, "if someone would kindly hold him for me. He is a drunken blackguard, and if he doesn't end in an asylum, I shall never express a medical opinion again."
"P'r'aps he'll die of apoplexy first," said Dot vindictively.
"Whatever he dies of," said Ralph, "I shall attend his funeral with the greatest pleasure. Hadn't you better go and make that cake? I shall want it by tea-time."
"You are a pig!" the girl declared, pushing the sunny hair back from her gay young face. "Isn't Bertie late this morning? Perhaps he isn't coming. Dad won't be able to take him anyhow, for old Squinny is bad again and sent for him in a hurry."
"That wretched old humbug! That means more beef-tea, not approaching dissolution. Old Squinny will never dissolve in the ordinary way."
"Well, I must go." Dot reached the door and began to swing it to and fro, gathering impetus for departure. "By the way, was Bertie there?" she asked.
"Bertie who?"
"Bertie Errol, of course. Who else?"
"There are plenty of Berties in the world," remarked Ralph, helping himself again to bread and honey. "No, Bertram Errol was not present. But Napoleon Errol was. It was he who so kindly shunted Mrs. Damer on to me. _Nota bene_! Give Napoleon Errol a wide berth in future. He has the craft of a conjurer and the subtlety of a serpent. I believe he is a Red Indian, myself."
"Oh, Ralph, he isn't! He is as white as you are."
"He isn't white at all," Ralph declared, "outside or in. Outside he is the colour of a mangold-wurzel, and inside he is as black as ink. You will never get that cake made if you don't go."
"Oh, bother!" Dot swung open the door for the last time, turned to depart, and then exclaimed in a very different tone, "Why, Bertie, so here you are! We were just talking of you."
A straight, well-made youth, with a brown face that laughed good-temperedly, was advancing through the hall.
"Hullo!" he said, halting at the doorway. "Awfully nice of you! What were you saying, I wonder? Hullo, Ralph! Only just down, you lazy beggar? Ought to be ashamed of yourself."
He stood, slapping his riding-boots with a switch, looking at Dot with the direct eyes of good-fellowship. His eyes were clear and honest as a child's.
"Dad's away," said Dot. "He was sent for early this morning."
"Is he though? That means a holiday. What shall we do?"
"I don't know what you will do," said Dot. "I am going to bake cakes."
"I'll come and bake cakes too," said Bertie promptly. "I'm rather a swell at that. I can make fudge too, real American fudge, the most aristocratic thing on the market. It's a secret, of course, but I'll let you into it, if you'll promise not to tell."
"How do you know I can keep a secret?" laughed Dot, leading the way to the kitchen.
"You would keep a promise," he said with conviction.
"If I made one," she threw back.
"I would trust you without," he declared.
"Very rash of you! I wonder if you are as trustworthy as that."
"My word is my bond--always," said Bertie.
She turned and looked at him critically. "Yes, I think it is," she admitted. "You are quite the honestest boy I ever met. They ought to have called you George Washington."
"You may if you like," said Bertie.
She laughed--her own inexpressibly gay laugh. "All right, George! It suits you perfectly. I always did think Bertie was a silly name. Why didn't you go to the Hunt Ball last night?"
Bertie's merry face sobered. "My brother wasn't so well yesterday. I was reading to him half the night. He couldn't sleep, and Tawny Hudson is no good for that sort of thing."
The merriment went out of Dot's face too. It grew softer, older, more womanly. "You are very good to your brother," she said.
He frowned abruptly. "Good to him! Great Scot! Why, he's miles too good for any of us. Don't ever class him with Nap or me! We're just ordinary sinners. But he--he's a king."
A queer little gleam that was not all mirth made Dot's eyes grow brighter. "I like you for saying that," she said.
"Why, of course I say it!" he protested. "It's true! He's the finest chap in the world, all true gold and not a grain of dross. That's how it is we all knock under to him. Even Nap does that, though he doesn't care a tinker's curse for anyone else on this muddy little planet."
"You are awfully fond of him, aren't you?" said Dot sympathetically.
"Fond of Lucas! I'd die for him!" the boy declared with feeling. "He's father and brother and friend to me. There isn't anything I wouldn't do for him. Did you ever hear how he came to be a cripple?"
"Never," said Dot.
"He was knocked down by an electric car," Bertie said, rushing through the story with headlong ardour, "trying to save his best girl's dog from being run over. He did save it, but he was frightfully hurt--paralysed for months. It's years ago now. I was only a little shaver at the time. But I shall never forget it. He always was good to me, and I thought he was done for."
"And the girl?" asked Dot rather breathlessly.
"Married an English nobleman," he rejoined, with a brevity that spoke volumes. "I say, what about those cakes? Hadn't we better begin?"
Dot turned her attention to the fire. "I should like to meet your brother," she remarked. "I've never spoken to a real flesh-and-blood hero in my life."
"Nothing easier," said Bertie promptly. "Come over and have tea. Come this afternoon, you and Ralph."
But Dot hesitated in evident doubt. "I don't know what Dad would say," she said.
"Oh, rats! He wouldn't mind. And my mother would be delighted. Come early and I'll show you the hunters. Nap has just bought a beauty. She's a blood mare, black as ink."
"Like Nap," said Dot absently; then in haste, "No, I didn't mean that. I wasn't thinking."
Bertie was looking at her shrewdly. "What do you know about Nap?" he said.
She coloured deeply. "Nothing, nothing whatever. I only know him by sight."
"And you don't like him?"
"I--I think he looks rather wicked," she stammered.
Bertie grunted. "Do you think I look wicked too?"
"Of course I don't. No one could."
He laughed. "That's all right. You can think what you like of Nap. Everybody does. But even he is not all bad, you know."
"I'm sure he isn't. But--but--" Desperately Dot turned from the fire and faced him. "I've got to say it, Bertie," she said rather piteously. "Please don't be offended. You know I--I'm young. I don't know many people. And--and--though I would like to know your eldest brother immensely, I think I won't come to Baronmead if Nap is there. My father doesn't want me to meet him--unless I am obliged."
She uttered the last words in evident distress. Bertie's face had grown quite serious, even stern. He was looking at her with a directness which for the first time in their acquaintance she found disconcerting.
He did not speak for several seconds. At length, "How old are you?" he said abruptly.
"Eighteen," she murmured.
He continued to look at her speculatively. "Well," he said at length, speaking with something of a twang, "I guess your father knows what he's about, but it beats me to understand why he has me here to study. I guess I'd better shunt."
"Oh, please don't!" she said quickly. "It isn't you at all. It's only Nap."
"Damn Nap!" said Bertie, with some fervour. "Oh, does that shock you? I forgot you were a parson's daughter. Well, it may be your father is right after all. Anyway, I shan't quarrel with him so long as he doesn't taboo me too."
"He won't do that," said Dot, with confidence. "He likes you."
Bertie's good-looking face began to smile again. "Well, I'm not a blackguard anyway," he said. "And I never shall be if you keep on being kind to me. That's understood, is it? Then shake!"
They shook, and Dot realised with relief that the difficult subject was dismissed.


CHAPTER V
THE FIRST ENCOUNTER

It was a week after the Hunt Ball that Anne Carfax, sitting alone at tea in her drawing-room before a blazing fire, was surprised by the sudden opening of the door, and the announcement of old Dimsdale the butler, "Mr. Nap Errol to see your ladyship!"
She rose to meet him, her surprise in her face, and he, entering with that light, half-stealthy tread of his, responded to it before his hand touched hers.
"I know my presence is unexpected, and my welcome precarious, but as none of my friends have been able to give me any news of you, I determined to chance my reception and come myself to inquire for your welfare."
"You are very good," said Anne, but she spoke with a certain stateliness notwithstanding. There was no pleasure in her eyes.
Nap, however, was sublimely self-assured. "I am beginning to think I must be," he said, "since you say so. For I know you to be strictly truthful."
Anne made no response. She did not even smile.
"I am in luck to find you alone," proceeded Nap, surveying her with bold dark eyes that were nothing daunted by her lack of cordiality.
"My husband will be in soon," she answered quietly.
"I shall be delighted to make his acquaintance," said Nap imperturbably. "Has he been hunting?"
"Yes." Anne's tone was distant. She seemed to be unaware of the fact that her visitor was still on his feet.
But Nap knew no embarrassment. He stood on the hearth with his back to the