The plot developed still further when the gentlemen left their wine to join the ladies in the drawing-room. Card-tables with candles, ivory markers, and packs of cards had been set out by Peter Gladden and the footmen. The Lady Letitia was astir on the instant, bustling about like some gorgeous bumble-bee, setting every one in order, taking the whole function to herself.
“Sir Peter would play whist; yes, and Mrs. Bilson was dying for a game. Dr. Sugg, will you partner me, please? We will challenge Mrs. Bilson and Sir Peter. Squire Rokeley, and you, Mr. Perkaby, will you two gentlemen arrange the other tables? No doubt the young folk would like to dance at the other end of the room. Mary will play for you on the harpsichord. Richard, dear, will you walk a minuet with Miss Julia Perkaby? Mrs. Perkaby, madam, I remember seeing your sweet daughter dance last season at The Wells. All the men were watching her—upon my soul, they were, madam. Miss Jilian, my dear, will you join the young folk, or take a hand at cards?”
Richard, helplessly obedient to his august relative’s commands, walked a minuet with Miss Julia Perkaby, while Mr. Lot glared at him from a corner, and Miss Hardacre chatted to young Bilson, a spotty youth who was about to take up a commission in the Foot Guards. Miss Sugg’s bony fingers tinkled rapidly over the notes, while Richard, hot and ill at ease, performed with the black-eyed and stately Julia, catching every now and again his cousin Lot’s sulky stare and a glimpse of Miss Jilian’s haughty face. More minuets and country-dances followed. Youth tripped it under the painted roof, curls jigged, fans flickered. The evening was well advanced before Richard found himself seated once again beside Miss Jilian on the causeuse by the wall.
He did not find Miss Hardacre in the most angelic of tempers. In truth, she tilted her chin at Mr. Richard, played restlessly with her fan, and appeared most relentlessly chilling. Jeffray, though he was ignorant of the Lady Letitia’s treachery, yet felt that the evening had been miserably mismanaged. There stood Cousin Lot looking as surly and as savage as an unpaid creditor, while fat Sir Peter glowered over his cards at Mrs. Bilson’s funereal face. Miss Hardacre herself appeared clouded by the prevailing sulkiness, though there was an unpleasant glint in her sweet, gray eyes.