Assuredly she would, if I comprehended the character of Madame Delahoussaye. Her daughter; Fanny, should become the fortunate heir to Isobel's property, however encumbered by debt, in the event of Isobel's hanging for her husband's murder; and if the family pride in property remained as fierce as Mr. Mayhew believed, Madame might throw all the weight of her material resources behind discharging the debt, and restoring the plantations themselves. But why had she not offered Isobel similar support, in the Countess's dire need?

The seed of an idea was taking shape. I stood up in haste. Though the hour was late, every minute was as gold; we lacked but four days until the trial should commence in the House of Lords.

“Forgive me, Mr. Mayhew,” I said, with extended hand, “you have been kindness itself, and have greatly assisted our efforts; but Mr. Cranley and I have pressing business elsewhere that cannot wait. I am honoured to have met you, sir — and feel certain that with your penetration exercised on her behalf, the Countess shall escape the clutches of her enemies even still.”

“She is unlikely to require my support, Miss Austen,” Hezekiah Mayhew said dryly, “when your own is already hers.”

Mr. Cranley parted from me at the solicitor's door; having procured a hackney carriage for my return to Scargrave, and hastening himself to his chambers at Lincoln's Inn, the better to prepare his defence of my friends. It was but a few moments to Scargrave House, where I found Fanny as yet upstairs in a darkened room, and Madame Delahoussaye resting on the settee before the drawing-room fire.

“My dear Miss Austen,” Madame said, sitting up briskly at my appearance, “I could not think where you had gone — and the house all at sixes and sevens. If you intend to run about by yourself in this manner, it would be well if you were to tell Cook when you expect to return, so that dinner at least is not a matter for conjecture.”

“I was not alone, Madame,” I rejoined. “I was with Mr. Cranley, in a visit to the Scargrave solicitors.”

“With Mr. Cranley,” Madame's expression dissolved in contempt, and she ran her eyes the length of my grey wool, as though it were transparent. “I suppose you have set your cap at him. He is not a bad sort of fellow, and quite suitable for one of your position in the world.”

I felt myself colour. Setting my cap at him, indeed. “That is an expression, Madame Delahoussaye, that I particularly abhor,” I cried, perhaps too warmly. “Its tendency is gross and illiberal, and if its construction could ever have been deemed clever, time has long ago destroyed all its ingenuity.[45] I merely accompanied Mr. Cranley on a matter of business.”

I turned away, intending to dress for dinner, being unequal to the maintenance of my temper if I retained the room any longer; but Madame called after me.

“Business? What may a lady have to do with business, pray?”

I revolved slowly and regarded her before answering. “It is Madame who must answer that, and not I.”

Something of the sourness in her expression drained from her face, and was replaced by obvious caution. “Whatever do you mean, Miss Austen?”

“I had understood that business was a peculiar province of your own, Madame. Particularly the business of your family fortune.”

She started at this, and looked somewhat nettled; and seeing that she was for once deprived of speech, I determined to press my advantage.

“Mr. Cranley and I were only now informed of your interest in the Countess's affairs. It seems it is to you Isobel must look for financial protection.”

“I!” the good lady cried, her composure regained, “she can find no protection from me, I assure you.”

“That much is evident, from your disinterest in her troubles,” I said bitterly. “It is even possible she is past all such protection, in any case.”

To these words of reproach, Madame answered me nothing. With glittering eyes, she rose from her place and swept by me, out of the room; and after a moment, I followed in her train. I was greatly fatigued, and looked forward to my dinner, and considered dispensing with the necessity of changing my dress; I should far rather enjoy a tray by my bedchamber fire, than a chilly hour in Madame's company. But I had only gained the comfort of my room a few moments, and undone the quantity of horn buttons that run the length of my gown's back, before the swift passage of footsteps in the corridor demanded my attention. I peered around my door, and observed Madame Delahoussaye disappearing down the stairs, arrayed in a cloak and a very fine hat, indeed. And since she should require the use of neither in the Scargrave dining room, I quickly surmised that she had determined to disregard the lateness of the hour, and undertaken to pay a call.

Alone in the doorway, my gown undone, I debated with myself. Madame might do little more than fetch a physick for poor Fanny from the local apothecary; but no — in that case, she should dispatch a servant. Only the greatest need could send Madame forth at such a time — and I little doubted that it was my words, spoken angrily in the drawing-room below, that had done it. I reached for my pelisse and hat, and ran hurriedly for the stairs, clutching at my undone back. I was in time to observe Madame through the drawing-room window, in an attitude of some urgency, as she stepped swiftly into the Scargrave carriage.

SHE LED MY HACKNEY A MERRY CHASE, MADE ALL THE MORE difficult by my injunction to the driver upon engaging him, that he should be at pains not to be observed by our quarry. It is not that the way to Wilborough House was so difficult to find, but that the traffic at this hour, when merchants and gentlemen were bent upon finding their dinners at home or in the exclusive clubs of Pall Mall, should be decidedly snarled. The jostling of carriages and horses, of coachmen and waggoneers shouting invective as hallmarks of their masculinity and claim to place, made any passage a tedious if colourful one; and the anxiety of keeping the Scargrave carriage in sight, without ourselves being seen, was an added fillip of torture.

Madame soon arrived at her destination, however; ordered the coachman to wait; and ascended the august flight of marble steps with alacrity. I recalled that during Lord Harold's Christmas visit to Scargrave Manor she had particularly declared herself a stranger to the Duke and Duchess of Wilborough; and so such a call, at such an hour, was something to amaze. But having observed her flight, I had guessed she would fetch up here; and I had little doubt as to her object in paying homage to those so much above her station. Madame cared nothing for Wilborough, or his lady: it was his brother she sought, her partner in all her crimes.