A Civil Contract by Georgette Heyer

down at the eleventh hour by a sudden indisposition and Lydia had taken her place. Everyone had declared her to be a Born Actress. In this unanimous judgement she concurred, but doubted, modestly, whether she would make a hit in the tragic rôles. Comedy was her forte , and although this might entail the playing of some breeches-parts she was persuaded that Adam would see no real objection to that, whatever Charlotte might say. In short, she would be very much obliged to him if he would approach whichever of the theatrical managers he thought the most respectable, and represent to this magnate that a rare chance was offered him of engaging the services of a young actress perfectly ready to take the town by storm, and not at all afraid of challenging comparison with such experienced players as Mrs Jordan, or Miss Mellon, or Miss Kelly. He gathered, with a grin, that the appearance on the boards of Miss Lydia Deveril (or Lovelace) would be the signal for these ladies to retire into chagrined obscurity.
    He might laugh at his sister’s naïve plans, but they added nothing to his peace of mind. It distressed him to know that she was scheming how to support herself when she should have been thinking of her coming-out, and drove to the back of his tired mind his own trouble. He found the time, not to approach a respectable manager, but to write a tactful reply to Lydia; and was engaged on this task when a waiter came up to his private parlour with a visiting-card on a salver, and a note addressed to him in Lord Oversley’s hand.
    ‘Gentleman waiting downstairs, my lord.’
    Adam picked up the card, and read it with slightly raised brows. It was a rather larger card than was usually carried, and the name on it was inscribed in extremely florid script. Mr Jonathan Chawleigh ran the legend. It was followed by an address in Russell Square, and by another in Cornhill. This seemed very odd. Mystified, Adam turned to Lord Oversley’s letter. It was brief, merely requesting him to receive my good friend , Mr Chawleigh , and to give careful consideration to any proposition which that gentleman might lay before him.
    ‘Desire Mr Chawleigh to step upstairs,’ Adam said.
    He recognized in the waiter’s wooden countenance, and in the utter lack of expression with which he replied: ‘Very good, my lord,’ profound disapproval. Undismayed, but at a loss to account for Mr Chawleigh’s visit, he nodded the waiter away, and awaited events. That Lord Oversley had some scheme in mind for his relief was plain enough, but in what way the unknown Mr Chawleigh could contribute to it he was quite unable to imagine.
    In a few minutes the waiter returned, announcing Mr Chawleigh, and into the room stepped a very large, burly man, who halted on the threshold, and favoured Adam with a fierce stare, directed from under a pair of craggy brows.
    The stare was at once suspicious and appraising. Adam met it tranquilly enough, but he did not entirely relish it. There was amusement in his face, but a faint hauteur too: what the devil did this fellow, who looked like a tradesman, mean by glaring at him?
    Mr Chawleigh was a middle-aged man, whose powerful frame was clad in an old-fashioned suit of snuff-coloured broadcloth. Unlike his host, who wore a close-fitting coat of black superfine, with cutaway tails, pantaloons, and Hessian boots, Mr Chawleigh favoured a mode that had been for many years worn only by respectable tradesmen, and perhaps a few country squires who had no ambition to figure in the world of ton. His coat was full-skirted, and he wore knee-breeches, with stockings, and square-toed shoes embellished with steel buckles. His shirt-points were no more than decently starched, and his neckcloth was tied with more neatness than artistry; but his waistcoat relieved the general drabness of his raiment with broad, alternating stripes of grass-green and gold. The most henhearted member of the dandy-set would have died at the stake rather than have worn