Cut to the Quick by Kate Ross Page A

cut up. I thought for once I’d better do whatever the deuce he wanted.”
    "And it was on the heels of that that Hugh offered for Miss Craddock?”
    "About a fortnight later, I think. She’s not much of a bargain, is she? A little mouse of a thing, dull as ditchwater, no life in her at all.”
    "Perhaps being handed over to an unwilling bridegroom in the teeth of his family’s opposition is dragging down her spirits a bit.”
    "You think there might be something in her after all?”
    "My dear fellow, how should I know?” That girl again, he thought. Why does she get under my skin this way? She’s probably delighted to marry Fontclair, and only sulking because the mantua-maker is taking too long with her trousseau. And if there’s more to it than that—if she’s marrying him against her will—what can I do about it? Other than land myself, one way or another, in a devil of a mess.
    "Hugh doesn’t see anything in her,” Guy was saying. "If he were in love, everybody would know about it. He’d be mooning, and making sheep’s eyes at Miss Craddock, and fighting duels with anybody who wouldn’t swear she was all three Graces in one. Hugh’s romantic, poor devil. You should see what he reads. Byron, Walter Scott, all that rubbish. Oh, well, he could be much worse off. He could have ended up shackled to Isabelle.”
    "Was that on the cards at one time?” Julian became absorbed in smoothing out his shirtcuffs.
    “It's been talked about for years—mostly by Aunt Catherine, who's all for breeding Fontclairs with each other. Isabelle is second cousin to Hugh and me. Her parents died without a farthing when she was a child, so Uncle Robert and Aunt Cecily took her in. Uncle Robert's promised her a dowry, by the way, in case you care to have a go at her. I wouldn't set your heart on it, though—Isabelle's thrown cold water on every poor fool who ever dangled after her. It's Hugh she wants. She's mad on the family, just like Aunt Catherine. She's caught it from her like a disease. When Hugh came of age, she probably thought she was going to nick it at last. Then along comes a drab little chit whose father reeks of the stables, and Isabelle's out of the running. By God, she must hate the Craddocks!"
    He got up. “Well, my boots have dried out, and I'm going to bed. Alone, unfortunately. Aunt Cecily’s maids are devilish straitlaced. Look here, before I go, there’s one thing I want to know— though I’m damned if I know why you should tell me. I’m never allowed to get to the bottom of any mystery in this house."
    “What mystery could there be that I would know more about than you?"
    “The mystery of what the deuce you’re doing here; I didn't even know Hugh knew you till I saw the two of you with your heads together at that gaming hell, and now you’re going to be groomsman at his wedding."’
    Julian considered. “I think I’m the chorus.”
    “The what?”
    “Like the chorus in a classical drama. I watch the action and comment on it, without being drawn into it myself.”
    “Well, I'm blistered if I know why you'd want to be stuck here playing chorus at some daft family drama.”
    Julian did not know the answer to that himself. “There are worse places to be stuck,” he mused, gazing around the room.
    “It’s not half bad, is it? It used to be my room, you know.” “No, I didn’t.”
    “I stayed at Bellegarde a good deal when I was a boy. My mother died before I was out of leading-strings, and the colonel was always off with his regiment somewhere, so often there was nothing to do with me but quarter me with Uncle Robert. I don’t think he liked
    that above half—thought I was a bad influence on Hugh—but there was nothing he could do about it. Family loyalty—all we Fontclairs are slaves to it, and no one more than Uncle Robert.”
    He went over to the window, smiling reminiscently. "I used to spend most of my time trying to figure out ways to get out at night on the sly. I got pretty good