Devil's Cub by Georgette Heyer

enough, O my uncle? Mr. Tremlowe would be gratified by the payment of his bill. Who the devil’s Mr. Tremlowe?”
    “Damned barber,” growled Lord Rupert. “What’s he say I owe him?”
    The Marquis read out a startling total.
    “Pack of lies,” said Lord Rupert. “Never saw so much money all at once in all my life. Damme, what have I had from him? Nothing at all! A couple of wigs (a Crutch and a She-dragon, and I never wore the Crutch) and maybe a bottle of Pomatum. Blister it, does the fellow think I’m going to pay him?”
    The question was purely rhetorical, but the Marquis said: “How long has he known you, Rupert?”
    “Lord, all my life, curse his impudence!”
    “Then I don’t suppose he does,” said Vidal calmly.
    Lord Rupert pointed the stem of his pipe at Mr. Tremlowe’s missive. “I’ll tell you what it is, my boy. The fellow’s dunning me. Put it in the fire.”
    The Marquis obeyed without the slightest hesitation. Lord Rupert was scanning another sheet of paper. “Here’s another,” he exclaimed. It went the way of the first. “Never see anything but bills!” he said. “What’s your post bring you, Vidal?”
    “Love letters,” promptly replied his lordship.
    “Young dog,” chuckled his uncle. He disposed of the rest of his correspondence, and suddenly became solemn. “I’d something to say to you. Now what the plague was it?” He shook his head. “Gone clean out of my head. Which reminds me, my boy, I’ve a piece of advice to give you. I was dining with Ponsonby last night, and he said you was bound to him for Friday next.”
    “Oh, God, am I?” said the Marquis wearily. “Don’t touch the brandy!” his uncle adjured him. “The burgundy’s well enough, and you can swallow the port, but the brandy’s devilish bad.”
    “Given you a head, Rupert?” inquired his lordship solicitously.
    “Worst I’ve had in years,” declared Lord Rupert. He stretched his long legs out before him, and lay looking up somewhat owlishly at his nephew. It seemed to dawn on him that the hour was an unusually early one for the Marquis to be abroad. “What brings you here?” he asked suspiciously. “If you want to borrow money, Vidal, I tell you plainly, I’m cleaned out. Lost a milleleva last night. Never seen anything like the run of the luck. Bank’s won for weeks. Burn it, I believe I’ll give up pharaoh and take to whist.”
    Vidal leaned his shoulders against the mantelpiece, and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. “I never pursue forlorn hopes, uncle,” he said sweetly. “I’ve come for the pleasure of seeing you. Can you doubt it?”
    His lordship shot out a hand. “Now don’t do that, my boy!” he said. “Damme, when you start talking like Avon I’m off! If you’ve not come to borrow money—”
    “Boot’s on the other leg,” interrupted the Marquis. Lord Rupert’s jaw dropped. “Ecod, was it you lent me five hundred pounds last month? When did I say I’d pay?”
    “Judgment Day, belike,” said his undutiful nephew. Lord Rupert, shook his head. “Won’t be before, if the luck don’t turn soon,” he agreed gloomily. “If you stand in need of it, my boy, I might ask Avon for a trifle.”
    “Lord, I could ask him myself, couldn’t I?” the Marquis said.
    “Well, I don’t mind telling you, Vidal, that’s a thing I don’t do till the tipstaffs are after me,” confessed Rupert. “I’m not saying Avon’s mean, but he’s devilish unpleasant over these little affairs.”
    The Marquis glanced down at him with a glint in his eyes. “Sir, I am constrained to remind you that his grace has the honour to be my sire.”
    “Don’t do it,” roared his uncle. “Look’ee, Vidal, if you’re going to look down your nose, and turn into the living spit of Justin, you’ve one friend the less. I’m done with you.”
    “My God, could I survive?” mocked the Marquis. Lord Rupert started to get up, but was thrust back again. “Easy now,” said his nephew.