“Your wife who, whether you like it or not, is the Marchioness of Wyndonbury.”
He could hear the laughter of the men staring at him from the foot of the bed and he could see an expression, which he thought was one of shock, as well as of surprise, in the eyes of the women behind them.
He could imagine how the story would be repeated and repeated all over London.
In the drawing rooms and boudoirs of his friends, the Clubs of St. James’s and, of course, in Buckingham Palace where the King and Queen would not be amused.
The Marquis was intelligent enough to know that he had been successful for too long.
Quite a number of people, even those who habitually accepted his hospitality, would be glad to see him knocked off his pedestal.
His horses had been too frequently first past the Winning
