"Not out of my first yet," she answered promptly. "Pretty please,
Rupert."
"Miles Ralestone, Marquess of Lorne," he began, "rode with Prince Rupert
of the Rhine. He was a notorious gambler, a loose liver, and a cynic.
And he even threw the family Luck across the gaming table."
"'The Luck went from him who did it no honor,'" Val repeated slowly. "I
read that in that old letter among your papers, Rupert."
"Yes, the Luck went from him. He survived Marston Moor; he survived the
death of his royal master, Charles the First, on the scaffold. He lived
long enough to witness the return of the Stuarts to England. But the
Luck was gone, and with it the good fortune of his line. Rupert, his
son, was but a penniless hanger-on at the royal court; the manor of
Lorne a fire-gutted wreckage.
"Rupert followed James Stuart from England when that monarch became a
fugitive to escape the wrath of his subjects. And the Marquess of Lorne
sank to the role of pot-house bully in the back lanes of Paris."
"And then?" prompted Val.
"And then a miracle occurred. Rupert was employed by his master on a
secret mission to London, and there the Luck came again into his hands.
Perhaps by murder. But he died miserably enough of a heavy cold got by
lying in a ditch to escape Dutch William's soldiers."
"'So is this perilous Luck come again into our hands. Then did I
persevere to mend the fortunes of my house.
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