Masqueraders (14 page)

‘I believe not, sir.’

‘Why, I am sorry.’ said Sir Anthony. ‘I confess I have an ambition to meet the begetter of so worldly-wise a youth.’

‘No doubt my father would surprise you, sir,’ said Prudence, with truth. ‘It’s a remarkable old gentleman.’

‘No doubt he would,’ agreed Fanshawe. ‘I find that life is full of surprises.’

For a moment grey eyes met grey. ‘The sudden appearance of the lost Viscount, for instance,’ said Prudence lightly.

‘Precisely. And the no less sudden appearance of the Pretender not so long back.’

So that was the gist of the matter, was it? Prudence drew in her breath.

The lazy voice continued. ‘And—when one thinks of it—the sudden appearance of the Merriots.’

‘Oh, that! Sudden to you, I make no doubt, but believe me it was not sudden to us. My sister was in a fever of anticipation for weeks before.’

The danger point seemed to be past. Sir Anthony preserved a thoughtful silence.

‘You did not go down to your house at Wych End after all, sir,’ remarked Prudence at length.

‘No, little man. I changed my mind since your company was denied me.’

She flushed, and looked up frankly. ‘I wonder that you should so greatly desire my company, Sir Anthony.’

He stroked the chestnut’s neck with the butt of his whip, and smiled a little. ‘Do you?’ he said, and turned his head. ‘Now why?’

Faith, when he let one see them the gentleman had most understanding eyes.

‘Well, sir’—Prudence looked demure—‘I have a notion you think me an escaped rebel.’

‘And if you were,’ said Sir Anthony, ‘must I necessarily deny you my friendship?’

‘I believe you to be a good Whig, sir.’

‘I hope so, little man.’

‘I took no part in the late Rebellion, sir.’

‘I have not accused you of it, my dear boy.’

The horses dropped to a walk. ‘But if I had, Sir Anthony . . . What then?’

‘You might still rest assured of my friendship.’

There was a warm feeling about her heart, but he did not know the full sum of it, alack.

‘You are very kind, Sir Anthony—to an unknown youth.’

‘I believe I remarked to you once that I have an odd liking for you, little man. One of these strange twists in one’s affections for which there is no accounting. If I can serve you at any time I desire you will let me know it.’

‘I have to thank you, sir.’ She could find no other words.

‘You may perhaps have noticed, my dear boy, that my friends call me Tony,’ he said.

She bent to fiddle with her stirrup leather, and her reply was somewhat inarticulate. When she sat straight again in the saddle she showed a heightened colour, but it might have been due to the stooping posture.

CHAPTER XIII

Encounter at White’s

Far from exhibiting a disposition to seek any sort of seclusion, such as might be supposed to become a gentleman waiting upon so large a claim, the new Lord Barham showed himself abroad whenever opportunity presented itself. It was quite impossible for anyone living in polite Society to be long ignorant of his lordship’s existence: he was a most prominent gentleman. His stature might lack something in height, for he was after all but a small man, but this was more than compensated for by the overwhelming personality of the man. He had but to enter a room for every eye to turn involuntarily in his direction. It was not in his dress that this distinctiveness lay, though that was always gorgeous; it was not even in his carriage, however haughty that might be. It was thought to lie in the arresting quality of his eyes: if he looked at one, one was straightway conscious of no little magnetism.

Discussion concerning him was rife; his children had to listen to all manner of conjectures and rumours, and derived therefrom some amusement, and some alarm as well.

He had his supporters; in the ranks of the ladies they were numberless. Who, pray, could like that coarse Rensley? The ladies knew nothing of claims, or legal matters, but they were sure this gentleman had all the air of a great man, and was far more fitted to be a Viscount than that odious Rensley.

Amongst the men opinions were varied. There were those who said he had the look of the Tremaines, and there were others who could see no resemblance. Foremost of these was old Mr Fontenoy, who had some recollection of the lost Tremaine as a boy. He said that the lad he had known was a frank, impetuous youth, and could by no means have developed into the incorrigible actor this fellow showed himself to be.

But opposed to Mr Fontenoy stood my Lord Clevedale, that jovial peer, who claimed also to have known young Tremaine. He could very easily imagine that the hot-headed boy might easily change into the present figure as the years went by. He claimed old acquaintance with Lord Barham, and was accepted with rapture. To be sure, the Viscount seemed to remember very little of those bygone days, but then my Lord Clevedale’s memory was also a trifle hazy. It was all so many years ago—thirty at least, his lordship believed, for young Tremaine had run off to the Continent when he was scarce a day more than eighteen.

No one set much store by Mr Rensley’s stout refusal to acknowledge his supposed cousin. Naturally Rensley would fight. The trouble was to know how to address poor Rensley. One could not have two Viscounts of the same name, but until the lawyers had done ferreting out information, and quibbling over documents the new lord had no claim to any title at all, and Rensley might continue to hold it, as he held the estates and the houses. Yet for some reason—it must again lie in that magnetic eye—the newcomer was everywhere addressed as Lord Barham, while his less forceful relative sank back into undistinguished esquiredom.

It was thought to augur well for the authenticity of my lord’s claim that he made no demand on the estate. An impostor, so it was argued, would have been sure to try to get money advanced him from the lawyers. But his lordship had put forward no such suggestion; nor did he show any desire to oust Rensley from the town house in Grosvenor Square until all should be satisfactorily proved. The ladies thought this showed a sweet disposition in the old gentleman; the gentlemen wagged solemn heads, and did not know what to make of it.

When my lord made his stately way in at the sacred portals of White’s club there were one or two gentlemen muttered darkly of effrontery. But the mutterings died down; my lord became a member of the club. No one quite knew the man responsible for this; it was Sir Anthony Fanshawe who said with a deep chuckle that he believed they might see my lord’s proposer in my lord himself. Several gentlemen were quite indignant when the full force of this suggestion dawned on them, but there was no movement made to eject his lordship. He was accepted, perforce, and it had to be admitted that in spite of some foreign extravagancies of manner, his
ton
was all that it should be, and his general bearing a fine mixture of stateliness and affability.

But there was no denying the man was a puzzle. No one could remember ever to have heard him announce, point-blank, that he was in very truth what he claimed to be. It was recollected that naturally no one cared to ask him this ticklish question, and this was thought by some to extenuate this omission on his part. But others felt that an honest claimant should have an open way with him. Instead of offering any proof to Rensley, and the world at large, of his identity he seemed content to remain an enigma until the lawyers should have done. Lord Clevedale considered this attitude to be a point in the old gentleman’s favour, but Mr Fontenoy shook his head, and said it was not at all in keeping with the character of young Tremaine.

There was some discussion also as to the ticklish point of my lord’s social position while the matter stood in abeyance, but in the end it was decided, no one quite knew how, that he was to be received. In this the ladies may have had something to say, for they frankly doted on his lordship. So the old gentleman paraded the town, and became immersed in social engagements. His children met him almost every day at some house or other, and it was observed that his lordship was developing quite an affection for these young guests of his dear friend, Lady Lowestoft.

Sir Anthony saw fit to twit Prudence on the growing intimacy, one late afternoon at White’s. They were standing in the card-room, Sir Anthony but just come in, and Prudence having risen from a faro table.

She had her answer ready. ‘Oh, it’s quite an amusing old
roué!
’
she said, with a startling lack of respect for so near a relative. ‘He comes to visit my lady, and ogles my poor Kate.’

‘And how does Miss Merriot take that?’ inquired Sir Anthony, nodding across the room to Mr Belfort.

‘With equanimity, sir. I tell her she’s like to lose her heart to the old gentleman. Pray, is he married, do you know?’

‘I should have thought you would be more likely to have the answer to that,’ was the unexpected rejoinder.

‘I, sir?’

‘My Lady Lowestoft should know, surely,’ said Sir Anthony in mild surprise.

She bit her lip. Fool, to make so stupid a slip! A sure sign her nerves were not so steady as they had been. She proceeded to smooth over the slip. ‘Oh, we know he had a wife once,’ she said. ‘But she has been dead these many years. He says nothing of a fresh marriage, but I believe he does not tell my lady all.’

There was a movement behind them. They stood a little in front of the door, and they turned now to see my Lord Barham came in on the arm of Lord March.

‘Ah, my dear Fanshawe!’ said the old gentleman. ‘And my young friend Peter Merriot! You behold me fresh from the fatigues of a full hour with my perruquier.’ He put up his arm, and surveyed the room through it. ‘Now where, where is my good friend Clevedale?’

Clevedale himself came up. ‘Well, Barham, what’s this? You’re half an hour late, and here am I waiting on you.’

My lord flung up his hands. ‘The perruquier! I crave ten thousand pardons, my dear Thomas! But the exigencies of the perruquier! Had it been anything else in the world the claims of picquet had held me adamant. But adamant, my dear Thomas! My tailor, even, I would despatch to the devil. But a perruquier! You absolve me: you have to absolve me!’

Clevedale laughed. ‘Gad, what foppery! Oh, I hold you excused. God send I never see you bald. Come off to my table. I’ve held it in the teeth of Molyneux this half-hour.’ He bore my lord off to a place near the window.

‘I wonder, doesn’t he find that manner a thought fatiguing to maintain?’ said Sir Anthony meditatively.

‘Clevedale?’ Prudence looked inquiringly.

‘No, my innocent: the new Viscount.’

Mr Belfort came over to them. ‘Tony, here’s Devereux wants to play at lansquenet, and all the world’s bent on faro. Will you and Merriot join us? The devil’s in Devereux that naught else will do for him. But the poor fellow’s feeling plaguily low to-day: he’s had bad news, y’know.’ Mr Belfort nodded profoundly. ‘One must try to cheer him, so I’m pledged to find a four for lansquenet. Always plays lansquenet when he’s in trouble, does Devereux.’

‘Pray, what’s the nature of his trouble?’ Prudence asked solicitously.

‘Oh, cursed bad news, my boy! That old aunt of his from whom he has expectations has rallied, and they say she’ll last another ten years. Poor old Devereux, y’know! Must try and raise his spirits.’

So with this praiseworthy intention they went to play lansquenet with Mr Devereux.

There entered a few minutes later Rensley, in company with his friend Mr Markham. Mr Markham looked heated; Mr Rensley was scowling. The truth was he had been somewhat testy with his satellite, and there had been a slight altercation. Mr Rensley refused curtly an invitation to join a faro party, on the score of his being promised to Markham. The pair sat down to picquet at a table close to Mr Belfort’s.

It fell to Mr Markham to deal, while Rensley looked sourly round the room. His glance fell upon my Lord Barham, likewise engaged on picquet. He uttered a strong expletive beneath his breath, and glared angrily. My lord, catching sight of him, waved a white hand, which salutation Mr Rensley did not return. ‘Damn the fellow, he’s no more my cousin than you are!’ he said, addressing Mr Markham.

Mr Markham was still feeling ruffled. Rensley was always quick of temper, and one bore outbursts of anger from a rich viscount. But if Rensley was going to lose his wealth and his title his friend Markham had no intention of bearing his ill-humour with complacency. ‘Gad, man, let be!’ he said shortly. ‘You’ve said little else for the past hour. Do you take all five cards?’

Rensley sorted his hand rather sullenly, and took time over his discard. A well-known voice smote Mr Markham’s ears: ‘Don’t despair, Devereux! She may die of an apoplexy yet!’

Mr Markham looked sharply round, and found that Mr Merriot was seated close at hand. He bowed politely, but his brow was black as he faced Rensley again.

Rensley saw, and smiled disagreeably. ‘Ay, the young sprig from the country’s here, Gregory. Ecod, I believe the lad’s worsted you in some encounter! Eh! man? Now what did he do to you, I wonder?’

‘That puppy!’ Mr Markham flushed. ‘I could break him across my knee!’

‘Well, why don’t you?’ asked Rensley. ‘You talk a deal, the Lord knows!’

Markham laid down his cards. ‘Not to you for much longer, sir, I warn you!’ he said.