Masqueraders (20 page)

‘Can you prove this Colney to be indeed the man you say he is?’

The stranger answered in some alarm that of a certainty he could prove nothing, since he could not, for obvious reasons, come into the open. Mr Markham’s dissatisfaction grew. ‘I don’t see what use this is. I believe I’d better give you up.’

It was pointed out to him, with some haste, that an inquiry set on foot regarding the movements of Mr Colney must inevitably lead to the present claimant of the Barham title. Mr Markham sat pondering it, and began to see his way. The letter was hidden away in a pocket and twenty guineas changed hands. Mr Markham thought it would be as well for the stranger to leave the country: he preferred that no one save himself should know of this letter. There was some expostulation and some tearful pleading, but upon fresh mention of the law-officers the stranger took a hurried leave of his host, and left him to his reflections.

These were weighty enough. It was Mr Markham’s first impulse to go with the document to Rensley, who had said he would give as much as ten thousand pounds to the man who should expose his cousin. But Rensley was a mean dog: there could be no trusting him. Rensley had, moreover, used some very cutting expressions to his friend lately; there had been a falling out, and it would not be displeasing to Mr Markham to do his friend Rensley an ill turn.

His thoughts came round to another market for his document. Ecod, he had naught against the pseudo-Lord Barham, and his lordship seemed to be an open-handed old gentleman. Of a surety it would not do to act precipitately in this matter, but the alternative of taking his document to Barham must be fully considered. Rensley would be bound to pay well for this precious paper, but would not my lord be bound to pay better? This led to a fresh thought: once sold to Rensley, there was an end to the business, so far as Mr Markham was concerned. But he could dimly perceive years ahead if he made Barham his man. Barham would buy the paper, true, but even that would not make Barham feel quite safe. He could surely be further bled on fear of disclosure. True there could be nothing proved without written evidence, but Mr Markham could imagine that even a verbal accusation with the paper safely destroyed would prove mighty uncomfortable for my lord. Mr Markham believed that he might easily hold my lord under his thumb for a good many years to come. He licked his lips at this thought, but decided that the thing must be earnestly weighed. He would sleep on it.

CHAPTER XVIII

The Large Gentleman is Awake

There would be cards at Fanshawe’s house, Prudence guessed; a fair number of young bucks might be counted on to be present; and her frustrated duel with Rensley must be sure of receiving notice.

She chose, at random, a coat of peach satin from her wardrobe, and found a fine waistcoat embroidered in silver to wear with it. Robin came to dredge powder on to her brown locks, and was busy with hot irons for a while. Coaxing a rolling curl into place, Robin said:—‘Leave early, and have no private talk with Fanshawe. It’s my belief it’s a Quixotic gentleman with no other mind than to step between a callow youth and death. But it’s as well to have a care.’

Prudence agreed to the first part of this speech, but held her peace for the rest. No use in alarming Robin, but she felt there might be more in the large gentleman’s mind than her brother guessed. She waited patiently for Robin to finish tying the black riband in her neck, and rose afterwards to be helped into her coat. Her glance strayed to the mirror, and showed satisfaction. Faith, she made a neat young gentleman. Who should think more? She slipped a ring on to her finger, and her snuff-box into one of the great pockets of her coat. Her stockings seemed to her to be rolled too loosely above the knee; she bent to rectify the fault; gave a final pat to the ruffles about her throat, and sallied forth to the waiting chair.

The house in Clarges Street was strangely quiet. As she gave her hat and cloak into the servant’s care she listened for sound of voices, but none came. The lackey went before her to the door of Sir Anthony’s library, flung it wide, and sonorously called her name.

Sir Anthony was standing alone before the fireplace, where a small wood fire burned. There was no one else in the room. He came forward to greet Prudence, took her hand a moment, and asked a jovial question. She answered in kind, and realised with his next words that she was to be his only guest.

‘I’ve positively no entertainment to offer you, excepting a hand at picquet after dinner,’ smiled Fanshawe. ‘I feel I invite you under false pretences, but you’ll forgive me.’

‘Why, I’m pleased to have it so, sir!’ There was not much truth in that, but one must say something of the sort, she supposed. She paused. A word must be said also of his strange behaviour of yesterday, since it concerned her so nearly. There was not a tremor in her voice as she spoke: nothing but a mixture of amusement and some reproof. ‘I have a quarrel with you, Sir Anthony. You must be aware of it.’

He pulled forward a chair for her, and himself stood leaning with his broad shoulders against the mantelshelf. ‘Faith, not I,’ he answered. ‘Have I offended you?’

One of her long fingers played with the fob of her snuff-box. She looked up tranquilly into the gentleman’s inscrutable, good-humoured countenance. ‘Well, sir, Mr Devereux is of the opinion I might call you out,’ she said, and the twinkle was in her grave eyes.

‘God forbid, little man! What have I done to incur this wrath?’

‘You must know, sir, that I had an engagement this morning to meet Mr Rensley out at Grey’s Inn Fields. In this I’m baulked by Sir Anthony Fanshawe. I can’t pretend to be pleased.’

She had the feeling she was being watched all the time. He smiled a little, and made a slight bow. ‘Oh, I cry your pardon, Mr Fire-Eater. But your complaints were better addressed to Rensley than to me.’

Prudence said coolly:—‘You may be very sure Mr Rensley will hear from me just so soon as he leaves the surgeon’s care.’ It seemed to her that the straight brows rose in momentary surprise. She went on. ‘Charles is of the opinion I can’t meet the man, but for myself I conceive that so far from considering myself debarred from fighting him after this insult I have the more reason. If Charles won’t act for me—faith, his sense of propriety in these matters is prodigious!—may I call on you, sir?’ This was something of a bold move, to be sure, but by the time Mr Rensley was recovered there would be no Mr Merriot in town, she believed.

‘I’m of Belfort’s opinion, little man,’ Sir Anthony said slowly. ‘You are exempt from the obligation of meeting Rensley.’

‘By your leave, sir. I think the choice rests with me.’ She looked up with an assumption of displeasure. ‘Next time I trust there will be nothing to hinder our meeting,’ she said.

‘Myself, for instance?’ Sir Anthony put up his glass. ‘I believe I don’t repeat myself.’

She bowed and let it go at that. A servant came to announce dinner, and Sir Anthony led the way into the dining-room at the back of the house.

There were wax candles in wrought holders on the table, and silver winking in the golden light. Two chairs were set, and two places laid, with wine in cut-glass decanters, shining covers, and fine white napery.

They sat down, Sir Anthony at the head of the small table, and Prudence on his left. Dishes were presented to her; she made a fair meal, and the talk ran merrily. Sir Anthony spoke of a visit to Newmarket, and begged Prudence’s company. When she paused before making reply he said provocatively:—‘You daren’t say me nay this time, Peter. Remember my displeasure on another such occasion.’

She suspected him of teasing her and looked up smilingly. ‘What, am I supposed to fear that, sir?’

Sir Anthony was busy with the carving of a chicken, but he found time to meet the challenge in the grey eyes with a look quizzical and humorous. ‘Don’t you, little man?’

Well, if the truth be told, one did fear it. But what was the gentleman’s drift? ‘I take that to be a reflection on my courage,’ she said gaily. ‘I believe I’ve no cause to fear you.’

‘You never can tell,’ Sir Anthony answered. ‘I might lose patience with so fugitive and reserved a youth. Then have you naught to fear?’

Was this a threat, perchance? No, for the large gentleman was smiling with the same good humour. ‘Oh, am I to be called out?’ she wondered.

‘Acquit me of child murder. But I might refuse to scare away the wolf—a second time.’

She sipped the Burgundy in her glass, and frowned a little, ‘Ah!’ She set down the half-empty glass, and her host filled it again. It was the second time. ‘You lead me to suppose, sir, that what you did yesterday was in the nature of wolf-scaring?’

‘Would you call it that?’ Sir Anthony filled his own glass very leisurely. ‘I had thought it more in the nature of disabling the wolf.’

‘If you like. Then what I suspected was truth indeed?’ She looked steadily at him, with some dignity in her glance.

‘That depends, young man, on what your suspicions were.’

‘I thought, sir, that you had intervened—quite incomprehensibly—on my behalf.’

‘But why incomprehensibly?’ inquired Sir Anthony.

This was something of a check. ‘Well, sir, I believe I am not, after all, just out of the nursery, though it pleases you to think so. I’m grateful for the kindliness of the action, but—frankly, Sir Anthony, I had rather be given the chance to prove my mettle.’

There came a fleeting look of admiration into the eyes that rested so enigmatically on her face, but it was so transient an expression that she doubted she had been mistaken. ‘I compliment you, boy. But prove your mettle on one nearer your own age.’

She bowed, and for form’s sake sipped at her wine again. A dish of nuts was pushed towards her; she chose one and cracked it without having recourse to the silver crackers in the dish. A boy’s trick, and she hoped the large gentleman noted it well.

The indolent voice continued. ‘Though to be sure I’d an idea your mettle had been proved already. You’ve had an engagement before this.’

She was peeling the nut, and her fingers did not falter, though she was taken by surprise. What was he at now, pray? She looked up inquiringly, but had sense enough to commit herself to nothing.

‘Some duel when you sustained a wound in the shoulder,’ said Sir Anthony.

She was at a momentary loss, and knew herself closely scrutinised. Recollection of the night when she was set on by Mohocks returned to her. She remembered the excuse manufactured on the spur of the moment for Belfort’s edification. ‘True, Sir Anthony, but that took place abroad.’

‘Like so many of your experiences,’ nodded Sir Anthony, and again picked up the decanter. ‘But you don’t drink, my dear boy.’

She thought she drank a deal too much of this heavy Burgundy, and deplored the absence of claret. Once more her glass was filled. To refuse it would give food for suspicion in these days of hard drinking. She swallowed some of the deep red wine, was aware of a lazy glance upon her, and emptied the glass recklessly. God send she kept a sober head on her shoulders! If there was to be more of it the next glass must go down her arm.

‘But we drift from the point,’ Sir Anthony said genially. ‘We were talking of Newmarket, and, as I remember, I queried an assertion on your part, child, that you’d no fear of me.’

‘Why, what should I fear in you?’ Prudence asked, and chuckled, ‘You tell me you won’t call me out, and I’m able to breathe again.’

Sir Anthony’s mouth relaxed into a smile of real amusement. ‘I do verily believe, young man, that you’d meet me with perfect sangfroid.’

‘Oh, as to that, sir, I might know some serious nervous qualms. I’m to understand you’re accounted something of a master of the small sword.’

‘You’ve been misinformed. Do you ever have nervous qualms I wonder?’

Her fingers closed round the stem of her wine-glass; she was looking at the ruby liquid sparkling in it. ‘Often, sir. Why should you suppose me cast in the heroic mould?’

‘I’d a notion you’d a vast deal of courage, my friend,’ placidly replied Fanshawe.

‘Good Gad, sir, why? Because I would fight Rensley?’

‘That, and some other things.’ Sir Anthony drained his glass, and refilled it, glancing at the untouched wine in the glass Prudence still held.

He selected a nut from the dish, and became busy with the cracking of it. Now was her moment, while his eyes were bent on his plate. Prudence raised her glass to her lips, as though to toss off the whole; there was a quick practised turn of the wrist, over in a flash, and the contents of her glass were sent down her arm.

But quicker even than her own movement, Sir Anthony leaned forward. His hand shot out, and the hard fingers closed round her wrist. Relentlessly her arm was borne down: down till the glass she held emptied its dregs on to the floor.

She made no effort to break free; perhaps she breathed a little faster. The fingers were clamped still about her wrist; Sir Anthony was looking down at her hand, watching the wine trickle down her arm, and drip on to the carpet.

She sat perfectly still; her eyes were calm, even meditative, resting on Fanshawe’s face. She had lost some of her colour, and the lace at her bosom rose and fell rather quickly, but other signs of alarm there were not.

It seemed an age before her wrist was released. At last the merciless fingers left it, and Sir Anthony sat back in his chair. She brought her hand up, and set the glass down on the table. In a detached manner she noticed that her hand did not shake, and was vaguely pleased.