‘You’re abashed,’ Robin told Sir Anthony.
He seemed to be struggling more with amusement, however. ‘Why, sir, I hope you’ll look kindly on my suit.’
‘I will give my consideration,’ my lord promised. ‘We must speak more of this.’
‘By all means, sir. But I think it only fair to tell you I have the fixed intention of wedding Prudence whatever your decision may be.’
My lord eyed him a moment in silence, but displayed no anger. On the contrary, his smile grew. ‘I perceive you to be a man after my own heart!’ he announced.
‘It’s a compliment,’ Robin said, on a note of information, and folded his hands in his lap.
‘Certainly it is a compliment. You see clearly, my son. But we must think on this; it is a matter of some weight.’
‘There’s another matter of some weight also, sir. I desire to serve your son here. I’ve some influence, as I tell him, and I will use it on his behalf with your consent.’
My lord became all blank bewilderment. ‘I don’t take you, sir. What is it you have a mind to do for my son?’
‘Well, sir, I’ve some notion of getting a pardon for him. I believe it may be done.’
My lord struck an attitude. ‘A pardon, sir? For what, pray?’
‘For his share in the late Rebellion, sir. Does he want one for something else beside?’
‘That!’ My lord brushed it aside. ‘I have forgotten all that. It is nothing; it lies in the dead past. Oblige me by forgetting it likewise.’
‘Oh, with all my heart, sir. But there are perhaps some whose memories are not so short. A pardon is necessary if Robin wants to remain in England, and come out of those clothes.’
My lord put up an admonishing finger. ‘Sir Anthony, I acquit you of a desire to insult me. Don’t cry pardon. I have said that I acquit you. But you do not know me; you even doubt my powers. It is laughable! Believe me, there is greatness in me. It would astonish you.’
‘Not at all,’ said Sir Anthony politely.
‘But yes! I doubt now that you, even you whom I would embrace as a son, have not the soul to appreciate me. You make it plain. I pity you, sir!’
‘At least I have the soul to appreciate your daughter,’ mildly remarked Sir Anthony.
‘That I expect,’ said his lordship loftily. ‘To see my daughter is to become her slave. I exact such homage on her behalf. She is incomparably lovely. But I – I am different. My children are very well. They have beauty, and wit – a little. But in me there is a subtlety such as you don’t dream of, sir.’ He pondered it sadly. ‘I have never met the man who had vision large enough to appreciate my genius,’ he said simply. ‘Perhaps it was not to be expected.’
‘I shall hope to have my vision enlarged as I become better acquainted with you, sir,’ Sir Anthony replied, with admirable gravity.
My lord shook his head. He could not believe in so large a comprehension. ‘I shall stand alone to the end,’ he said. ‘It is undoubtedly my fate.’
Sir Anthony gave the conversation a dexterous turn: the old gentleman seemed to be in danger of slipping into mournful contemplation of his own unappreciated greatness. ‘Just as you please, sir, but I want to put an end to a notion Prudence has of emulating your noble solitude. I wish to take her out of this masquerade, and have her safe under the protection of my name.’
My lord’s piercing eyes flashed at that. ‘I make allowance for a lover’s feelings!’ he cried. ‘But while I live she stands in no need of another’s protection. I am the person to guard her, Sir Anthony.’
‘You are, sir, certainly,’ Fanshawe said. There was an edge to his words which did not escape my lord.
‘I admire my forebearance. Concede me a great patience. You may call it toleration. I do not call you out. I curb myself !’
‘I could not possibly meet my future father-in-law, so pray continue to curb yourself, sir.’
‘You need have no fear. But were I to meet you, sir, you would lie dead at my feet within the space of five minutes. Possibly less. I do not know.’ He appeared to give the matter his consideration.
‘That,’ said Robin reluctantly, ‘is really true.’
Sir Anthony preserved his calm. ‘I don’t think it. But I trust his lordship will spare me.’
His lordship signified with a gracious wave of his hand that he would spare Sir Anthony. ‘But do not try me too far!’ he warned. ‘Like all men of great brain, I am choleric when pressed. You give me to understand that you do not consider that I – I, Tremaine of Barham! – can take care of my daughter!’
‘Not in the least, sir. I make no doubt you can. But when you permit her to engage on so dangerous a masquerade –’
‘Permit?’ cried my lord. ‘You conceive that my children thought of this for themselves? Your partiality makes you blind. Mine was the brain that evolved this plot; mine was the inspiration. I do not permit: I ordain.’
Robin ranged himself on the side of his father. ‘We spin our own web, sir. Give us credit for some little resource.’
Fanshawe turned to look at him. ‘I suppose I am far from appreciating any of you,’ he said humorously. ‘But did you never think what might be the issue if Prudence were discovered?’
‘I could not imagine such a possibility, sir, to be frank with you. But then it was not our intention to cut such conspicuous figures in town. I will pay you the compliment to say that I think no other man would have discovered the imposture. I should like to know what made you suspect.’
‘I should find it hard to tell you, Robin. Some little things and the affection for her I discovered in myself. I wondered when I saw her tip wine down her arm at my card-party, I confess.’
My lord frowned. ‘Do you tell me my daughter was clumsy?’
‘By no means, sir. But I was watching her closer than she knew.’
My lord still seemed dissatisfied. After a moment Sir Anthony went on. ‘And I want now, sir, to spirit her off. She tells me she must needs wait upon your claim.’
‘Certainly,’ said my lord. ‘She shows a proper feeling. She has faith in me, enfin.’
‘That’s as may be, sir, but I rather see her in safety now.’
‘I applaud her decision,’ said my lord. ‘She will await my re-instalment; and you may then pay your addresses to her with all propriety. As for Robin, he is my son, and I want no pardons for him. I arrange all in a manner sublime beyond your comprehension. You may place your trust in me.’
A deep, calm voice spoke from the doorway. ‘In fact, sir, we are all of us wandering in a maze, and there is only one of our number knows the path out of it.’
Sir Anthony turned quickly; my lord bowed ineffably in acknowledgment of a compliment he had no hesitation in taking to himself. Prudence stood on the threshold, neat in brown velvet, with brown hair unpowdered. She met Sir Anthony’s gaze, and there was a little smile playing at the corners of her mouth. ‘I’ve this much faith in my father, sir, that I believe we may ruin all by a step taken without his knowledge.’
‘My Prue!’ His lordship stretched a hand towards her. ‘I said you had intuition.’
‘It seems to me,’ said Sir Anthony whimsically, ‘that I, too, am being drawn into this maze.’
‘Inevitably,’ nodded his lordship. ‘You, too, are in my toils.’
‘I’m a respectable creature, sir, I believe.’
‘If I did not think it, sir, I should deny you the right to aspire to my daughter’s hand.’
Sir Anthony bowed, but Prudence was not pleased. ‘Let’s have done with that, sir. Sir Anthony honours me beyond my deserts. I don’t desire to see him in the maze.’ She came forward and put her hand on Fanshawe’s sleeve. She looked up at him seriously. ‘Stand back from us, sir. I ask it of you.’
He covered her hand with one of his. ‘F
aith, you ask more than I can perform. I don’t meddle, but I reserve to myself the right to watch over you.’
My lord smiled indulgently, and helped himself to a pinch of snuff. Prudence said earnestly: ‘Believe me, we were born to this game of hazardous chances. But you are not. Stand back from us.’
‘My child, you need have no qualms,’ my lord assured her. ‘My plans are not overset even by Sir Anthony’s entering into them.’
‘That was not what was in my mind, sir,’ said Prudence dryly.
Sir Anthony smiled down at her. ‘My dear, I know, but I may take care of myself. Don’t worry over my safety. I am to wait: you’ll none of my help. Well, I said that it should be so, and I abide by my word. But things must be the same between us, if only to avert suspicion. You will visit me as frequently as ever. My Lord Barham can trust me.’
My lord waved his hand. ‘Implicitly, my dear Fanshawe! Are you not to be a second son to me? I can even applaud your forethought. Certainly my daughter visits you the same as ever.’
Observing a troubled crease between Prudence’s brows, Sir Anthony said softly: ‘And Prudence herself has naught to fear from me, neither exposure nor importunities. I remain her friend Tony.’
‘Admirable,’ nodded my lord. ‘You are all delicacy, sir.’
Prudence looked up into the square face, and smiled mistily. ‘Indeed, Tony, I think so,’ she said.
Twenty
Ingenuity of my Lord Barham
Robin had, perforce, to wish his sister joy of her conquest. He perceived her to be troubled, an unusual state of mind with her, and abandoned the teasing note. ‘To be honest, my dear, I was wrong in under-rating the mountain. What happened last night?’
She told him, choosing her words carefully, he thought. ‘He caught my wrist,’ she ended, ‘and bore it downwards. I knew then, of course. There was no more to say. I know when it is time to have done with lies.’ She pushed back the ruffles from her hand, and inspected the wrist closely.
‘What, do the marks still linger?’ Robin was inclined to be indignant.
‘No. I thought they did,’ she said inconsequently. ‘He asked my name; I told him. He guessed that I was the old gentleman’s child. The rest is nothing.’
Robin let that pass. He fell to playing with his rings. ‘I’m of the opinion he’ll have you, Prue.’
She smiled at that, but the smile died. ‘I don’t like it, Robin. It was very well to play this part when none knew the truth, but now – he knows, and – do you understand at all?’
‘Certainly, child. You might leave your part. He offers you a change.’
She turned her head. ‘Oh, and you thought that I would take it, did you not?’
‘No, my Prue. I thought you would not,’ Robin grinned. ‘For myself I don’t mind the large gentleman. For all his respectability there’s some humour in the man. I’ve a notion he doesn’t approve of your little brother. We shall see.’
The Honourable Charles, appearing then to claim Mr Merriot, there was an end to further discussion. Prudence went off with Mr Belfort. Later in the day she met Sir Anthony at White’s club. She knew a momentary embarrassment, but something in Fanshawe’s demeanour banished it. He walked home with her, and if she had dreaded some love-making, that fear was quickly dispelled. He was as he had said he would be, her very good friend. It was only when she had parted from him that she realised how possessive was the gentleman’s attitude. He seemed to consider that she belonged to him already. She pondered the question thoughtfully, and arrived at the conclusion that perhaps he had reason.
My Lord Barham, when he left Arlington Street, sauntered back to his lodgings in great good-humour. He had no objection to Sir Anthony having complete knowledge of the masquerade; so slight a deviation from the original plan was not enough to perturb his lordship. That quick brain was busy with the fitting of Sir Anthony into my lord’s machinations. He reflected with a pleased smile that John, the unbelieving, should see how even a big man with sleepy eyes should dance to his piping.
My lord came to his rooms in Half Moon Street to find that a visitor awaited him. My lord’s valet took his hat and cane, and murmured the name of Markham. My lord listened with a head gently inclined in interest, and went into his dining-room, smoothing a wrinkle from a satin sleeve.
Mr Markham arose at his entry, and bowed slightly. My lord smiled with the utmost affability, and put up his quizzing-glass. ‘My friend of Munich days!’ he said softly. ‘How I am honoured!’ His eyes dwelt lovingly on Mr Markham; there was no reading in them the smallest hint of what thoughts were passing swiftly across that subtle mind. ‘But sit down, my dear Mr Markham! Pray sit down!’
Mr Markham obeyed this injunction, and was silent while the valet set wine and glasses on the table. My lord’s white hand hovered over the Burgundy decanter; my lord looked inquiring.
‘I won’t drink, I thank you,’ said Mr Markham.
‘But positively I insist!’ My lord was pained. ‘You will permit me to give you some claret.’
Mr Markham watched the valet go out of the room. ‘You must guess I’ve come upon business,’ he said curtly.
‘No; but no, my dear Markham. I thought you had come to recall old days,’ said his lordship. ‘I never occupy myself with business. You cannot interest me in such a subject. Shall it be claret or Burgundy?’
‘Oh, claret, then!’ Mr Markham said impatiently.
‘I am quite of your opinion,’ nodded my lord. ‘Burgundy is the very King of Wines, but it was not meant to be taken in the morning.’ He handed his guest a brimming glass, and poured another for himself. ‘To your very good health, my dear sir!’
Mr Markham made no answer to his toast. He drank some of the wine, and pushed the glass from him. ‘I venture to think, my Lord Barham, that the business I am come upon will interest you vastly,’ he said.
My lord re-filled his glass. ‘I am sure if anyone could interest me in such a subject, it must be you, dear Markham,’ he said warmly.
Against such smooth-spoken politeness Mr Markham found it difficult to proceed. He felt somewhat at a disadvantage, but comforted himself with the thought that it was my lord who should feel at a disadvantage in a very few moments. He plunged abruptly into the subject of his errand. ‘As to this claim of yours, sir, that you are Tremaine of Barham, I don’t believe in it, but I am taking no interest in it now.’
‘That is very wise of you,’ my lord approved. ‘You must allow me to compliment you.’
Mr Markham ignored this. ‘For all I care, you may ape the part of Barham to your heart’s content. It’s nothing to me.’
‘Positively you overwhelm me!’ my lord said. ‘You oppress me with kindness, sir. And you come, in fact, to set my mind at rest! Believe me all gratitude.’
‘I don’t come for that purpose at all,’ said Mr Markham, annoyed. ‘I come for a purpose, for which you may not be so damned grateful.’
‘Impossible!’ My lord shook his head. ‘The mere felicity of seeing you here in my rooms must fill me with gratitude.’
Mr Markham broke in on this without ceremony. ‘Barham you may be, but there is one thing you have been which is certain!’ He paused to let this sink in.
My lord did not seem to be greatly impressed. ‘Oh, a number of things!’ he assured his guest. ‘Of course, there are a number of things I have not been, too. They have never fallen in my way, which is the reason, you see. But continue! Pray continue!’
‘I will, my lord. You may not find it so palatable as you imagine. You have been – you may be still, for aught I know – a cursed Jacobite!’
My lord’s expression of polite interest underwent no change. ‘But you should tell this to my cousin Rensley,’ he pointed out.
‘You may be thankful I don’t, sir. It’s nothing to me: my information goes to the high
est bidder. If you haggle, my lord, Rensley shall have it. But I don’t think you will haggle.’
‘I’m sure I shan’t,’ my lord answered. ‘I am not a tradesman.’
‘You’re a damned Jack-of-all-trades, in my opinion!’ said Markham frankly. ‘You assume a mighty lofty tone, to be sure –’
‘No, no, it comes quite naturally,’ my lord interpolated sweetly. ‘I assume nothing; I am a positive child of nature, my dear sir. But you were saying?’
‘Ay, it doesn’t interest you at all, does it?’ Mr Markham achieved a sneer.
My lord was apologetic. ‘Well, not just at the moment, my dear friend of old days. But presently I feel you will arrive at a climax which will astound me. I am all expectation.’
‘It may well appal you, my lord. I have here’ – he laid his hand on the breast of his coat significantly – ‘something that spells ruin for you.’
‘What, in your heart?’ My lord was puzzled.
‘No, sir! In my pocket!’ snapped Markham.
‘Oh, I see! An inner pocket! A very cunning contrivance, sir: I must have one made for myself. What did you tell me you had in it?’
‘I have a certain paper, sir – a letter writ to my Lord George Murray: writ by a man who called himself – Colney!’
‘Good Gad, sir!’ said my lord placidly. ‘But you don’t drink! You find my claret insipid, I fear. Let me send for some canary. Or do you prefer ale in the morning? My man shall procure you some on the instant. You have but to say the word.’
‘You, sir, are that man!’ declared Mr Markham in a ringing voice.
My lord jumped and blinked. ‘I am anything in the world you please,’ he assured Mr Markham. ‘But don’t, I implore you, give me another such start!’
Mr Markham put a hand to his pocket, and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. This he spread before my lord’s eyes, keeping it well out of reach.
My lord looked at it and nodded. ‘Very interesting,’ he said.
‘Very dangerous, my Lord of Barham!’