Джорджетт Хейер - The Masqueraders

“I had rather see you safe in France.”

“I won’t go.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, do you turn stubborn?”

“As a mule. We go down to Richmond with my lady tomorrow, and the Markham may think that I’ve gone into retirement on account of my mauling. He should be satisfied. I await the old gentleman, for I’ve a curiosity to see what his game is.” She got up, and stretched her long limbs, wincing at the pain of her bruised shoulder. “Get you to bed, Robin.” She went out, yawning.

They were gone on the morrow down to my lady’s house at Richmond. My lady was loud in her exclamations of horror at what had befallen Prudence, but Prudence could chuckle now that all was over, the while Robin sat in frowning silence. His petticoats began to irk him.

Mr Markham heard of the affair at White’s, from the lips of Mr Belfort. He professed himself all concern, but his friend Lord Barham, drawing him aside, said with a snigger: “So that’s a score settled, eh, my buck?”

“It’s not,” said Mr Markham curtly, and scowled.

“Gad, I’d give something to know what you have against the young sprig!” said his Lordship. “It’s a conceited puppy, ecod! I’ve a mind to give it a trouncing myself.”

Mr Markham saw Sir Anthony Fanshawe, idly twirling his quizzing-glass, and rather testily requested his noble friend to guard his tongue. Sir Anthony continued blandly to survey the pair. Mr Markham strode off, rather red about the gills.

Sir Anthony turned to Mr Belfort, standing in a circle of his acquaintances. “Well, Charles, have you been fighting with the devil’s emissaries?” he said genially. “What’s this I hear of Mohocks?”

“Three of them, right in the middle of town, if you please!” said Mr Belfort. “Thunder an’ turf, but it’s a crying disgrace! I’m saying to Proudie here that measures ought to be taken.”

Sir Anthony took out his snuff-box, and shook back the ruffles from his hand. “Oh, were you attacked?” he inquired.

“Not I. ’Twas young Merriot they set upon, as he came off from Devereux’s last night.”

The strong hand paused for a moment in the act of unfobbing the snuff-box. The sleepy eyes did not lift. “Indeed?” said Sir Anthony, and awaited more.

“Three to one, the ruffians, and lucky I chanced along, for the lad’s not over strong in the sword arm, I take it. Game enough, but he was soon blown.”

“He was, was he?” Sir Anthony took snuff in a leisurely fashion. “And — er — was he hurt?”

“A blow on the shoulder. It seemed to knock him pretty well endways. But he said something of an old wound there, which would account for it,” said Belfort, feeling that some excuse was needed.

“Ah, an old wound?” Sir Anthony was politely interested. “Of course. That would, as you say, account for it.”

“There’s naught to be said against the lad’s courage,” Belfort assured him. “Game as a fighting cock, pledge you my word. I was all for taking him off to my lodgings to attend to his shoulder, but no, he’d none of it!”

“He refused to go with you, did he?” Sir Anthony nicked a speck or two of snuff from his sleeve.

“Oh, wouldn’t hear of it! Naught I could say was to any avail. He would be off home, and have no fuss made.”

“Very creditable,” said Sir Anthony, stifling a yawn, and strolled away to meet my Lord March, just come in.

At Richmond, in the pleasant house with its gardens running down to the river, Sir Anthony was one of my Lady Lowestoft’s visitors. He rode out to pay a morning call, and was fortunate enough to find my lady and her two guests at home.

Sir Anthony indicated Prudence’s stiff shoulder with a movement of his quizzing-glass. “So you must needs go brawling about our streets, little man?”

There was a quick contraction of Robin’s brows. He looked up to find the sleepy gaze upon him, and straightaway achieved a shudder. “Oh pray, sir, don’t speak of it!”

“You should keep him closer tied to your apron strings, ma’am,” said Sir Anthony, and began to talk of the state of the roads. But upon my lady’s going out of the room he broke off to say: “Have you any idea that it was Markham’s men set upon you, young man?”

“Some little suspicion of it,” Prudence admitted. “I shall be more wary in the future.”

“It’s a vengeful creature.” Sir Anthony crossed one leg over the other. “I believe you would do well not to go abroad unaccompanied at night,” he said, and fell to twirling his eyeglass by its riband.

He presently took leave of them, and rode off back to town. Robin said with a laugh: “Oh, it’s all solicitude! The benevolent mammoth!”

“Lord, must you still be jeering!” Prudence demanded and left him rather abruptly.

They returned to Arlington Street at the end of the week, arriving on the day of her Grace of Queensberry’s rout, whither they were bidden. They went in state in my lady’s town chariot, and my lady regaled them on the way with some highly entertaining details of my Lord March’s private life.

Her Grace’s salons were large enough to accommodate even the crowd that assembled at her house that evening. There were bright lights in sparkling chandeliers, and many heavy-scented flowers, and over all the hum of gay chatter. Her Grace stood at the head of the stairs to receive her guests, and had the felicity of knowing that my Lord March, her son, was adorning the rout with his unaccustomed presence.

My lord was in excellent spirits, and stayed for at least an hour in the big withdrawing rooms. After having done his duty there so nobly, he retired to the card rooms for a spell, in search of a little relaxation.

Robin’s elderly admirer found him out, and showed an ardent desire to know more of him. Prudence left him, murmuring compliments into one bashful ear.

It was quite late in the evening when there came a slight stir about the doorway, and Prudence had returned to Robin’s side, ousting the elderly beau. She stood now behind his chair, Sir Raymond Orton a few paces from her, and my Lady Lowestoft, laughing immoderately at something Mr Selwyn was saying to her, not far distant.

Some late comer, it appeared, was arriving; a knot of ladies gathered near the door gave way, and Prudence could enjoy a clear view.

Two gentlemen came in, and stood for a moment looking round. One of these was my Lord March; the other was a slight, elderly gentleman with arresting grey eyes, a nose inclined to be aquiline, and thin, smiling lips. He was magnificently attired in puce satin, with embroidered waistcoat. His wig must surely have come straight from Paris; his shoes, with their jewelled buckles, had preposterous high red heels to them; the cut of his coat spoke the most fashionable tailor of the day in every line. There was the hint of a diamond in the lace at his throat, and on his breast he displayed several scintillating foreign orders. He stood very much at his ease, his head slightly inclined to hear what my Lord March was saying, and one thin white hand delicately raising a pinch of snuff to a finely chiselled nostril.

Prudence’s hand found Robin’s shoulder, and gripped hard. Robin looked up, and she felt him stiffen.

The old gentleman’s eyes travelled slowly round the room the while he listened to my Lord March; rested a moment on Miss Merriot’s face, and passed on. Her Grace of Queensberry came forward to welcome the newcomer, and he bent with great courtliness over her hand.

Robin turned in his chair. “I am dreaming. I must be dreaming. Even he could not dare — ”

Prudence was shaking with suppressed laughter. “Oh, it’s the old gentleman himself, never fear! Lud, might we not have expected something after this fashion?”

“Arm-in-arm with March — covered with jewels — all his misbegotten orders — gad, it beats all! And who the devil does he pretend to be now?” Robin sat fuming; he could not admire this last freak of his sire. “Of course, we’re sped now,” he said in a voice of gloomy conviction. “This will land us all at Tyburn.”

“Oh, my dear, he’s incomparable! You have to admit it.” Prudence saw Mr Molyneux advancing, and hailed him. “Pray, sir, who is the magnificent stranger but just arrived?”

“What, don’t you know?” cried Mr Molyneux, shocked. “Ah, to be sure, you’ve been out of town this last week. That stranger is the greatest romance we’ve known since Peterson ran off with Miss Carslake.” He laughed at Robin. “All the ladies are in ecstasies over it, I assure you. It appears, you see, that the grand gentleman is the lost Viscount. One thought such things only happened in fairy tales.”

Robin sank back in his chair; seeing him incapable of speech; Prudence said faintly: “Indeed, sir? And — and who is the lost Viscount?”

“Fie, fie, what ignorance! And the thing’s the jest of town!  — but you have been at Richmond: I forget that. Why, none but Tremaine, my dear boy, of course!  — Tremaine of Barham! Surely you must know that!”

Some dim recollection of my Lady Lowestoft’s talk flitted across Prudence’s memory. “I didn’t know there was a lost Tremaine, sir,” she said.

“Good Gad, not know of the Barham claim?” This was Mr Belfort, who had wandered up to them. “Why, this is the lost black sheep appeared to filch the title from Rensley. It’s a famous jest, and Rensley’s as sour as a lemon over it.” He laughed delightedly at the thought of the deposed lord’s discomfiture.

“But what’s his claim?” persisted Prudence.

“Oh, that! To be sure, no one remembered his existence in the least, but it seems he’s a brother of old Barham, who died a month or two back. Odd, a’n’t it? I never heard of any brother, but it was all rather before my time, of course. Anyway, Cloverly was telling me he has all the papers to prove he’s the man, and a fine romantic story it all is. A jolt for Rensley, though!”

“Does Rensley acknowledge him?” Prudence found strength enough to inquire.

“As to that, Rensley’s lying low, I take it, but I believe he told Farnborough he was sure his cousin was dead, and that this man had stolen the papers. But Rensley would take that tone, y’know.” Mr Belfort perceived a friend close by, and was off to greet him.

“And what do you make of that?” said Prudence calmly in her brother’s ear.

Robin shook his head. “It’s the most consummate piece of impertinent daring — gad, it beats our masquerade!”

“But how can he carry it off? And for how long?”

“And why?” Robin demanded. “It’s senseless! Why?”

“Oh, the old love of a fine dramatic gesture. Don’t we know it? It’s to rank with the time he played the French Ambassador in Madrid. And he came off safe from that.”

“But this — this is England!” Robin said. “Cordieu, will you but look at him now?”

The magnificent gentleman was bowing before Miss Gunning. Well they knew that flourish of a laced handkerchief. Egad, but he had all the airs of a Viscount, or of a Duke for that matter. A large figure came up with him; the new Lord Barham gave Sir Anthony Fanshawe two fingers to clasp. Sir Anthony stayed but to speak a few words, and then walked leisurely away.

Came a gasp from my Lady Lowestoft’s direction. My lady sprang up. “Mon cher Robert!” she cried, and held out her hands. Volubly she explained to Mr Selwyn that this dear gentleman had long been known to her.

“Thérèse!” My Lord Barham kissed both her hands. “I have the supreme felicity to find you!”

“Faith, it’s an ecstatic old gentleman!” The voice came from behind Prudence. Sir Anthony Fanshawe had come round the room to her side.

“I’m to understand it’s a lost viscount, or some such matter?” Prudence took snuff with an air of unconcern.

“Quite so. The last of the Tremaines, it appears. Offspring don’t so far materialise.”

My Lady Lowestoft was bearing down upon them with a hand on Lord Barham’s arm. “Mon cher, I must present to you some dear young friends of mine,” they heard her say. “It is a Mr and a Miss Merriot, who are staying with me for a space.”

“I am enchanted to meet a friend of my Thérèse!” his lordship declared, and was straightway presented to Miss Merriot.

Robin arose, and spread out his skirts; as he rose from the curtsey he extended a hand right regally, and gazed limpidly into the face of his sire.

My lord bowed deeply over the hand, and, looking up, bestowed a glance of admiration upon Miss Merriot’s fair countenance. “But charming!” he said. “Charming, I protest!”