Джорджетт Хейер - The Masqueraders

“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. “Faith, 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.

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 highest 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!”

“Then I should take care of it,” advised my lord. “I do wish you would drink. I feel you detect something amiss with the claret which has escaped my palate.”

“To hell with the claret! What will you give for this document, my lord? What’s it worth, eh? A man’s life?”

My lord shook his head decidedly. “If you want that for it, take it elsewhere, my dear Markham.”

Markham stowed it safely away. “With your leave, sir, we’ll ha’ done with this foolery. I know you for Colney. I hold a paper that would send you to the gallows-tree. Come out into the open, sir, and be plain with me. I’ve no animosity towards you; I wish you no harm. But you’ll pay well for the letter.”

My lord rose, and made a fine gesture. “I perceive that you would be a friend indeed. I embrace you! We understand one another.”

“As to that,” said Markham, rather bewildered by this sudden effusion, “I am neither your friend nor your foe. But I hold you in the hollow of my hand.”

“You do, my dear Markham, you do! And if I were given the choice of a hand to be held in, I should choose yours. My word for it, sir, my solemn oath!”

“I might have taken this paper to Rensley,” Markham went on, disregarding. “I thought of it; I weighed it well. I decided it was more vital to you to get the paper than Rensley. And I came as you see.”

“A master-mind!” said my lord. “I drink to it.” He did so, with considerable flourish. “You must accept my homage, Mr Markham. I descry in you a shrewd brain. I venerate it; we were made for each other. Rensley could never have given you what I can give you. My dear friend, I have something which might have been designed expressly for you. But still you don’t drink.”

Mr Markham tossed off the wine, and set his glass down again. “You’re mighty pleased over it,” he remarked.

“I am, sir. You have divined me correctly. I could embrace you.”

“It is not your embraces I want, my lord.”