The Masqueraders

Chapter 13 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 today: 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.

“Oh, play to my lead, man, play to my lead! Gad, but you’ll admit you’d try the patience of a saint with your prating of having seen that — that impostor somewhere, and not knowing where! Why can’t you think?”

My Lord Barham rose from his table across the room, and stood for a moment talking to March. One or two men gathered around them, after a moment a dice-box was produced, and March cast the dice on the table. Heads were bent over it; there was a laugh, and a murmur of speech, and my Lord Barham swept up the dice.

Mr Markham chanced that moment to look up. He saw my lord shake back his ruffles, and with eyes growing gradually wider he saw him throw the dice with a curious flick of the wrist.

Mr Markham was in the act of dealing, but his hand with three cards in it stayed poised in mid-air, and he continued to stare across at my lord, his jaw slightly dropped.

“What’s to do now?” demanded Rensley. “Gad, have you remembered,” he added eagerly.

“That man — why, fiend seize it, he’s no more than a common gamester! Of course I know him! Thunder and turf, he’s no viscount. He used to keep a gaming-house in Munich! The instant he cast the dice it all came back to me. Know him! I’ve played in his house a dozen times.”

It seemed the dice had been cast for some special stake only. My lord was coming slowly across the room with March and Clevedale, laughing gently at something March said in his ear. He paused a moment by the lansquenet table, and complimented Sir Anthony on his play. “So few people nowadays understand the art!” he sighed. His smiling glance fell on Rensley’s face. He came to the other table, still leaning on Clevedale’s arm. “My cousin! I salute you!” he said.

Mr Rensley’s chair scraped along the boards as he sprang up. “Damn it, don’t call me cousin!” he said loudly. “You’re no more than a cursed gamester!”

There fell a sudden hush, for Rensley’s voice carried through the room. Heads were turned; there followed a buzz of whispering. One of his companions fell a little away from my Lord Barham. My lord continued to smile. “Oh!” he said. “Who told you that?”

Markham put down the pack of cards. “I’ve visited the gaming-house you used to keep in Munich,” he said.

My lord looked at him with interest. The whole room awaited breathlessly his reply. It came as a complete surprise to every man there. “Then that must have been where I met you!” he said in the tone of one making an agreeable discovery. “I thought your face familiar from the first.”

At the lansquenet table Sir Anthony gave a low laugh. “Faith, I begin to have a liking for the old gentleman!” he said.

“You admit it, do you?” Mr Rensley felt his words fall lamely upon expectant ears.

“Admit what?” said my lord, puzzled.

“Why — damme, that you’ve kept a common gaming-house!”

My lord’s hand was raised. “No!” he said emphatically, and a sigh went round the room. His next words dispelled relief. “Never in all my life have I kept anything that was common! You insult me by the suggestion.”

There was a low ripple of laughter. People were gathering about that corner of the room, eager to hear what might be the issue.

“No use to play with words, fellow. That won’t serve,” Rensley cried angrily. “Have you kept a gaming-house?”

The old gentleman took snuff. “I have kept at least a dozen, my dear Rensley,” he said, with perfect composure. He looked again towards Mr Markham. “I am not entirely satisfied,” he mused. “Are you sure you never had lessons in fencing from me, sir?”

There was a gasp. All play was at an end in the card-room. My Lord March burst out laughing. “Gad, Barham, have you been a fencing-master, too?” he exclaimed.

The old gentleman shut his gold snuff-box with a snap. “My dear March,” he said haughtily, “there is nothing I have not been!” He looked again at Mr Markham. “Are you quite sure I did not give you lessons in fencing? Let me think a moment! Yes, I had an establishment in Rome once, and — yes, yes, another in Turin!”

“It’s quite possible, no doubt,” sneered Mr Markham. “I don’t trouble to remember all my fencing instructors.”

“Then of a certainty you are not a pupil of mine,” said my lord. “Me you could never forget. For those whom I taught are masters of fence. It goes without saying. I am incomparable. I have no equal in the art!”

Again March broke in. “I’d give something to hear the story of your life, Barham!” he said, hugely entertained.

Rensley flushed. “His name’s not Barham!” he said furiously. “He’s the impostor I always said he was!”

March froze to instant haughtiness. “He has at least the advantage of you in the matter of good manners, Rensley,” he said.

Public opinion veered round in favour of the old gentleman.

“It’s very, very deplorable,” Mr Devereux said, with a mournful shake of the head. “But he might be all these damned bourgeois things and still remain Tremaine of Barham.”

“You’re pleased to give him countenance, my lord, but you shall see him exposed!” Rensley snapped.

“But expose me!” cried the old gentleman, and threw wide his arms. “I am here to answer you. Who then am I?”

“Good God, am I to know who you are?” exclaimed Rensley. “But you are not Tremaine! Why, you couldn’t tell me a thing about the family that’s not known to the whole world!”

“Ay, that’s a challenge. He must answer that!” whispered Sir Raymond Orton.

“I can at least tell you, cousin, that a portrait of me hangs in the pink salon at Barham. A very damnable likeness of me as a child, taken with my late lamented brother,” said my lord softly.

“A hit!” Mr Belfort confided to Prudence. “That’s a hit!”

She sat in an attitude of negligent attention, an arm flung over the back of the chair, and her calm face inscrutable. She nodded, and was conscious of Fanshawe’s eyes upon her.

Rensley banged his fist down on the table. “It’s not the pink salon!” he declared. “There is no pink salon!”

Mr Belfort was of the opinion that this was a bad check.

“In my day,” said his lordship, undisturbed, “it was pink.”

“Faugh, what do you know of it? You’re trying to brazen it out with a bare-faced lie!”

Mr Fontenoy spoke grudgingly. “There was a pink salon,” he said. “Lady Barham used it.”

My lord swept round to face him. “Ah, you remember then?” he said eagerly. “A pink salon in the west wing! There was an oriole window, and my mother’s broidery table set there!” He became rapt in reminiscences.

This produced a sensation. Mr Belfort thought the old gentleman scored a decided hit there.

Rensley was discomfited for a moment, but recovered.

“Oh, you’ve been in the house in your youth! That’s all there is to that. You were a groom there, I dare swear, and you got into the house!”

Mr Belfort wagged a solemn head. “Ay, that’s a possibility, y’know.”

My lord’s eyes glinted. Very sweet was his voice, dangerously sweet. “It’s more than you can claim to have done, my dear cousin,” he said gently. “I’ll swear you never set foot in it till my brother died!”

Rensley’s jaw dropped; he grew purple in the face. “Damn your impudence!” he spluttered.

Lord March interposed. “Enough of that. Did you set foot in it, Rensley?”

The old gentleman was indignant. “Certainly he did not!” he said, before Rensley could reply. “There was never a Rensley dared show his face on our land! What had we to do with them?” Almost he snorted.

His daughter’s eyes widened a little; Mr Belfort sniggered.

Rensley bit back a hot answer. Came a look of cunning into his face. “So you never met me when we were boys, my Lord Barham?” he said.

“Only once,” said my lord. He dwelt lovingly on a pleasant memory. “How hard I punched your nose then,” he said dreamily.

There was a roar of laughter, hastily suppressed. Mr Rensley strode to the door. “Don’t think I’ve done with you, my fine gentleman!” he said savagely, and slammed out of the room.

The old gentleman smiled affectionately upon the assembled company. “Very like an encounter I had once with a Margrave,” he said pensively. “I was acting as one of his lackeys at the time.”

“Take an’ ’ouns, a lackey?” gasped Clevedale.

“Certainly,” said my lord, with some hauteur. “Why not? There was a lady in the case.” He smoothed a wrinkle from his satin sleeve. “She was the Margrave’s mistress,” he remarked.

Quite a number of people drew nearer. March thrust his arm in my lord’s, and walked away with him. “Let’s hear that tale, Barham,” he said. “Which Margrave?”