The Masqueraders

Chapter 18 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.

The large gentleman’s voice broke in on her reflections. “There is no Borgia blood in my veins, Peter Merriot.”

There was some sternness in the tone. Her left hand came mechanically to cover the maltreated wrist; the marks of the gentleman’s fingers still lingered. “I did not suppose it, sir.”

Sir Anthony rose, pushing back his chair. He walked to the window and back, and the grey eyes followed him. He stopped, and looked down at Prudence; there was gravity in his face, but no anger, she thought. His words gave her a slight start. “My dear, I wish you could find it in your heart to trust me,” he said.

’Deed, but trust was there, in her heart, but how tell him?

“I’ve had suspicions of your secret since the first evening you dined with me here,” he went on. “Of late I have been as certain as a man may be of so wild a masquerade.”

So much for Robin, and for my Lady Lowestoft, scornful of his perspicacity. Well, she had had fears of this. But not even she had realised how much the sleepy gentleman saw. Egad, what must he think of her? The colour rose at the thought. She lifted her eyes; it did not occur to her to try evasion. “I would trust you willingly, Sir Anthony,” she said in a still, calm voice. “I have not liked the lies I have told, and the great lie I have acted.” She put a hand up to her neck-cloth; it was tight round her throat of a sudden. “But there is not only myself involved. If it were all to do again, I would do it.” A look of pride came into her face; her chin was up, but it sank after a moment. She looked down at the ring on her finger, and wiped the trickle of wine from her hand with a crumpled napkin.

“Will you tell me your name?” Sir Anthony said gently.

“It is Prudence, sir. In truth, I know no more. I have had many surnames.” There was no hint of bitterness in her voice, nor any shame. It was best the large gentleman should know her for the adventuress she was.

“Prudence?” Sir Anthony was frowning now. “So that is it!” he said softly.

She looked up, searching his face.

“You are not very like your father,” said Sir Anthony.

She gave nothing away in her expression, but she knew that he had very nearly the full sum of it.

There fell a silence. “Prudence ...” Sir Anthony repeated and smiled. “I don’t think you were very well named, child.” He looked down at her, and there was a light in his eyes she had never seen there before. “Will you marry me?” he said simply.

Now at last there came surprise into her face, on a wave of colour. She rose swiftly to her feet, and stood staring. “Sir, I have to suppose — you jest!”

“It is no jest.”

“You ask a nameless woman, an adventuress to marry you? One who had lied to you, and tricked you! And you say it is no jest?”

“My dear, you have never tricked me,” he said, amused.

“I tried to do so.”

“I wish you would call me Tony,” he complained.

She had a tiny suspicion she was being punished. Sure, the fine gentleman would never ask her to be his wife in all seriousness. “You have the right to your revenge, sir,” she said stiffly.

He came round the corner of the table, and took one of her hands in his. She let it lie there resistless. “Child, have you still so little faith in me?” he asked. “I offer you all my worldly goods, and the protection of my name, and you call it a jest.”

“I’ve — I’ve to thank you, sir. I don’t understand you. Why do you offer this?”

“Because I love you,” he answered. “Must you ask that?”

She raised her eyes to his face, and knew that he had spoken the truth. She wondered that he did not take her into his arms, and with a fine intuition realised the chivalry of this man who would take no advantage of her being alone in his house, and quite defenceless. She drew her hand away, and felt a hot pricking beneath her eyelids. “I cannot marry you, Sir Anthony. I am no fit bride for you.”

“Don’t you think I might be permitted to judge of that?” he suggested.

She shook her head. “You know nothing of me, Sir Anthony.”

“My dear, I have looked many times into your eyes,” he said. “They tell me all I have need to know.”

“I — don’t think so, sir,” she forced herself to say.

Her hand lay on the chair-back. He took it in his again, and carried it to his lips. “You have the truest eyes in the world, Prudence,” he said. “And the very bravest.”

“You don’t know me,” she repeated. “I have led the life of an adventurer; I am an adventurer — a masquerader! I have no knowledge even of my true name. My father — ” She paused.

“I take it your name may well prove to be a Tremaine,” he said, with a soft laugh.

“You’ve guessed my father, sir?”

“Why yes, it’s the remarkable old gentleman who claims to be the lost Viscount, I believe. You told me once your father would surprise me.”

“Did I, sir? Well, that is he. I think you are one of those who have little faith in his claim.”

“To say truth,” remarked Sir Anthony, “I care very little whether he proves to be Barham or not.”

“But I care, Sir Anthony. If he is Barham indeed, and I am thus a woman of birth noble enough ...” She found it was impossible to continue.

“Then you would marry me?” Sir Anthony prompted. “Is that it?”

She nodded. It was not in her nature to deny she cared for him.

“And do you know what you will do if he is not Tremaine of Barham?” inquired Sir Anthony conversationally.

She made a gesture of fatalism. “I shall be off on my adventuring again, sir.”

“You may call it adventuring if you please, but I believe I’m a staid creature. You will marry me just the same, you see.”

She smiled a little. “This is madness, sir. You will be glad one day that I said you nay.”

“And will you be glad, Prue?” he asked gravely.

“I shall be glad for your sake, sir.”

“My dear, I want to take you out of this masquerade of yours at once. There’s danger on all sides, and — I love you.”

“Ah, do not!” she made swift outcry. “It’s not possible, sir. More depends on the masquerade than you know.”

“I believe I may guess. You’ve a brother took part in the late Rebellion, dressed now in woman’s clothes. His name is, I think, Robin.”

She looked wonderingly up at him. “Do you know everything, sir?”

“No,” he answered, smiling. “Not quite. Marry me, and put both your fortunes into my hands. I can help this Robin, maybe.”

“Not even for that. I could not, sir. Grant me a little pride! You would be King Cophetua, but I’ve no mind to play the beggar-maid.”

He made no reply for a moment, but stood looking down at her. “I cannot force you to marry me,” he said at last.

“Sir Anthony — I would have you marry a woman of whom you can be proud.”

“I have nothing but pride in you. In your courage, and in the quick wits of you. I have never known so wonderful a woman.”

“You can have no pride in my birth, sir. I do not know what my father is; we have never known, for he loves to be a mystery. If this claim is true — if he is indeed Tremaine of Barham — ask me once more!” Her eyes were wet, but her mouth smiled resolutely.

“I am to wait, then! You deny me the right to protect you now?”

“You have me at your feet, sir,” she said unsteadily, “but I do deny you. I must.”

“You at my feet!” he said. “That is a jest indeed!” He let go her hand, and took a turn about the room. She watched him wistfully, and at last he spoke again. “Ay, you’ve pride,” he said. “Did that spring of low birth? You must needs cleave your own path, and take no help even from the man who loves you. You ask me to wait. I will wait, until this father of yours has settled his affairs. But when that day comes, and whatever the issue — believe me I shall take you then, by force if need be, and carry you off to Church. Is it understood?”

She smiled mistily, and tried to shake her head. He laughed and there was no laziness either in his face or in his voice. “Better come to me willingly then,” he said, “for, by God, I shall have no mercy!”