The Masqueraders

Chapter 21 Proceedings of Mr Markham

The element of uncertainty made the prize not quite all Mr Markham had hoped for, but since it was all he had been able to get, he determined to make the most of it. An evening spent in plan-making restored him to satisfaction and good humour. He thought he saw his way clear. No thought of the light in which his conduct might possibly be regarded crossed his mind. Probably he held to the maxim that all was fair in love and war. Certainly no reflection of Miss Grayson’s feelings in the matter troubled his head, or abated one jot of his new cheerfulness. If he thought about the affair from her side at all, he considered that she would very soon settle down to the married state, especially since she had, not so long ago, fancied herself in love with him. This time there would be no Merriots to interfere in what was no concern of theirs; he would not even take the risk of alighting for so much as a bite of supper, until well out of reach of London, but speed on towards Scotland with no more stops than the changes of horses would necessitate.

Had Mr Markham heard my Lord Barham’s laugh, he might not have felt quite so sanguine; and had he heard my lord giving sundry instructions to a respectable middle-aged servant he might have entertained serious doubts as to my lord’s good faith. My lord said quite a lot to this man on the subject of coaching stages, and at the close of that interview the unresponsive servant had orders to keep an eye not only on the movements of Miss Grayson, but also to discover what horses were ordered at the first stage on the North Road, for what date, and by what gentlemen. The servant received these instructions impassively, and seemed to foresee no difficulties ahead of him. The truth was that he had performed far harder tasks for my Lord Barham. It would not have appeared from his demeanour that he either understood or approved his orders, but he had nothing to say beyond a resigned: “This is more of your devilry I suppose, my lord.”

Far from resenting this familiar form of address, my lord was flattered, and admitted the impeachment, adding a rider to the effect that it was a positive masterpiece of subtlety, whereupon the servant grunted, and went off.

But Mr Markham had no knowledge of this transaction, and he had no suspicion of foul play. All the foul play in the business was to be performed by himself, though it is doubtful whether he phrased if quite so candidly.

He foresaw few obstacles: this time there should be no hitch. The only difficulty, and that a small one, was to gain a hearing with Miss Grayson, and a little careful espionage soon disclosed an opportunity. Miss Grayson was to be present at a ball in town for which Mr Markham might quite easily procure an invitation. With the help of a friend this was contrived, and midway through the evening, Mr Markham was presented to Miss Grayson by a kindly hostess.

There was no aunt to play dragon, for the elder Miss Grayson had joined the rest of the dowagers in the card-room. Even Miss Merriot was away at the other end of the long room, flirting outrageously with Sir Anthony Fanshawe. Letitia, unskilled in the dealing of snubs, blushed fiery red, hesitated, stammering over a refusal to dance, and found that the kindly hostess had gone away to supply other young ladies with eligible partners. Very cross, Letty blurted out: “I do not want to dance with you, sir!”

It seemed that Mr Markham had no desire to dance either. He wanted to talk to Letitia.

“You know very well I don’t want to have anything to do with you,” said Letty, still very red.

“Don’t be so unforgiving,” Mr Markham said. “I have something of very great importance to say to you. It can’t be said here. It is a secret and a dangerous matter.”

That sounded prodigious exciting to be sure, but Letty was still suspicious. “You will lure me out and abduct me,” she said.

“All I ask of you is that you should come into the little ante-room, across the passage, with me. How could I abduct you here? If you don’t come you will regret it all your life. You do not know how weighty a matter it is I have to disclose.”

Letty reflected that Mr Markham would indeed find it hard to carry her off from a crowded ball against her will, and rose undecidedly to her feet. Anything in the nature of a mystery intrigued her at once. She intimated graciously that she would hear what Mr Markham had to say. Unobserved of the Merriots or of Sir Anthony Fanshawe, she went out with Mr Markham.

She had leisure to repent her action when Mr Markham made his startling disclosure. He allowed her but a glimpse of her father’s incriminating letter, and sat back in his chair watching her with a satisfied smile.

Her big eyes grew round in horrified wonder. “B-but my papa is not a Jacobite!” she exclaimed.

“Do you suppose anyone will believe that if I show this letter?” Mr Markham inquired.

“But you won’t, sir! You won’t, will you?”

Mr Markham leaned forward. “Not if you will marry me, Letty,” he said softly.

She recoiled instinctively. “No, no!”

“What, you had rather see your father’s head adorning London Bridge?”

Letty’s cheeks grew pale at that, and she shuddered. It was impossible not to feel sick horror at the thought. All who lived in London had seen those ghastly sights in the past months. The picture conjured up was terribly real to her. “You would not! You would not do such a cruel, wicked thing!”

“I would do anything to win you, Letty!” Mr Markham said, with fine lover-like ardour.

“Papa will never let me marry you!” cried Letty, cowering away.

“But could you not fly with me again? We set out once, did we not, my little Letty? It can be done again — this time with a difference.”

“No, no, I won’t!”

“Not even to save your father?” persuaded Mr Markham.

Miss Letty’s bosom rose and fell quickly. “If you forced me — if you did such a wicked thing, sir — I should hate you all the rest of my life! Do you want a wife who loathes you?”

Mr Markham laughed indulgently. “You’ll soon get over that when we are married, my dear. Won’t you care for me a little when I give you this letter to burn?”

She stretched out her hand. “Give it to me now, sir, and indeed, indeed, I shall never think hardly of you again!”

“On our wedding day,” said Markham. “Not before, but just as soon as my ring is on your finger.”

“It will never, never be there,” she declared, bursting into tears.

It took Mr Markham twenty minutes to convince her that she was sending her papa to the gallows-tree by such unreasonable behaviour. She struggled and wept; she cried that she would tell papa all about it, and he would talk to my Lord Bute, and all would be well. Mr Markham said that it would not be in my Lord Bute’s power to assist Sir Humphrey, even if he wanted to, which was hardly possible. Sir Humphrey had written treasonable matter in this letter. Surely Letty knew what that meant?

She did; the very thought of it drove the blood from her face. Desperately she cast around in her mind for some source of help.

Mr Markham thought it well, since she struggled so, to extemporise a little. “When I leave this ball tonight,” he said, “this letter goes into a friend’s keeping. If anything were to happen to me it would be published at once, and if, in a week from now you and I are not on the road to Scotland I myself shall take it to the proper quarters. You will be sorry then that you would not lift a finger to save your father!”

It seemed she was a monster of selfishness. Where, oh where was the Unknown in the Black Domino, who had said that he would come again in her hour of need? Nothing but a dream. Here was herself only, and Gregory Markham, who had become hateful to her. She could see no road out of the trouble, saving the one he pointed out to her. Almost she went down on her knees to him, imploring his mercy. He used some endearing terms in his reply, but she could see that behind all his soft address he was quite adamant.

She declared she would tell papa; Mr Markham pointed out the immediate and evil consequences of such an action. She saw them; she was induced to believe that to tell anyone would bring disaster upon the house of Grayson. She capitulated, and while he outlined a plan of flight to her, she sat wondering whether she would have strength enough, and courage, to stab him on the road to Scotland. She thought if there were pistols in the coach she could brave the dreadful explosion and shoot her lover, and steal the letter from his person. What would happen to her after that she had no notion, but she expected it would be all very awful.

Something of these murderous designs Mr Markham read in her face: he saw enough in those brown eyes, ordinarily so soft, to make him decide to have no pistols placed anywhere within his bride’s reach on the journey to Scotland.

Letty was taken back into the ballroom, and claimed by a young man of fashion. It struck this not very observant youth that she was out of spirits, and he ventured to inquire the cause. Letty confessed to a headache, and began to chatter and laugh at once, as though to refute her own statement. The laughter might be forced, even hysterical, and the chatter somewhat irrelevant, but the young buck was quite satisfied.

Letty found Miss Merriot and Fanshawe quite close to her in the set, and redoubled her efforts to appear gay and unconcerned. As the dance closed she saw Miss Merriot looking rather closely at her, and was inspired to whisper: “Oh Kate, I have a monstrous bad headache! It makes me feel sick.”

“My dear,” Miss Merriot said instantly, “you should be at home and in bed. Will you have me go and find your aunt?”

“I hate to go away early from a ball,” Letty said, “but my head is dreadfully bad.”

She was promptly swept off under the wing of Miss Merriot to find her aunt. Sir Anthony was left to await the return of his partner, and strolled away to where my Lord Barham stood by the wall.

“No, Clevedale, my dancing days are done,” my lord was saying. “I am now a spectator only ... Well, my dear Fanshawe? But what have you done with your lovely partner? Surely I saw you with the beautiful Miss Merriot but a moment since?”

“She has deserted me, sir,” Sir Anthony replied. “Miss Grayson has the migraine, and Miss Merriot has taken her off to find her aunt.”

“Indeed?” said my lord, and proffered his snuff-box. Mr Markham’s late exit with Miss Letty had not escaped that eagle eye.

A gentle touch on his sleeve made Sir Anthony turn round. Prudence stood at his elbow, and smiled shyly as he looked down at her. “Have you lost my sister, sir? I saw you a while back flirting prodigiously with her. It’s a sad piece, I believe.”

Sir Anthony walked apart with her. “It is,” he agreed. “How came you by so impertinent a brother, my dear?”

Prudence chuckled. “You’ve met the old gentleman, Tony. Don’t you perceive the resemblance? Robin is a rogue.”

“I’m of the opinion he’s a young hothead. I asked him tonight, as the thought occurred to me, whether he knew anything of a Black Domino, calling himself l’Inconnu.”

“And does he?” asked Prudence innocently.

“It’s in my mind,” said Sir Anthony slowly, “that you’re a fitting pair. Is there nothing of the rogue in Peter Merriot?”

“Oh, sir, it’s a most sober youth.”

Came the rustle of silks; Robin swirled down upon them, gracefully fanning himself. “What, my Peter! You’ll make a third, will you? I vow, ’tis unkind in you!”

“I must have a care for your reputation, child. You conduct yourself monstrously when I’m not by.”

Robin cast a languishing glance up at Fanshawe. “Sir, my Peter must think you a sad rake. And here was I thinking you meant marriage!”

“I think,” said Sir Anthony, “that you stand in need of birching, young Hop o’ my Thumb.”

Robin feigned alarm. “Oh Prue, have a care! That is the second time you have heard the mountain talk of offering violence to a poor female.”

“What did you call me?” demanded Sir Anthony, pricking up his ears.

“My tongue — oh, my luckless tongue!” Robin hid behind his fan. “Only a mountain, dear sir. Would you have me call you a mole-hill?” A laughing pair of eyes showed above the fan. To any who might chance to be watching it seemed as though Miss Merriot was still flirting disgracefully with Sir Anthony Fanshawe. “’Tis a term of endearment I have for you: no more, believe me.”

Sir Anthony’s eyes were twinkling. “My dear,” he said to Prudence, “if it weren’t for you I would expose this shameless boy. You’ll permit me to take him in hand when he comes out of this masquerade.”

She shook her head. “I must protect my little brother, Tony. You see what a pert madcap he is. Give you my word, he would be lost without his big sister. You had better abandon us, you know.”

“Oh no!” Robin besought. “What amusement should I have left to solace me if I no longer saw the respectable Fanshawe caught in the toils of a set of adventurers? Does it not go against the grain, my dear sir?”

“No, midget, it tickles my sense of the ridiculous. All that goes against the grain with me is to see Prue in a dangerous position, and to watch you courting Letty Grayson. What do you hope for there?”

“The old gentleman assures me that I am also Tremaine of Barham,” Robin answered lightly. “What do you make of that, O mountain?”

“Very little,” said Sir Anthony. “As for the filial respect you do not show to your father — ”

“Prue, did I not say it was all propriety? My very dear sir, I reserve all my respect for my so eminently respectable brother-in-law. The old gentleman is not in the least respectable. If you had had the doubtful pleasure of knowing him for as long as I have, you would realise that.”

“I might, of course,” Sir Anthony conceded. “But so far, the more I see of him the more I feel that he is a person to be treated with considerable respect, and — er — circumspection.”