Mr Molyneux came in, and had a pleasant greeting for Sir Anthony and his companion. After a moment Lord Barham walked across to say something to Mr Molyneux, who made Prudence known to him.
My lord stared upon the stranger and slightly inclined his head. It was evident that his lordship had no intention of wasting civilities upon an unknown gentleman; he turned a broad shoulder, and made some idle observation to Sir Anthony.
Fanshawe looked sleepily through his eyeglass: it was wonderful what an air of lazy hauteur the large gentleman could assume. ‘You lack finesse, Rensley,’ he said in a bored voice. ‘I see my friend Devereux by the window, Merriot. Let me present you.’
My lord flushed angrily. As she followed in Fanshawe’s wake Prudence heard him say to Markham: – ‘Who’s that cockerel Fanshawe’s befriending?’
Mr Markham’s reply was lost to Prudence, but she had seen the scowl on his face when he had first perceived her. But a little while later he came up to her, and exchanged a greeting, and a smile had taken the place of the scowl. Prudence liked it no better; she had a notion Mr Markham meant mischief. There was not a word spoken of the disastrous meeting on the road to Scotland; all was politeness and affability. Upon the approach of Sir Anthony, however, Mr Markham fell back.
Prudence came through the ordeal of this visit to White’s with flying colours, and through a dozen other such ordeals, as the days passed. At Sir Anthony’s card-party she played at faro, and cast dice, and her luck held. She had to witness the gradual collapse under the table of more than one gentleman, but her host maintained a perfect sobriety. Prudence admired the hard head of the man. The Honourable Charles could still stand, but his legs were uncertain under him, and he showed a disposition to tell a long and obscure story to anyone who could be got to listen. Prudence walked back to Arlington Street in the dawn, accompanied part of the way by Mr Devereux, who hung affectionately on her arm, and professed, between hiccups, an everlasting friendship.
There were other card-parties to follow this; a visit to Ranelagh Gardens; a rout party, and later, my lady Dorling’s masked ball. My lady had sent cards to Mr and Miss Merriot for this event: it promised to be one of the largest parties of the season.
‘Do you go, Sir Anthony?’ Prudence asked, at Belfort’s card-party.
‘I suppose I must,’ Sir Anthony answered. ‘These balls are a plaguey nuisance. I’ve a mind to go down to my house at Wych End after this one. Do you care to bear me company?’
She was at a loss for a moment, but her wits never deserted her for long. ‘Why, sir, it would give me much pleasure, but I believe my sister has some claims on my company.’
‘She might be induced to spare you for a week,’ Sir Anthony suggested.
‘You tempt me, sir, but no, I think I must refuse. There are some engagements binding me besides.’
Sir Anthony raised his eyebrows a moment. ‘You’re very positive about it,’ he remarked.
She looked up. ‘I offend you, sir,’ she said directly.
‘By no means. But I wonder why you will not come?’
‘It is not “will not”, Sir Anthony. I would like above all things to join you, but as I have said –’
‘To be sure: those engagements,’ nodded Sir Anthony, and turned away.
Prudence was left to stand alone in the middle of the room. She felt curiously forlorn, for it was evident Sir Anthony was not pleased.
Belfort called to her to come and throw a main with him. She moved across to his table, and out of the corner of her eye saw Sir Anthony sitting down to faro by the window. There was no getting near him after that; she became a prey to Lord Barham, who deigned to recognise her, and was conscious of a protective influence withdrawn. She was forced to play with my lord, and she lost rather heavily, and knew the reason. Escaping at length, she engaged on a hand at picquet with the optimistic Jollyot, and presently took leave of her host, complaining of the headache. The serious grey eyes travelled towards the faro table somewhat wistfully; Sir Anthony looked up.
There was a hard look on his face; he met the grey eyes coolly, and Prudence saw the fine mouth unsmiling. She turned aside to the door, and heard his deep voice speak. ‘Oh, are you off, Merriot? Stay a moment, I’ll bear you company.’
Five minutes later they were descending the steps into the street, and Sir Anthony drawled: – ‘How came you out of that bout with Rensley, my fair youth?’
‘Badly,’ Prudence replied evenly. She misliked the ironic note in the gentleman’s voice.
‘The
pigeon lost some feathers, eh?’
‘At least the pigeon played fair, sir!’ said Prudence rather tartly.
‘Softly, softly, my child! Do you say that Rensley cheated?’
Prudence flashed a glance upwards into that inscrutable face. ‘Do you think he would not cheat a pigeon, sir?’
‘No, little man, I thought that he would.’
She bit her lip. ‘You’re scarcely just to me, sir.’
‘What, because I would not scare away an ogre from the nursling? Experience harms none, child.’