The Masqueraders

‘I think you wanted to show me, sir, that I was at the mercy of all once away from your side,’ said Prudence plainly.

‘And are you not?’ Sir Anthony inquired.

‘There is perhaps a trick or two up my sleeve yet, sir. But why should you desire to demonstrate thus to me?’

‘A further step in your education. You should thank me.’

The imperturbable voice exasperated one. Was there no coming to grips with the man?

‘I think you are not entirely honest with me, Sir Anthony.’

‘Expound, my sage. Wherein am I dishonest?’

She said steadily: – ‘You are angry with me for refusing to go with you to Wych End. I don’t complain that you left me to Lord Barham. Indeed, I had rather you stood aloof, for I have no claim on you, and I believe I may take care of myself. But when you say that what you did was to educate me, sir, you are at fault.’

‘What I did, then, was done out of spleen, you think?’ Quite unruffled was the voice.

‘Was it not, Sir Anthony?’

There was a slight pause. ‘I have an idea I don’t suffer from an excess of spleen,’ Fanshawe said. ‘Shall we say that my rendering you up to the wolf was a punishment for churlishness?’

This was coming to grips with a vengeance. Decidedly it was not well to cross the large gentleman. One felt something of a midget.

‘I am sorry that you should think me churlish, sir.’ She discovered that her voice sounded small, and rather guilty, and made an effort to pull herself together. ‘I think you misunderstand the reason of my refusal to go to Wych End.’ That was no sooner said than she wished it unsaid. God knew where it might lead.

‘I don’t consider myself omniscient,’ said Fanshawe, ‘but I am under the impression that life in town is more amusing than life at Wych End.’

She perceived the trend of the matter. Ay, here was a pretty tangle. It was, after all, an honour for an unknown young gentleman to be invited to stay with the great Sir Anthony Fanshawe. Her excuse had been lame; in a word, she must appear cubbish. And how to retrieve the false step? ‘You are under a false impression, sir.’

‘I am, am I?’

‘I know very well, sir, that I am unduly honoured by your proposal, but I have been taught that it is a greater rudeness to ignore previous engagements than to refuse a flattering new invitation.’

‘You have that wonderfully pat,’ admired Sir Anthony. ‘Pray let us forget the matter.’

‘So long as I do not stand in your black books,’ Prudence said tentatively.

There was a laugh, and a hand on her shoulder. ‘I confess, I have an odd liking for you, young man. You are absolved.’

Ridiculous that one should feel a weight removed from one’s mind. Prudence decided to say nothing to Robin of the matter, dreading his mirth.

Eight

The Black Domino

My Lady Lowestoft stole up to the door of Prudence’s chamber, threw a swift glance round to see that no one was by, and went in, firmly shutting the door behind her. Prudence sat before her dressing table, haresfoot in hand. She looked round to see who came in so unceremoniously. ‘Fie!’ she said, and turned back to the mirror.

‘My reputation if any one saw me!’ said my lady, and sat down in a swirl of purple silk. She carried a strip of velvet in one hand, and a purple domino hung from her shoulders. She put up the velvet to her face. ‘So! Am not I intrigante, my dear?’

‘Very, ma’am. You always are, masked or not.’

‘So they say,’ nodded my lady. ‘Oh, la-la! we’re very fine to-night, not?’

Prudence smoothed the crimson silk sleeve of her coat, and smiled a little. ‘My pièce de résistance, ma’am.’

‘Oh, you look very well. That goes without saying. But what a wardrobe! The bon papa finds himself in affluent circumstances now?’

‘Up and down, my lady. There seemed to be money enough when I saw him last.’ Prudence pressed a patch on to her cheek with expert fingers. ‘Are you for setting forward? I’ll go see if Robin’s dressed.’ She picked up the crimson domino from the bed, and her mask and hat with it, and went out.