The Masqueraders

At Richmond, in the pleasant house with its gardens running down to the river, Sir Anthony was one of my Lady Lowestoft’s visitors. He rode out to pay a morning call, and was fortunate enough to find my lady and her two guests at home.

Sir Anthony indicated Prudence’s stiff shoulder with a movement of his quizzing-glass. ‘So you must needs go brawling about our streets, little man?’

There was a quick contraction of Robin’s brows. He looked up to find the sleepy gaze upon him, and straightway achieved a shudder. ‘Oh pray, sir, don’t speak of it!’

‘You should keep him closer tied to your apron strings, ma’am,’ said Sir Anthony, and began to talk of the state of the roads. But upon my lady’s going out of the room he broke off to say: ‘Have you any idea that it was Markham’s men set upon you, young man?’

‘Some little suspicion of it,’ Prudence admitted. ‘I shall be more wary in the future.’

‘It’s a vengeful creature.’ Sir Anthony crossed one leg over the other. ‘I believe you would do well not to go abroad unaccompanied at night,’ he said, and fell to twirling his eyeglass by its riband.

He presently took leave of them, and rode off back to town. Robin said with a laugh: ‘Oh, it’s all solicitude! The benevolent mammoth!’

‘Lord, must you still be jeering!’ Prudence demanded and left him rather abruptly.

They returned to Arlington Street at the end of the week, arriving on the day of her Grace of Queensberry’s rout, whither they were bidden. They went in state in my lady’s town chariot, and my lady regaled them on the way with some highly entertaining details of my Lord March’s private life.

Her Grace’s salons were large enough to accommodate even the crowd that assembled at her house that evening. There were bright lights in sparkling chandeliers, and many heavy scented flowers, and over all the hum of gay chatter. Her Grace stood at the head of the stairs to receive her guests, and had the felicity of knowing that my Lord March, her son, was adorning the rout with his unaccustomed presence.

My lord was in excellent spirits, and stayed for at least an hour in the big withdrawing rooms. After having done his duty there so nobly, he retired to the card-rooms for a spell, in search of a little relaxation.

Robin’s elderly admirer found him out, and showed an ardent desire to know more of him. Prudence left him, murmuring compliments into one bashful ear.

It was quite late in the evening when there came a slight stir about the doorway, and Prudence had returned to Robin’s side, ousting the elderly beau. She stood now behind his chair, Sir Raymond Orton a few paces from her, and my Lady Lowestoft, laughing immoderately at something Mr Selwyn was saying to her, not far distant.

Some late comer, it appeared, was arriving; a knot of ladies gathered near the door gave way, and Prudence could enjoy a clear view.

Two gentlemen came in, and stood for a moment looking round. One of these was my Lord March; the other was a slight, elderly gentleman with arresting grey eyes, a nose inclined to be aquiline, and thin, smiling lips. He was magnificently attired in puce satin, with embroidered waistcoat. His wig must surely have come straight from Paris; his shoes, with their jewelled buckles, had preposterous high red heels to them; the cut of his coat spoke the most fashionable tailor of the day in every line. There was the hint of a diamond in the lace at his throat, and on his breast he displayed several scintillating foreign orders. He stood very much at his ease, his head slightly inclined to hear what my Lord March was saying, and one thin white hand delicately raising a pinch of snuff to a finely chiselled nostril.

Prudence’s hand found Robin’s shoulder, and gripped hard. Robin looked up, and she felt him stiffen.

The old gentleman’s eyes travelled slowly round the room the while he listened to my Lord March; rested a moment on Miss Merriot’s face, and passed on. Her Grace of Queensberry came forward to welcome the new comer, and he bent with great courtliness over her hand.

Robin turned in his chair. ‘I am dreaming. I must be dreaming. Even he could not dare –’

Prudence was shaking with suppressed laughter. ‘Oh, it’s the old gentleman himself, never fear! Lud, might we not have expected something after this fashion?’

‘Arm-in-arm with March – covered with jewels – all his misbegotten orders – gad, it beats all! And who the devil does he pretend to be now?’ Robin sat fuming; he could not admire this last freak of his sire. ‘Of course, we’re sped now,’ he said in a voice of gloomy conviction. ‘This will land us all at Tyburn.’

‘Oh, my dear, he’s incomparable! You have to admit it.’ Prudence saw Mr Molyneux advancing, and hailed him. ‘Pray, sir, who is the magnificent stranger but just arrived?’

‘What, don’t you know?’ cried Mr Molyneux, shocked. ‘Ah, to be sure, you’ve been out of town this last week. That stranger is the greatest romance we’ve known since Peterson ran off with Miss Carslake.’ He laughed at Robin. ‘All the ladies are in ecstasies over it, I assure you. It appears, you see, that the grand gentleman is the lost Viscount. One thought such things only happened in fairy tales.’

Robin sank back in his chair; seeing him incapable of speech Prudence said faintly: ‘Indeed, sir? And – and who is the lost Viscount?’

‘Fie, fie, what ignorance! And the thing’s the jest of town! – but you have been at Richmond: I forget that. Why, none but Tremaine, my dear boy, of course! – Tremaine of Barham! Surely you must know that!’

Some dim recollection of my Lady Lowestoft’s talk flitted across Prudence’s memory. ‘I didn’t know there was a lost Tremaine, sir,’ she said.

‘Good Gad, not know of the Barham claim?’ This was Mr Belfort, who had wandered up to them. ‘Why, this is the lost black sheep appeared to filch the title from Rensley. It’s a famous jest, and Rensley’s as sour as a lemon over it.’ He laughed delightedly at the thought of the deposed lord’s discomfiture.

‘But what’s his claim?’ persisted Prudence.

‘Oh, that! To be sure, no one remembered his existence in the least, but it seems he’s a brother of old Barham, who died a month or two back. Odd, a’n’t it? I never heard of any brother, but it was all rather before my time, of course. Anyway, Cloverly was telling me he has all the papers to prove he’s the man, and a fine romantic story it all is. A jolt for Rensley, though!’

‘Does Rensley acknowledge him?’ Prudence found strength enough to inquire.

‘As to that, Rensley’s lying low, I take it, but I believe he told Farnborough he was sure his cousin was dead, and that this man had stolen the papers. But Rensley would take that tone, y’know.’ Mr Belfort perceived a friend close by, and was off to greet him.