There was also the attitude of my Lord March to be considered. March seemed to be in no doubt of the old gentleman’s identity, and there were few who cared to set themselves up in opposition to my lord. If the newcomer was good enough for March, he was certainly good enough for the rest of the world, but there were one or two far-seeing people who began to realize that the new viscount had wormed himself into the graces of society so completely, and so cleverly that it would be quite extraordinarily difficult (in the event of his claim falling to earth) to turn him out without loss of dignity to oneself.
His lordship made not the smallest attempt to conceal his lamentable past: his attitude gave one to understand that whatever he chose to do must of necessity become straightway a creditable performance. In fact, not the lowest of vocations could demean this grand gentleman.
It was considered then that to be sure, if one had the good fortune to be born a Tremaine one might do most things with impunity. Certainly it was a pity to have dragged that noble name in the dust, but after all one had to take into account that the old gentleman had been cast off penniless when little more than a boy. That must stand for his excuse.
As for Rensley, his attack had been ill-judged, and he had taken many shrewder blows than he had dealt. Not a doubt of it that March was right when he said that the old gentleman had the advantage of him in good manners. A number of people remembered that they had said at the outset that there was very little breeding to Rensley, cousin to the Tremaines though he might be. Viscount or no viscount, the old gentleman had great polish, and he showed himself perfectly at ease in the politest of company.
My lord had something to say on the matter himself when he took a dish of Bohea with my Lady Lowestoft next day. He smiled benevolently upon his daughter, leaning over the back of a couch, and said triumphantly: ‘You saw me! You, my daughter, had the privilege of seeing a master mind at work! I felicitate you.’
Prudence gave her deep chuckle. ‘I knew a few moments’ dread, sir, I confess.’
He brushed that aside. ‘Never again make that mistake. I am invincible. Observe the subtlety of my methods! I achieve a miracle.’
My lady gave a piece of angel cake to the monkey nestling at her feet. ‘You told them, then, mon cher ? You admitted the past?’
‘They hung on my lips,’ his lordship said dramatically. ‘They waited breathlessly to hear what I would say. As always I became the centre, the dominating presence.’
My lady twinkled. ‘And you said?’ she prompted.
‘I said, Thérèse, that I had kept a dozen gaming-houses. No other man alive would have dared. But I swayed them – I, Tremaine of Barham!’ His admiration of the deed held him silent for a moment, but he went on. ‘They perceived that I could play the lackey and still keep my prestige. It is true! It is very true.’
My lady gasped. ‘And they condoned it? They supported you?’
‘It was not for them to condone what Tremaine might choose to do,’ said my lord, with hauteur. ‘They applaud me now. I achieve the impossible.’
‘He is a great man,’ my lady said to Prudence. ‘You must admit it.’
‘Oh, I do, ma’am, believe me.’
My lord tapped the lid of his snuff-box with one polished finger-nail. ‘Even that large gentleman, that ponderous baronet, that sleepy-eyed Sir Anthony Fanshawe, who looked askance at me – even he concedes me admiration. I win all to my side. It could not be otherwise.’
‘Indeed, sir, he said he had begun to conceive a liking for you,’ nodded Prudence.
My lord accepted this with a gracious inclination of the head.
His daughter continued with a hint of seriousness in her tone. ‘Yet I think you would be well advised, sir, not to seek too great an intimacy with that same large gentleman.’
‘My Prudence, it is he, and all the rest, shall seek intimacy with me,’ his lordship said majestically.
‘That’s as maybe, sir, but I have some friendship with Sir Anthony, and I say beware!’
He shook his head, but it was more in sorrow than in anger. ‘Still you do not sufficiently appreciate me,’ he said.
‘It’s conceivable, sir, you don’t sufficiently appreciate the large gentleman.’
My lady smiled. ‘Ah, my cabbage, you have a too great opinion of ce gros Sir Anthony! He sees no further than the end of his nose.’
‘You’re mistaken, ma’am. He sees more than the rest of them put together.’ She hesitated. ‘He watches me. That I know. Something he suspects: not much, but a little.’
My lady looked incredulous. ‘Not you, my child? But no!’
‘Oh, not that! Well, who lives may learn. But I’ve warned you, sir.’
‘The little Prudence!’ My lord smiled affably. ‘So cautious!’
‘You named me Prudence, sir.’
He was inclined to suspect a hitherto unperceived foresight in himself. ‘And wisely! A premonition. I must surely have known.’