The Masqueraders

‘But why incomprehensibly?’ inquired Sir Anthony.

This was something of a check. ‘Well, sir, I believe I am not, after all, just out of the nursery, though it pleases you to think so. I’m grateful for the kindliness of the action, but – frankly, Sir Anthony, I had rather be given the chance to prove my mettle.’

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bsp; There came a fleeting look of admiration into the eyes that rested so enigmatically on her face, but it was so transient an expression that she doubted she had been mistaken. ‘I compliment you, boy. But prove your mettle on one nearer your own age.’

She bowed, and for form’s sake sipped at her wine again. A dish of nuts was pushed towards her; she chose one and cracked it without having recourse to the silver crackers in the dish. A boy’s trick, and she hoped the large gentleman noted it well.

The indolent voice continued. ‘Though to be sure I’d an idea your mettle had been proved already. You’ve had an engagement before this.’

She was peeling the nut, and her fingers did not falter, though she was taken by surprise. What was he at now, pray? She looked up inquiringly, but had sense enough to commit herself to nothing.

‘Some duel when you sustained a wound in the shoulder,’ said Sir Anthony.

She was at a momentary loss, and knew herself closely scrutinized. Recollection of the night when she was set on by Mohocks returned to her. She remembered the excuse manufactured on the spur of the moment for Belfort’s edification. ‘True, Sir Anthony, but that took place abroad.’

‘Like so many of your experiences,’ nodded Sir Anthony, and again picked up the decanter. ‘But you don’t drink, my dear boy.’

She thought she drank a deal too much of this heavy Burgundy, and deplored the absence of claret. Once more her glass was filled. To refuse it would give food for suspicion in these days of hard drinking. She swallowed some of the deep red wine, was aware of a lazy glance upon her, and emptied the glass recklessly. God send she kept a sober head on her shoulders! If there was to be more of it the next glass must go down her arm.

‘But we drift from the point,’ Sir Anthony said genially. ‘We were talking of Newmarket, and, as I remember, I queried an assertion on your part, child, that you’d no fear of me.’

‘Why, what should I fear in you?’ Prudence asked, and chuckled, ‘You tell me you won’t call me out, and I’m able to breathe again.’

Sir Anthony’s mouth relaxed into a smile of real amusement. ‘I do verily believe, young man, that you’d meet me with perfect sangfroid.’

‘Oh, as to that, sir, I might know some serious nervous qualms. I’m to understand you’re accounted something of a master of the small sword.’

‘You’ve been misinformed. Do you ever have nervous qualms I wonder?’

Her ringers closed round the stem of her wine-glass; she was looking at the ruby liquid sparkling in it. ‘Often, sir. Why should you suppose me cast in the heroic mould?’

‘I’d a notion you’d a vast deal of courage, my friend,’ placidly replied Fanshawe.

‘Good Gad, sir, why? Because I would fight Rensley?’

‘That, and some other things.’ Sir Anthony drained his glass, and refilled it, glancing at the untouched wine in the glass Prudence still held.

He selected a nut from the dish, and became busy with the cracking of it. Now was her moment, while his eyes were bent on his plate. Prudence raised her glass to her lips, as though to toss off the whole; there was a quick practised turn of the wrist, over in a flash, and the contents of her glass were sent down her arm.

But quicker even than her own movement, Sir Anthony leaned forward. His hand shot out, and the hard fingers closed round her wrist. Relentlessly her arm was borne down: down till the glass she held emptied its dregs on to the floor.

She made no effort to break free; perhaps she breathed a little faster. The fingers were clamped still about her wrist; Sir Anthony was looking down at her hand, watching the wine trickle down her arm, and drip on to the carpet.

She sat perfectly still; her eyes were calm, even meditative, resting on Fanshawe’s face. She had lost some of her colour, and the lace at her bosom rose and fell rather quickly, but other signs of alarm there were not.

It seemed an age before her wrist was released. At last the merciless fingers left it, and Sir Anthony sat back in his chair. She brought her hand up, and set the glass down on the table. In a detached manner she noticed that her hand did not shake, and was vaguely pleased.

The large gentleman’s voice broke in on her reflections. ‘There is no Borgia blood in my veins, Peter Merriot.’

There was some sternness in the tone. Her left hand came mechanically to cover the maltreated wrist; the marks of the gentleman’s fingers still lingered. ‘I did not suppose it, sir.’

Sir Anthony rose, pushing back his chair. He walked to the window and back, and the grey eyes followed him. He stopped, and looked down at Prudence; there was gravity in his face, but no anger, she thought. His words gave her a slight start. ‘My dear, I wish you could find it in your heart to trust me,’ he said.

’Deed, but trust was there, in her heart, but how tell him?

‘I’ve had suspicions of your secret since the first evening you dined with me here,’ he went on. ‘Of late I have been as certain as a man may be of so wild a masquerade.’