The Masqueraders

She had her answer ready. ‘Oh, it’s quite an amusing old roué !’ she said, with a startling lack of respect for so near a relative. ‘He comes to visit my lady, and ogles my poor Kate.’

‘And how does Miss Merriot take that?’ inquired Sir Anthony, nodding across the room to Mr Belfort.

‘With equanimity, sir. I tell her she’s like to lose her heart to the old gentleman. Pray, is he married, do you know?’

‘I should have thought you would be more likely to have the answer to that,’ was the unexpected rejoinder.

‘I, sir?’

‘My Lady Lowestoft should know, surely,’ said Sir Anthony in mild surprise.

She bit her lip. Fool, to make so stupid a slip! A sure sign her nerves were not so steady as they had been. She proceeded to smooth over the slip. ‘Oh, we know he had a wife once,’ she said. ‘But she has been dead these many years. He says nothing of a fresh marriage, but I believe he does not tell my lady all.’

There was a movement behind them. They stood a little in front of the door, and they turned now to see my Lord Barham came in on the arm of Lord March.

‘Ah, my dear Fanshawe!’ said the old gentleman. ‘And my young friend Peter Merriot! You behold me fresh from the fatigues of a full hour with my perruquier.’ He put up his arm, and surveyed the room through it. ‘Now where, where is my good friend Clevedale?’

Clevedale himself came up. ‘Well, Barham, what’s this? You’re half an hour late, and here am I waiting on you.’

My lord flung up his hands. ‘The perruquier! I crave ten thousand pardons, my dear Thomas! But the exigencies of the perruquier! Had it been anything else in the world the claims of picquet had held me adamant. But adamant, my dear Thomas! My tailor, even, I would despatch to the devil. But a perruquier! You absolve me: you have to absolve me!’

Clevedale laughed. ‘Gad, what foppery! Oh, I hold you excused. God send I never see you bald. Come off to my table. I’ve held it in the teeth of Molyneux this half-hour.’ He bore my lord off to a place near the window.

‘I wonder, doesn’t he find that manner a thought fatiguing to maintain?’ said Sir Anthony meditatively.

‘Clevedale?’ Prudence looked inquiringly.

‘No, my innocent: the new Viscount.’

Mr Belfort came over to them. ‘Tony, here’s Devereux wants to play at lansquenet, and all the world’s bent on faro. Will you and Merriot join us? The devil’s in Devereux that naught else will do for him. But the poor fellow’s feeling plaguily low to-day: he’s had bad news, y’know.’ Mr Belfort nodded profoundly. ‘One must try to cheer him, so I’m pledged to find a four for lansquenet. Always plays lansquenet when he’s in trouble, does Devereux.’

‘Pray, what’s the nature of his trouble?’ Prudence asked solicitously.

‘Oh, cursed bad news, my boy! That old aunt of his from whom he has expectations has rallied, and they say she’ll last another ten years. Poor old Devereux, y’know! Must try and raise his spirits.’

So with this praiseworthy intention they went to play lansquenet with Mr Devereux.

There entered a few minutes later Rensley, in company with his friend Mr Markham. Mr Markham looked heated; Mr Rensley was scowling. The truth was he had been somewhat testy with his satellite, and there had been a slight altercation. Mr Rensley refused curtly an invita

tion to join a faro party, on the score of his being promised to Markham. The pair sat down to picquet at a table close to Mr Belfort’s.

It fell to Mr Markham to deal, while Rensley looked sourly round the room. His glance fell upon my Lord Barham, likewise engaged on picquet. He uttered a strong expletive beneath his breath, and glared angrily. My lord, catching sight of him, waved a white hand, which salutation Mr Rensley did not return. ‘Damn the fellow, he’s no more my cousin than you are!’ he said, addressing Mr Markham.

Mr Markham was still feeling ruffled. Rensley was always quick of temper, and one bore outbursts of anger from a rich viscount. But if Rensley was going to lose his wealth and his title his friend Markham had no intention of bearing his ill-humour with complacency. ‘Gad, man, let be!’ he said shortly. ‘You’ve said little else for the past hour. Do you take all five cards?’

Rensley sorted his hand rather sullenly, and took time over his discard. A well-known voice smote Mr Markham’s ears: ‘Don’t despair, Devereux! She may die of an apoplexy yet!’

Mr Markham looked sharply round, and found that Mr Merriot was seated close at hand. He bowed politely, but his brow was black as he faced Rensley again.

Rensley saw, and smiled disagreeably. ‘Ay, the young sprig from the country’s here, Gregory. Ecod, I believe the lad’s worsted you in some encounter! Eh! man? Now what did he do to you, I wonder?’

‘That puppy!’ Mr Markham flushed. ‘I could break him across my knee!’

‘Well, why don’t you?’ asked Rensley. ‘You talk a deal, the Lord knows!’

Markham laid down his cards. ‘Not to you for much longer, sir, I warn you!’ he said.

‘Oh, play to my lead, man, play to my lead! Gad, but you’ll admit you’d try the patience of a saint with your prating of having seen that – that impostor somewhere, and not knowing where! Why can’t you think?’