The Masqueraders

‘Conceit!’ pronounced my lord. ‘A vice I detest! You flatter yourselves that you could carry this through without my assistance. My daughter, as I understand, is riding all over the country like a hoyden with a man who has not yet obtained my consent to be affianced to her. The impropriety holds me speechless! The Honourable Prudence Tremaine is whisked off like a piece of baggage, smuggled away to the house of a woman of whom I know nothing, as though she were in sooth a criminal flying for her life!’

‘Instead of which,’ said Robin, inspecting the lacing of one of his great cuffs, ‘she might be lying snug in gaol. Horrible, sir.’

‘And why not?’ my lord demanded. ‘I had an alibi for her – I should have intervened in a manner quiet, and convincing. All the dignity of my proceeding has been upset; my son is forced to escape at night, and in secrecy; a hue and cry for the Merriots must of course arise, and I – I must set all straight again! If I were not a man of infinite resource, and of resolution the most astounding, I might well cast up my hands, and abandon all. If I had not the patience of a saint I might be tempted to censure the whole of this affair as it deserves. But I say nothing. I bear all meekly. I am to set about the unravelling of a knot I had no hand in making. I have to adjust my plans to suit an entirely altered situation.’ He stopped and took snuff.

My lady preserved her air of coaxing. But she felt shattered. ‘It is all very dreadful, Robert,’ she agreed. ‘Give the bon papa a glass of Burgundy, Robin.’

Robin got up, and went to the table Marthe had set. He brought my lord a glass of the wine. My lord sipped it in austere silence, enjoying the bouquet. His manner underwent a sudden, bewildering change. With complete urbanity he said: ‘A very good Burgundy, my dear Thérèse. I felicitate you.’

Robin judged it time to speak. ‘You crush us, sir. Believe us all penitence. Doubtless we lack finesse. But I confess I applaud Sir Anthony’s action. It seems to me masterly.’

‘Of its kind,’ said my lord affably, ‘superb! Unworthy of me, clumsy beyond words, lacking entirely any forethought but – for any other man – worthy of applause. I applaud it. I smile to see such blundering methods, but I do not say what I think of them. Sir Anthony has my approbation.’ The terrible frown was wiped from his face. He sat down beside my lady and became once more benign. ‘We must now consider your case, my Robin. You have my forgiveness for what is past. I say nothing about it.’

‘You can scarcely expect to find a brain like yours inside my poor head, sir,’ said Robin dulcetly.

‘I realize it, my son. On that account alone I do condone all this folly. I even forgive John.’

John received this with a grunt not exactly expressive of gratitude. My lord looked affectionately across at him. ‘You did very well, my John, from what I can discover. When I consider that you lacked my guiding hand, I am bound to acknowledge that you and Sir Anthony carried the affair through very creditably. But we have now to provide for Robin.’ He put his finger-tips together, and smiled upon his son. ‘I perceive you are in readiness to be gone. I do not entirely like the lacing of that coat, but let it pass. You will proceed at once to the coast with John. He knows the place. If Lawton – you do not know him, but I have had many dealings with him in my time ?

? if Lawton, I say, keeps to the plans he had made when I was aboard his vessel last month, he should bring the Pride o’ Rye in for cargo at about this time. If he has been already there will be others soon enough. You will show that ring. It is enough.’ He handed a ring he wore on his little finger to his son. ‘But John will be with you. I need have no anxieties. Once in France you will proceed to Dieppe. Your trunks are with Gaston still. You will collect them, and embark on the first packet to England – under your rightful name. Remember that! You may find me in Grosvenor Square by then. John will see you safe aboard the Pride o’ Rye, and return then to me. I have need of him.’

‘Good gad, sir, I don’t need John to escort me to this mysterious place!’ said Robin.

‘Certainly you need John,’ said my lord. ‘He knows the ways of the Gentlemen. Do not presume to argue with me. I come now to you, Thérèse. To-morrow you will discover the flight of Miss Merriot. You will make an outcry; you will pronounce yourself to have been imposed upon. When questions are asked it will transpire that you made the acquaintance of the Merriots at the Wells, and knew no more of them than may be gathered from such a chance-met couple. Is it understood?’

My lady made a face. ‘Oh, be sure! But I do not at all like to appear so foolish, Robert.’

‘That cannot be helped,’ said my lord.

Robin caught her hand, and kissed it. ‘Ma’am, we treat you cavalierly, and you have been in truth our good angel. You know what I would say to you in thanks: what Prue would say.’

‘Ah, what is this?’ She snatched her hand away. ‘Do not talk to me like that! Thank me for nothing, Robin. I will be the silly dupe. Eh, but how I will lament!’

‘You will do it very well, my dear Thérèse,’ my lord assured her. ‘John, saddle the horses. Waste no more time, my son: it is time you were gone. I shall see you again very shortly. Thérèse, I shall drive back to town in your curricle, and if you send a man for it to-morrow you will find it in your own stables near Arlington Street. Naturally I shall have had nothing to do with this. I have not visited you to-night. Do not forget that! Robin, farewell! When you return, remember that you bear the name of Tremaine. John, have a care to my son!’ My lord arose as he spoke, received his hat and cloak from John, and with a gesture that savoured strongly of a Pope’s blessing, swept out of the room, and away.

Twenty-nine

The Ride Through the Night

Shoulder to shoulder, galloping over silent fields in the light of the moon, Prudence and Sir Anthony passed through the country unseen and unheard. There was little said; the pace was too fast, and Prudence too content to talk. This then was the end, in spite of all. The large gentleman swept all before him, and faith, one could not be sorry. Several times she stole a look at that strong profile, pondering it; once he turned his head and met her eyes, and a smile passed between them, but no words.

It seemed she was very much the captive of his sword; there could be nothing more to say now, and, truth to tell, she had no mind to argue.

She supposed they were off to his sister, but the way was unfamiliar to her. The gentleman seemed to know the country like the back of his hand, as the saying was; he eschewed main roads and towns; kept to the solitary lanes, and ever and anon led her ’cross country, or turned off through some copse or meadow to avoid a village, or some lone cottage on the road. There would be no one to tell of this mad flight through the dark hours; no man would have seen them pass, nor any hear the beat of the horses’ hoofs racing by.

Sure, they seemed to be the only people awake in all England. The failing daylight had gone hours since; there had been a spell of darkness when they rested their horses in a walk along a deserted lane; and then the moon had risen, and there was a ghostly pale light to show them the way, and the trees threw weird shadows along the ground. There might be heard now and then the melancholy hoot of an owl, and the chirp and twitter of a nightjar, but all else was hushed: there was not so much as a breath of wind to rustle the leaves on the trees.

They saw squat villages lying darkly ahead, swung off to skirt them round, seeing occasionally the warm glow of a lamp-lit window, and reached the road again beyond. Once a dog barked in the distance and once a small animal ran across the road in front of them, and the mare shied and stumbled.

There was a quick hand ready to snatch at the bridle. Prudence laughed, and shook her head, bringing the mare up again. ‘Don’t fear for me, kind sir.’

‘I need not, I know. Yet I can’t help myself.’

The moon was high above them when they reined in to a walk again. Prudence was helped into her greatcoat; the horses drew close, and the riders’ knees touched now and again.

‘Tired, child?’ Sir Anthony’s free hand came to rest a moment on hers.

Faith, it was a fine thing to be so precious in a man’s eyes. ‘Not I, sir. Do you take me into Hampshire?’