Sir Anthony saw fit to twit Prudence on the growing intimacy, one late afternoon at White’s. They were standing in the card-room, Sir Anthony but just come in, and Prudence having risen from a faro table.
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?”