Mr Molyneux spoke disapproval. “Rensley must have taken leave of his senses,” he said in an undertone to Sir Raymond Orton. “A man of his years to challenge a boy to fight! It’s child murder!”
“Oh, it won’t come to that, Molyneux,” was Sir Raymond’s comfortable belief. “He’ll pink him easily enough, and Merriot will lie up for a week or so. Rensley knows better than to make it a killing matter. People are getting damned strict over these duels, you know.”
It was Prudence’s own belief as she walked back to Arlington Street: she had not much fear of death, but the thing as it stood was bad enough. It was true she had considerable knowledge of sword-play, but she knew very well that it was one thing to play with foils and quite another to fight in good earnest a man who was one’s declared enemy.
He was a strong man too, by the looks of him. Maybe she might have something of an advantage in the matter of quickness; sure, she had been taught a trick or two not many knew. The affair was not hopeless, she believed, but she admitted she had small relish for it.
One might tell Robin, of course. Ay, and be swept off to France, or see him throw off his disguise and take her place in the encounter. He was quite equal to it; he lacked her cautiousness. Against flight she resolutely set her face. One would leave a sullied name behind; the large gentleman — well, what of him? She considered the point, and found herself blushing. Oh, she must needs stand well with him? The more fool she!
There was the old gentleman, to be sure, but she could not see how he might be expected to help in this. He could whisk her off, doubtless, as Robin would, and then what lay before? She saw a dark road that way, and turned from it. There was little enough to hope for in staying here in England, when one came to think of it, but — Lord, what ailed her that she must still cling to this masquerade?
She reflected that she had steered her craft into a whirlpool; and discovered an ambition in herself to steer it out again, without assistance. To take Robin into her confidence was to overset all their plans: it was to become, in fact, a nuisance.
It was possible she might be unmasked in this encounter: that had to be considered. A wound, the apothecary — lord, what a pretty scandal! If the worst came to the worst, and her wits failed her, she believed Mr Belfort might be taken into her confidence. She had a feeling she could trust him. He could arrange matters so as to preserve her secret. She might appeal to his love of adventure. It was not what she liked, but if no better scheme presented itself it might serve. And one must not forget that there was always the possibility of vanquishing Mr Rensley.
She came home in mood somewhat silent, and Robin railed gaily at her for dreaming of her mountain.