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 scrutinised. 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?”