He stopped just inside the room, and seemed to be enraptured at the sight of Sir Anthony. “My friend Fanshawe!” he exclaimed. “And the beautiful Miss Merriot!”
“It won’t serve, sir,” Robin broke in. “Your friend Fanshawe is more intimate with you than you know. You may say that we all lie in his power.”
My lord evinced not the smallest discomfiture. “My son, if you think I lie in any man’s power you do not know me. As for you to be in danger when my wing is spread over you is not possible.” He spoke with a tinge of severity in his voice.
Sir Anthony had risen at his entrance, and bowed now. “You stand in no danger from me, sir.”
My lord surveyed him haughtily. “I stand in no danger from anyone, my dear Sir Anthony. You have no knowledge of me. You are to be pitied.”
“Envied, more like,” said his undutiful son.
Sir Anthony’s mouth twitched, but he suppressed the smile. “Let us hope, sir, that I’m not to be long in dismal ignorance. I aspire to the hand of your daughter.”
The severity left my lord; he beamed, and spread open his arms. “I am to embrace a second son, enfin! You aspire — it is well said! Tremaine of Barham’s daughter may look to the highest quarters for a mate.”
“You’re abashed,” Robin told Sir Anthony.
He seemed to be struggling more with amusement, however. “Why, sir, I hope you’ll look kindly on my suit.”