“I must have a care for your reputation, child. You conduct yourself monstrously when I’m not by.”
Robin cast a languishing glance up at Fanshawe. “Sir, my Peter must think you a sad rake. And here was I thinking you meant marriage!”
“I think,” said Sir Anthony, “that you stand in need of birching, young Hop o’ my Thumb.”
Robin feigned alarm. “Oh Prue, have a care! That is the second time you have heard the mountain talk of offering violence to a poor female.”
“What did you call me?” demanded Sir Anthony, pricking up his ears.
“My tongue — oh, my luckless tongue!” Robin hid behind his fan. “Only a mountain, dear sir. Would you have me call you a mole-hill?” A laughing pair of eyes showed above the fan. To any who might chance to be watching it seemed as though Miss Merriot was still flirting disgracefully with Sir Anthony Fanshawe. “’Tis a term of endearment I have for you: no more, believe me.”
Sir Anthony’s eyes were twinkling. “My dear,” he said to Prudence, “if it weren’t for you I would expose this shameless boy. You’ll permit me to take him in hand when he comes out of this masquerade.”
She shook her head. “I must protect my little brother, Tony. You see what a pert madcap he is. Give you my word, he would be lost without his big sister. You had better abandon us, you know.”
“Oh no!” Robin besought. “What amusement should I have left to solace me if I no longer saw the respectable Fanshawe caught in the toils of a set of adventurers? Does it not go against the grain, my dear sir?”
“No, midget, it tickles my sense of the ridiculous. All that goes against the grain with me is to see Prue in a dangerous position, and to watch you courting Letty Grayson. What do you hope for there?”