My lord appeared to censure the term. “My child, I live in the present, not in the past. Not even I could save the Prince’s affairs from being bungled: I reject his whole cause. It was a venture not worthy of me. Do not call me a Jacobite.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” Prudence bowed. “Say then only that Sir Anthony knows the truth concerning us.”
“I deplore the indiscretion,” said my lord. He became reproachful. “Never divulge more than is necessary, my Prudence. Surely I taught you that lesson many years ago!”
“To be frank, sir, the gentleman had already guessed it.”
Robin arose from his seat by the window. “No matter. The whole scheme was complicated beyond your imagination, Sir Anthony.”
“Subtle,” amended his lordship.
“Tortuous, sir. You’re to know, Fanshawe, that my father was unwise enough to set his name to a certain treasonable letter.”
“An indiscretion,” said my lord. “I admit it. But it was not my own name, Robin. Do not forget that.”
Sir Anthony was surprised. “I had not thought that of you, my lord. It seems unlike you.”
My lord was at once benevolent. “You are blessed with a good understanding, my dear sir. I have admitted an indiscretion. One is sometimes carried away by one’s enthusiasms. You see that even I can make mistakes. A lesson may be learned from that.”