“The more like the old gentleman to appropriate it,” said Robin. “Who are the Tremaines?”
“Oh, one of your old families. They are Viscounts of Barham these many years, you must know. The last one died some few months since, and the new one is only some cousin, I think, of name Rensley.”
“Then our poor papa can have his motto,” said Prudence.
She had a mind to learn something of Sir Anthony Fanshawe, and drew the trend of the talk that way. There was no word spoken of Miss Letty and her indiscretion: Sir Anthony had been chance-met on the road — also one Mr Markham.
My lady wrinkled her brow at the last name; it was plain she did not count Mr Markham amongst her friends. More closely questioned, she said that he was a man of mauvais ton, a great gambler, and received at an astonishing number of houses, for no reason that she could perceive unless it were his friendship with my Lord Barham.
“There you have two people of no great breeding,” ran her peroration. “Have naught to do with either, my children. Both are counted dangerous, and both are rogues. Of that I am convinced.”
“And Sir Anthony?” said Robin, with a quizzical look at his sister. “Is that another rogue?”
My lady found this infinitely amusing. “The poor Sir Tony! To be sure, a very proper gentleman — well-born, rich, handsome — but fie! of an impenetrability. Ah, you English!” She shook her head over the stolidity of the race.
“He displays already a most fatherly interest in my little sister, ma’am,” Robin said solemnly. “We are like to be undone by it.”
“Robin must have his jest, my lady.” Prudence was unruffled. “I believe I am not a novice in the art of simulation. I don’t fear Sir Anthony’s detection.”