The old gentleman’s eyes travelled slowly round the room the while he listened to my Lord March; rested a moment on Miss Merriot’s face, and passed on. Her Grace of Queensberry came forward to welcome the newcomer, and he bent with great courtliness over her hand.
Robin turned in his chair. “I am dreaming. I must be dreaming. Even he could not dare — ”
Prudence was shaking with suppressed laughter. “Oh, it’s the old gentleman himself, never fear! Lud, might we not have expected something after this fashion?”
“Arm-in-arm with March — covered with jewels — all his misbegotten orders — gad, it beats all! And who the devil does he pretend to be now?” Robin sat fuming; he could not admire this last freak of his sire. “Of course, we’re sped now,” he said in a voice of gloomy conviction. “This will land us all at Tyburn.”
“Oh, my dear, he’s incomparable! You have to admit it.” Prudence saw Mr Molyneux advancing, and hailed him. “Pray, sir, who is the magnificent stranger but just arrived?”
“What, don’t you know?” cried Mr Molyneux, shocked. “Ah, to be sure, you’ve been out of town this last week. That stranger is the greatest romance we’ve known since Peterson ran off with Miss Carslake.” He laughed at Robin. “All the ladies are in ecstasies over it, I assure you. It appears, you see, that the grand gentleman is the lost Viscount. One thought such things only happened in fairy tales.”
Robin sank back in his chair; seeing him incapable of speech; Prudence said faintly: “Indeed, sir? And — and who is the lost Viscount?”
“Fie, fie, what ignorance! And the thing’s the jest of town! — but you have been at Richmond: I forget that. Why, none but Tremaine, my dear boy, of course! — Tremaine of Barham! Surely you must know that!”
Some dim recollection of my Lady Lowestoft’s talk flitted across Prudence’s memory. “I didn’t know there was a lost Tremaine, sir,” she said.
“Good Gad, not know of the Barham claim?” This was Mr Belfort, who had wandered up to them. “Why, this is the lost black sheep appeared to filch the title from Rensley. It’s a famous jest, and Rensley’s as sour as a lemon over it.” He laughed delightedly at the thought of the deposed lord’s discomfiture.