“We don’t doubt that, sir.”
My lady said on a gurgling laugh: “But what will you be at, mon cher? What madness?”
“I am Tremaine of Barham,” reiterated his lordship, with dignity. “Almost I had forgot it, but I come now into my own. You must have known” — he addressed the room at large — “you who have watched me, that there was more to me than a mere wandering gamester!”
“Faith, we thought it just devilry, sir,” Prudence chuckled.
“You do not appreciate me,” said my lord sadly, and sat him down by the table. “You lack soul, my children. Yes, you lack soul.”
“I concede you all my admiration, sir,” said Prudence.
“You shall concede me more still. You shall recognise a master mind in me, my Prudence. We come to the end of our travels.”
“Tyburn way,” said Robin, and laughed. “Egad, sir, you’ve a maggot in your head to venture on such a piece of folly!”
The old gentleman’s eyes glinted. “Do my schemes go awry, then? Do I fail in what I undertake to do, Robin my son?”
“You don’t, sir, I’m willing to admit, but you break fresh ground now, and I believe you don’t know the obstacles. This is England.”