Chapter 1

A Lady in Distress

It had begun to rain an hour ago, a fine driving mist with the sky grey above. The gentleman riding beside the chaise surveyed the clouds placidly. “Faith, it’s a wonderful climate,” he remarked of no one in particular.

The grizzled serving man who rode some paces to the rear spurred up to him. “Best put up for the night, sir,” he grunted. “There’s an inn a mile or two on.”

The window of the chaise was let down with a clatter, and a lady looked out. “Child, you’ll be wet,” she said to her cavalier. “How far to Norman Cross?”

The serving man rode up close to the chaise. “Another hour, ma’am. I’m saying we’d best put up for the night.”

“I’d as soon make Norman Cross,” said the gentleman, “for all it’s plaguily damp.”

“There’s an inn close by, as I remember,” the servant repeated, addressing himself to the lady.

“En avant, then. Produce me the inn,” the lady said. “Give you joy of your England, Peter my little man.”

The gentleman laughed. “Oh, it’s a comforting spot, Kate.”

The inn came soon into sight, a square white house glimmering through the dusk. There were lights in the windows, and a post-chaise drawn up in the court before it.

The gentleman came lightly down from the saddle. He was of medium height, and carried himself well. He had a neat leg encased in a fine riding boot, and a slender hand in an embroidered gauntlet.

There was straight-way a bustle at the inn. An ostler came running; mine host appeared in the porch with a bow and a scrape and a waiting man sped forth to assist in letting down the steps of the chaise.

“Two bedchambers, for myself and my sister,” said the gentleman. “Dinner, and a private room.”

Consternation was in the landlord’s face. “Bedchambers, sir. Yes — on the instant! Polly, the two best bedchambers, and fires to be lit in them!” A serving maid went scuttling off. “Sir, the private room!” Mine host bowed, and spread a pair of deprecating hands. “But this moment, sir, it was bespoken by a lady and a gentleman traveling north.” He looked slyly, and cast down his eyes. “But they stay only for dinner, sir, and if your honour and the lady would condescend to the coffee room — ? There’s never a soul likely to come tonight, and ’twill be private enough.”

There was a rustle of skirts. My lady came down from the chaise with a hand on her servant’s shoulder. “The coffee room or any other so I get out of this wet!” she cried, and swept into the inn with her cavalier behind her.

They found themselves straight in a comfortable large room. There was a table set, and a wood fire burning in the hearth. A door led out into a passage at the back, where the stairs rose steeply, and another to one side, giving on to the taproom.

A trim girl in a mob cap brought more candles, and dropped a shy curtsey to the lady. “If you please, my lady, should I take your ladyship’s cloak? Your ladyship’s abigail..?”

“Alack, the creature’s not with me!” mourned Madam Kate. “Take the cloak up to my chamber, child. So!” She put back the hood from her head, and untied the strings round her throat. The cloak was given to the maid; Madam stood up in a taffeta gown of blue spread over a wide hoop. She wore her fair ringlets en demie toilette, free from powder, with a blue ribbon threaded through, and a couple of curls allowed to fall over her shoulder. The maid thought her a prodigiously lovely lady and bobbed another curtsey before she went away with the cloak.

My lady’s brother gave his three-cornered hat into his servant’s keeping, and struggled out of his greatcoat. He was much of his sister’s height, a little taller perhaps, and like enough to her in appearance. His hair was of a darker brown, confined demurely at the neck by a black riband; and his eyes showed more grey than blue in the candlelight. Young he seemed, for his cheek was innocent of all but the faintest down; but he had a square shoulder, and a good chin, rounded, but purposeful enough. The landlord, following him into the coffee-room, was profuse in apologies and obeisances, for he recognized a member of the Quality. The lady wore a fine silk gown, and Mr Merriot a modish coat of brown velvet, with gold lacing, and a quantity of Mechlin lace at his throat and wrists. A pretty pair, in all, with the easy ways of the Quality, and a humorous look about the eyes that made them much alike. The landlord began to talk of capons and his best burgundy, and was sent off to produce them.

Miss Merriot sat down by the fire, and stretched one foot in its buckled shoe to the blaze. There was a red heel to her shoe, and marvellous embroidered clocks to her silken stockings. “So!” said Miss Merriot. “How do you, my Peter?”

“I don’t melt in a shower of rain, I believe,” Peter said, and sat down on the edge of the table, swinging one booted leg.

“No, faith, child, there’s too much of you for that.”

The gentleman’s rich chuckle sounded. “I’m sufficiently substantial, in truth,” he remarked. He drew out his gold and enamelled snuff-box from one of his huge coat pockets, and took a pinch with an air, delicately shaking the ruffles of lace back from his wrists. A ruby ring glowed on one of his long fingers, while on the other hand he wore a big gold seal ring. A smile crept up into his eyes, and lurked at the corners of his mouth. “I’d give something to know where the old gentleman is,” he said.

“Safe enough, I’ll be bound,” Madam answered, and laughed. “It’s the devil himself, I believe, and will appear in London to snap his fingers under the noses of all King George’s men.”

“Fie, Kate: my poor, respected papa!” Mr Merriot was not shocked. He fobbed his snuff-box and put it away. A faint crease showed between his brows. “For all he named London — egad, ’tis like his impudence!  — it’s odds he’s gone to France.”

“I don’t permit myself to hope too much,” said Miss Merriot, with a smile at once dreamy and a little impish. “He’ll be there to lead us another of his mad dances. If not... I’ve a mind to try our own fortunes.”

“In truth, I’ve a kindness for the old gentleman,” said Mr Merriot pensively. “His dances lead somewhere.”

“To lost causes.” There was a hint of bitterness in the tone.

Mr Merriot looked up. “Ay, you’ve taken it to heart.”

“Not I.” Kate jerked a shoulder as though to shake something off. “We went into it — egad, why did we go into it?”

“Ask the old gentleman,” said Mr Merriot, the slow smile creeping up again. “He had a loyal fervour, belike.”

Kate drew down the corners of her mouth. “It’s a pleasing image. He meant it for a beau geste, I dare swear. And we? Well, I suppose we went willy-nilly into the net.”

“I don’t regret it. The old gentleman meddled in Saxe’s affairs, but we came out of that net.”

“That was in the nature of adventuring. This — ” Kate paused. “Bah, I hate lost causes! It was different.”

“For you?” Mr Merriot lifted an eyebrow. “Did you want the Prince, child?”

“We fought for him while it lasted. He had the right. But now it’s over, and the Butcher’s made a shambles of the North, and there are those who have died on Tower Hill, while we — we try our fortunes, and the old gentleman weaves us a fresh net. I believe I’ll turn respectable.”

“Alack, we were made for sobriety!” said Mr Merriot.

Came the landlord, and a serving maid with dinner. Covers were laid, and a cork drawn. Miss Merriot and her brother sat down to fat capons and a generous pasty. They were left presently toying with sweetmeats and their wine. The maid bore off all that remained of the capons through the door that led into the passage. The door was left ajar and allowed a glimpse of another door, across the passageway. From behind it came the sound of a lady’s voice raised in protest.

“I won’t, I tell you!” it said. “I won’t!”

There came the sound of a deeper voice, half coaxing, half bullying; then the lady cried out again, on a hysterical note of panic. “I won’t go with you! You sh-shan’t elope with me against my will! Take me home! Oh please, Mr Markham, take me home!”

Miss Merriot looked at her brother. He got up, and went unhurriedly to the door, and stood listening.

The man’s voice was raised now in anger. “By God, Letty, you shan’t fool me like that!”

Following on a crash from behind the closed door as of a fist banged on the table, came a choked, imploring murmur.

“No!” barked the man’s voice. “If I have to gag you, to Gretna you’ll go, Letty! D’you think I’m fool enough to let you slip through my fingers now?”

Mr Merriot turned his head. “My dear, I believe I don’t like the noisy gentleman,” he said calmly.

Madame Kate listened to a cry of: “My papa will come! I won’t marry you, oh, I won’t!” and a faint frown was between her eyes.

There came the sound of a coarse laugh. Evidently the gentleman had been drinking. “I think you will,” he said significantly.

Miss Merriot bit one fingernail. “It seems we must interfere, my Peter.”

Peter looked rueful, and drew his sword a little way out of the scabbard.

“No, no, child, put up!” said Madam, laughing. “We know a trick worth two of that. We must have the fox out of his earth, though.”

“Stay you there,” said her brother, and went out into the courtyard, and called to John, his servant.

John came.

“Who’s the owner of the post-chaise, John?” inquired Mr Merriot.

The answer was severe. “It’s a Mr Markham, sir, running off to Gretna with a rich heiress, so they say. And the lady not out of her teens. There’s wickedness!”

“John’s propriety is offended,” murmured Miss Merriot. “We will dispose, John, since God seems unwilling. I want a stir made.”

“Best not meddle,” said John phlegmatically. “We’ve meddled enough.”

“A cry of fire,” mused Mr Merriot. “Fire or footpads. Where do I lie hid?”

“Oh, are you with me already?” admired Kate. “Let me have a fire, John, or a parcel of daring footpads, and raise the ostlers.”

John fetched a sigh. “We’ve played that trick once before. Will you never be still?”

Mr Merriot laughed. “It’s a beauty in distress, John, and Kate must be up and doing.”

A grunt only was vouchsafed, and the glimmering of a grim smile. John went out. Arose presently in the courtyard a shout, and a glow, and quickly uproar.

“Now I wonder how he made that fire?” said Miss Merriot, amused.

“There’s a shed and some straw. Enough for John. Well, it’s a fine stir.” Mr Merriot went to the window. “Mine host leads the household out in force. The wood’s so damp ’twill be out in a moment. Do your part, sister.”

Mr Merriot vanished into the deserted taproom.

Miss Merriot added then to the stir by a scream, close followed by another, and a cry of — “Fire, fire! Help, oh help!”

The door across the passage was burst open, and a dark gentleman strode out. “What in hell’s name — ?” he began. His face was handsome in the swarthy style, but flushed now with wine. His eye lighted on Miss Merriot, and a smell of burning assailed his nostrils. “What’s the noise? Gad, is the place on fire?” He came quickly into the coffee-room, and received Miss Merriot in his unwilling arms. Miss Merriot neatly tripped up her chair, and with a moan of “Save me!” collapsed onto Mr Markham’s chest.

He grasped the limp form perforce, and found it a dead weight on his arm. His companion, a slim child of no more than eighteen, ran to the window. “Oh, ’tis only an old shed caught fire away to the right!” she said.

Mr Markham strove to restore the fainting Miss Merriot. “Compose yourself, madam! For God’s sake, no vapours! There’s no danger. Damnation, Letty, pick the chair up!”

Miss Letty came away from the window towards Miss Merriot’s fallen chair. Mr Markham was tightly clasping that unconscious lady, wrath at his own helpless predicament adding to the already rich colour in his face.

“The devil take the woman, she weighs a ton!” swore Mr Markham. “Pick the chair up, I say!”

Miss Letty bent to take hold of it. She heard a door open behind her, and turning saw Mr Merriot.

Of a sudden Miss Merriot came to life. In round-eyed astonishment Miss Letty saw that lady no longer inanimate, but seemingly struggling to be free.

Mr Merriot was across the floor in a moment.

“Unhand my sister, sir!” cried he in a wonderful fury.

Miss Merriot was thrust off. “God’s Life, ’twas herself — ” began Mr Markham, but got no further. His chin came into sudden contact with Mr Merriot’s sword hilt, nicely delivered, and Mr Markham fell heavily all amongst the table legs.

“Oh, neatly done, s’faith!” vowed Miss Merriot. “Down like an ox, as I live! Set the coach forward, Peter, and you, child, upstairs with you to my chamber.”

Miss Letty’s hand was caught in a firm clasp. Quite bewildered she was swirled away by the competent Miss Merriot.

Miss Merriot’s brother put up his sword, and went out into the court. John seemed to rise up out of the gloom to meet him. “All well, sir?”

Mr Merriot nodded. “Where’s the dear gentleman’s chaise, John?”

John jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

“Horses put to?” inquired Mr Merriot.

“Ay, they’re ready to be off. The men are in the taproom — it’s dry they are after the great fire. There’s an ostler to the horses’ heads.”

“I don’t want that ostler there,” said Mr Merriot. “Drive the chaise past Stilton, John, and hide it somewhere where the gentleman won’t find it too soon.”

“Hide a chaise and horses, is it?” John growled.

“It is, John,” said Mr Merriot serenely. “Tell that ostler that I want a horse saddled on the instant. One of our own, if need be. I shall set the dear gentleman after you, John. God speed you.”

“Ah, it’s a mad couple you are!” said John, but he moved away to where the lights of the chaise shone. Mr Merriot heard him give the order to the ostler, and offer to hold the horses’ heads. He heard the ostler run off towards the stables and himself turned back into the coffee-room smiling placidly.

Miss Merriot had come downstairs again and was standing by the fallen Mr Markham calmly surveying him. “Well, child, is it done?” she asked.

The clatter of horses and the rumble of wheels on the cobbles answered her. John was off; they heard the chaise roll away down the road to London. Miss Merriot laughed and dropped her brother a mock curtsey. “My compliments, child. It’s you have the head, indeed. Now what to do for the poor gentleman? Water, my Peter, and a napkin. Observe me all solicitude.” She sank down on to the floor, and lifted Mr Markham’s head into her lap. Mr Merriot was chuckling again as he handed her the water, and a napkin.

The landlord came hurrying in, and stared in horror at what he saw. “Sir — madam! The gentleman’s coach is off! Oh law, madam! The gentleman!”

“Off is it?” Mr Merriot was interested. “Tut, tut! And the lady in it, belike?”

The landlord’s jaw dropped. “Ay, that would be it! But what’s come to the gentleman, sir? Good lord, sir, never say — ”

“The poor gentleman!” said Miss Merriot, holding a wet napkin to Mr. Markham’s brow. “’Twas the drink turned the head on his shoulders, I dare swear. An accident, host. I believe he won’t die of it.”

“A warning to all abductors,” said Mr Merriot piously.

A gleam of understanding shot into the landlord’s eyes. “Sir, he’ll be raving mad when he comes to.”

“A warning to you, good fellow, not to be by,” said Mr Merriot.

There was significance in Mr Merriot’s voice. It occurred to mine host that the less he knew of the matter the better it might be for himself, on all sides. He went out discreetly what time Mr Markham gave vent to a faint groan.

Mr Markham came slowly back to consciousness, and opened heavy eyes. He did not at once remember much, but he was aware of a swollen jaw-bone which hurt him. A cool hand was placed on his brow, and something wet was laid on his sore chin. He rolled his eyes upwards, groaning, and saw a fair face bent over him, framed in golden ringlets. He stared up at it, trying to collect his bemused wits, and vaguely it seemed to him that he had seen that face before, with its fine, rather ironical blue eyes, and its curiously square chin. He blinked, and frowned in the effort to pull himself together, and saw the delicate mouth smile.

“Thank God you are better!” came a cooing voice. “I have been in an agony! Dear sir, pray lie still; ’twas a cruel blow, and oh the misunderstanding! Peter, a glass of wine for the gentleman! There, sir, let me but raise your head.”

Mr Markham allowed it, perforce, and sipped at the wine held to his lips. Some of the mists were clearing from his brain. He raised himself on his elbow, and looked round.

“Oh, you are much better!” cooed the voice. “But gently, sir. Don’t, I implore you, overtax your strength.”

Mr Markham’s gaze came to rest on a flowered waistcoat. He put a hand to his head, and his eyes travelled slowly up the waistcoat to Mr Merriot’s grave face. Mr Merriot was on one knee, glass of wine in hand; Mr Merriot looked all concern.

Recollection came.

“Burn it, you’re the fellow — ” Mr Markham’s hand went to his jaw; he glared at Peter Merriot. “Did you — By God, sir, did you — ?”

“Let me help you to a chair, sir,” said Mr Merriot gently. “In truth you are shaken, and no wonder. Sir, I cannot sufficiently beg your pardon.”

Mr Markham was on his feet now, dizzy and bewildered. “Was it you knocked me down, sir? Answer me that!” he panted.

“Alas, sir, I did!” said Mr Merriot. “I came in to find my sister struggling, as I thought, in your arms. Can you blame me, sir? My action was the impulse of the moment.”

Mr Markham was put into a chair. He fought for words, a hand still held to his jaw. “Struggling? she flung herself at me in a swoon!” he burst out.

Miss Merriot was kneeling at his feet, napkin in hand. Mr Markham thrust it aside with an impotent snarl. “You have the right to be angry, sir,” sighed Miss Merriot. “’Twas all my folly, but oh sir, when the bustle started, and they were crying fire without I scarce knew what I did!” Her fair head was bent in modest confusion. Mr Markham did not heed her.

“Blame you? blame you? Yes, sir, I can!” he said wrathfully. “A damnable little puppy to — to — ” Words failed him; he sat nursing his jaw and fuming.

Mr Merriot said haughtily — “You’re heated sir, and I believe excusably. I don’t heed what you say therefore. I have asked your pardon for a mistake — understandable, I contend — that I made.”

“Puppy!” snapped Mr Markham, and drank off the rest of the wine in the glass. It seemed to restore him. He got up unsteadily and his hot gaze swept round again. “Letty!” he shot out. “Where is the girl?”

“Dear sir, indeed you are not yourself yet!” Miss Merriot laid a soothing hand on his arm. “There is no girl here save myself.”

She was shaken off. “No girl, you say?” roared Mr Markham, and went blundering towards the room across the passage. “Letty!” he shouted. “Letty, I say! Hell and damnation, her cloak’s gone!” He came back, his face dark with rage and suspicion, and caught at Mr Merriot’s straight shoulder. “Out with it! Where is she? Where have you hidden her? You don’t trick me, my fine sir!”

Miss Merriot, hovering watchfully, cast herself between them, and clung to her brother. “No, no!” she cried. “No swords, I do beseech you. Sir, you are raving! There is no girl here that I have seen.”

Mr Merriot put his sister aside. “But wait!” he said slowly. “As I remember there was a lady in the room as I came in. A child with black hair. My sister was overwrought, sir, and maybe forgets. Yes, there was a lady.” He looked round as though he expected to see her lurking in some corner.

“Damme, it won’t serve!” cried out the infuriated Mr Markham, and went striding off to the door that led into the taproom, calling loudly for the landlord.

Mine host came quickly, with an uneasy look in his face. In answer to Mr Markham’s furious query he said nervously that in the scare of the fire someone had driven off with his worship’s chaise, and he doubted but that the lady was in it.

Mr Markham swung round to face Peter Merriot again, and there came a red light into his eyes, while his hand fumbled at his sword hilt. “Ah, you’re in this!” he snarled.

Mr Merriot paused in the act of taking snuff. “Your pardon, sir?” he asked in some surprise. “A lady gone off in your post-chaise, and myself in it? I don’t understand you, sir. Who is the lady, and why should she go off so? Why, it’s churlish of her, I protest.”

Mr Markham seemed undecided. “It’s no business of yours,” he said savagely. “But if I find ’twas you did it — Which way did the chaise go?”

“To-towards London, sir,” nervously answered mine host. “But ’tis only what Tom says. I didn’t see myself, and indeed, sir — ”

Mr Markham said something between his teeth at which mine host cast a horrified glance at Miss Merriot. The lady appeared to be unmoved. “Saddle me a horse at once! Where’s my hat?”

Light dawned on Mr Merriot. “Egad, it’s a runaway, Kate. Faith, sir, it seems my — er — impetuosity was indeed ill-timed. A horse, of course! You should be up with the chaise soon enough. A horse for the gentleman!” Mr Merriot swept out into the court, bearing mine host before him.

“It’s ready saddled, sir, but Tom says the gentleman ordered it half an hour since,” said the puzzled landlord.

“Saddled and ready, eh? Then see it brought round to the door, for the gentleman’s in a hurry.”

“Yes, sir, but how came it that the horse was bespoke when the gentleman was a-laying like one dead?”

“Bespoke? A ruse, man, a ruse, and your man in madam’s pay very like. Best keep your mouth shut. Ah, behold the bereft gentleman!”

Mr Markham came stamping out with his hat rammed over his nose, and managed to hoist himself into the saddle with the assistance of two scared ostlers. He gathered the bridle up, and turned to glare down upon Mr Merriot. “I’ll settle with you later,” he promised ferociously, and setting spurs to his horse dashed off into the darkness.

Miss Merriot came out to lay a hand on her brother’s shoulder. “The dear gentleman!” she remarked. “Very well, child, but what next?”

Chapter 2

Arrival of a Large Gentleman

Brother and sister went back into the coffee-room. As they entered by one door a little figure tiptoed in at the other, and stood poised on one toe as if for flight. “Has he gone?” breathed Miss Letitia.

It was Peter Merriot who went forward and took the lady’s hand. “Why, yes, child, gone for the moment,” he said, and led her to the fire.

She raised a pair of big pansy-brown eyes. “Oh, thank you, sir!” she said. “And you too, dear madam.”

Miss Merriot flushed slightly, whereat the humorous look came into Peter’s eye again. He looked down at Miss Letty gravely enough, and pulled a chair forward. “Sit down, madam, and let us have the story, if you please. I should desire to know how we may serve you.”

“You have served me,” vowed the lady, clasping her hands in her lap. “My story is all folly, sir — wicked folly rising out of the most dreadful persecution.”

“You shock me, madam.”

Miss Merriot came to the fire, and sat down beside the little lady, who promptly caught her hand and kissed it. “I don’t know what I should have done without you!” she said fervently. “For I had quite made up my mind I didn’t want to go to Gretna Green at all. You see, I had never seen him in his cups before. It was a terrible awakening. He became altered altogether once we were out of London, and — and I was afraid — a little.” She looked up blushing. “At home when I saw him he was so different, you see.”

“Do I understand, my dear, that you consented to elope with the gentleman?” inquired Miss Merriot.

The black curls were nodded vigorously. “I thought it would be so romantic,” sighed Letty. She brightened. “And so it was, when you hit him,” she added, turning to Peter. “It was positively marvellous!”

“Did you elope with him for the romance of it?” asked Mr Merriot, amused.

“That, and because of my papa,” said Letty. “And because of being bored. Oh, have you never known, ma’am, what it is to be cooped up, and kept so close that you are ready to die of boredom?”

“In truth, I’ve led something of a rover’s life,” said Miss Merriot. “But continue, child.”

“I am an heiress,” announced Letty in tones the most lugubrious.

“My felicitations, ma’am,” bowed Mr Merriot.

“Felicitations! I wish I were a pauper, sir! If a man comes to the house my papa must needs imagine he is after my money. He said that of Gregory Markham. And indeed I think he was right,” she said reflectively. “Ma’am, I think fathers are — are the veriest plague.”

“We have suffered, child,” said Miss Merriot.

“Then, ma’am, you will feel for me. My papa puts a hateful disagreeable woman to be my duenna, and I am so guarded and sheltered that there is nothing amusing ever happens to me, in spite of having been brought to town. Add to all that, ma’am, Sir Anthony Fanshawe, and you will see why I had come to the pitch of doing anything only to get away!”

“I feel we are to deplore Sir Anthony, Kate,” said Mr Merriot.

“It is not that I am not fond of him,” Letty explained. “I have always been fond of him, but conceive, ma’am, being required to marry a man whom you have known all your life! A man, too, of his years and disposition!”

“I perceive in you a victim of parental tyranny, child,” said Miss Merriot. “We consign Sir Anthony to perdition.”

Letty giggled at that. “Oh, never, ma’am! ’Tis a model of prudence and the virtues! And thirty-five years old at the very least!”

Mr Merriot flicked a speck of snuff from his sleeve.

“And to escape this greybeard, hence the young Adonis yonder, I suppose?”

Miss Letty hung her head. “He — he was not very young either, I suppose,” she confessed. “And I have been very silly, and wicked, I know. But indeed I thought him vastly more entertaining than Tony. You could not for your life imagine Tony excited, or in a scrape, or even hurried. And Gregory said such pretty things, and it was all so romantic I was misled.”

“The matter’s plain to the meanest intelligence, madam,” Mr Merriot assured her, “I discover in myself a growing desire to meet the phlegmatic Sir Anthony.”

His sister laughed. “Ay, that’s to your taste. But what’s the next step?”

“Oh, she goes with us along to London. Pray, ma’am, may we know your name?”

“’Tis Letitia Grayson, sir. My papa is Sir Humphrey Grayson of Grayson Court, in Gloucestershire. He is afflicted with the gout. I expect you may see him by and by, for I left a note for him, and he would be bound to find it.”

“We await his coming, then,” said Miss Merriot. “It solves the matter. My Peter, bespeak a bedchamber for Miss Grayson.”

A confiding hand was slipped into Kate’s as Mr Merriot strolled away to the door. “Please will you call me Letty?” said Miss Grayson shyly.

Mr Merriot made an odd grimace at the panel of the door, and went through into the taproom.

Mine host had barely recovered from his very natural bewilderment at finding that the supposed fugitive was still in his house when there came the sound of a chaise bowling at a rare speed along the road. It drew up at the inn, and in the light of the lamps Mr Merriot saw his servant jump down. He pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. “This should be papa,” he said pensively. “Your fourth room will be wanted, host.” He went back into the coffee-room to find that Miss Letty was at the window already, peering out.

“Your papa, as I believe,” announced Mr Merriot.

“I am afraid it is,” agreed Miss Letty. “Yet with the gout plaguing him so much — oh lud! As I live, ’tis Anthony!”

Miss Merriot threw her brother a comical look. “And so your desires are fulfilled, child. We are all impatience, Letty.”

Mr Merriot stood by her chair, and took snuff. The door opened to admit a large gentleman, who came in very leisurely.

“Lud, it’s a mammoth!” said Miss Merriot, for her brother’s private ear.

“Oh, are you jealous?” he retorted.

The large gentleman paused on the threshold and put up his quizzing-glass, through which he blandly surveyed the room. He was a very large gentleman indeed, with magnificent shoulders and a fine leg. He seemed rather to fill the room; he had certainly a presence, and a personality. He wore a tie wig of plain brown, and carried his hat under his arm. The hilt of his sword peeped out from between the folds of his greatcoat, but in his hand he held a cane.

“The gentleman would appear to be annoyed,” murmured Mr Merriot, looking at the lines about the newcomer’s mouth and square jowl.

“La, my dear, how can you say so?” marveled Miss Merriot, seeing the large gentleman’s grey eyes calm and bored. She rose with an air, and swept a curtsey. The gentleman must not be allowed to dominate the room thus. It seemed he had the way of it. “Make your leg, child,” she threw over her shoulder at Peter. “We are under observation.”

The sternness about Sir Anthony’s mouth vanished. He smiled and showed a row of very even white teeth. He bowed with easy grace. “Madam, your most obedient! Sir, yours!”

Mr Merriot took Miss Letty by the hand. “Permit me to restore to you Miss Grayson, sir,” he said, ignoring an indignant protest from the lady.

Sir Anthony showed no desire to receive Miss Grayson, who looked him defiantly between the eyes. He smiled still, but he did not offer to take her hand. “You should be whipped, Letty,” he said pleasantly.

Miss Grayson flushed. “’Deed, sir, and did you bring your cane for that purpose?” she demanded.

“No, my dear, but I should be happy to benefit you that far.”

Peter Merriot was amused, and permitted his chuckle to be heard. “Faith, it’s a stern suitor.”

“You are — very rude — and — and — and hateful!” declared Miss Grayson, outraged.

Sir Anthony laid down his cane and his hat, and began to take off his greatcoat. As one who had no further interest in Miss Grayson he took out his snuff-box, unfobbed it, and held it out to Mr Merriot. His hand was very white and finely shaped, but it looked to have some strength. “Sir,” said he, smiling sleepily for all his grey eyes were alert beneath their rather heavy lids, “you will permit me to thank you on behalf of my friend, Sir Humphrey Grayson, for your services to his daughter.”

Mr Merriot helped himself to a pinch of snuff. Grey eyes met grey; the humorous look played around Mr Merriot’s mouth. “Lud, here’s a solemnity!” he said. “I am Miss Grayson’s servant to command.”

Miss Grayson forgot her dignity. “Tony, ’twas wonderful! His sword was out in a trice, and I thought he was about to run that odious Markham right through the body, but just as it was too monstrously exciting for words the point seemed to flash upwards and the hilt caught Markham on the chin.” She demonstrated with a small fist to her own pretty chin. “He went down like a stone,” she ended dramatically. Her glance fell on Miss Merriot by the fire. “And Miss Merriot too was splendid, Tony, for she pretended to swoon in Markham’s arms.”

Mr Merriot looked down at his sister something quizzically. “My dear, I eclipse you,” he murmured. He turned again to Sir Anthony. “Thus we mourn our departed suitor. Now where did you find my man John?” He began to pour wine, and handed one glass to the large gentleman.

“At Stilton,” Sir Anthony replied. “Just before I saw my friend Mr Markham. He was endeavoring to hide a chaise and horses which — er — aroused my suspicions. He was induced to confide in me.”

Mr Merriot looked meditatively at that square handsome face. “I wonder why?” he said, for he knew his John.

A singularly attractive smile crossed Sir Anthony’s face. “My charm of manner, sir, I believe,” he said.

There came a laugh from Miss Merriot. “I begin to have a kindness for the large gentleman,” she remarked to the room at large. “And you met the so dear Mr Markham, sir?”

“Hardly, madam. I had rather say I saw the so dear Mr Markham pass me in a cloud of — mud, I believe.”

“I wonder, did he see you?” Miss Merriot’s eyes were bright with laughter.

“I am almost persuaded that he did,” said Sir Anthony.

“Then I take it we are not to expect his return?” Miss Merriot cocked a knowing eyebrow.

“I hardly think so, madam,” said Sir Anthony placidly.

Miss Merriot looked at Miss Grayson. “Why, child, I like the large gentleman, I protest,” she said. “Pray, sir, have you dined?”

“So far I have not had the time, madam, but I have reason to hope the landlord is preparing dinner for me at this moment.”

Mine host himself came in most opportunely then, with the serving maid behind him, carrying a loaded tray. A fresh cover was laid, a roasted chicken placed before Sir Anthony, and a fresh bottle uncorked.

“You permit, madam?” Sir Anthony bowed towards Miss Merriot.

“Pray, sir, be seated. You will be ravenous.”

“I confess I hate to miss my dinner,” said Sir Anthony, and began to carve the chicken. “There is something of me to maintain, you see,” he added, with a twinkle, and a glance cast down his noble bulk.

Miss Grayson cut in on Miss Merriot’s laugh. “Food!” she ejaculated scornfully, and tapped an impatient foot. Sir Anthony paid no heed. “Well, Tony, you are come nigh on a hundred miles to rescue me, as I suppose, and now have you nothing at all to say but that you have missed your dinner?”

“That thought has been absorbing me for the last twenty miles,” said Sir Anthony imperturbably.

“And me in peril!” cried the affronted Miss Grayson.

Sir Anthony raised his eyes from the chicken and looked coolly across at her. “Oh, were you in peril?” he inquired. “I came merely to put an end to an indiscretion, as I thought.”

“Peril! At the hands of such a Monster!” Miss Grayson was indignant. “I wonder, sir, that you need ask.”

Sir Anthony poured wine for himself and Mr Merriot. “My dear Letty,” said he, “you have so frequently assured us that Mr Markham is a model of all the virtues that I did you the honour to respect your judgment.”

Miss Grayson turned scarlet, and looked as though she were about to cry. “You didn’t, Tony! You are just being — disagreeable. And he’s not a model of virtue! He is an odious brute, and — and so are you!”

“Tut, child, the gentleman’s hungry, and will be the better for his chicken,” said Mr Merriot.

“I am not a child!” flashed Miss Grayson, and was off in a swirl of skirts to Miss Merriot’s side. From the shelter of Miss Merriot’s arm she hurled a tearful defiance. “And I would sooner go to Gretna with that Monster than marry you, Sir Tony!”

Sir Anthony remained unmoved. “My dear Letty, if this piece of absurdity was to escape my attentions, believe me it was not in the least necessary. So far as I am aware I have never asked you to marry me. Nor have I the smallest intention of so doing.”

This pronouncement brought Miss Grayson’s head up from Kate’s shoulder. In round-eyed astonishment she gazed at Sir Anthony, busily engaged with the wing of a chicken.

“I have to suppose,” said Miss Merriot sharply, “that the gentleman is an original.”

Mr Merriot turned away to hide a laughing face. “These family arrangements — !” he said.

“But — but Papa says — ” began Miss Grayson. “Why, Tony, don’t you want to marry me?”

“I do not,” said Sir Anthony.

Miss Grayson blinked, but she did not seem to be offended. “Why don’t you?” she asked with naive curiosity.

At that Sir Anthony looked up, and there was a twinkle in his eyes. “I suppose, Letty, because my taste is at fault.”

“Well!” Miss Grayson digested this in silence. She disengaged herself from Kate’s arm, and went slowly to the table. Sir Anthony rose at her approach, and received one little hand in his large one. “Tony, will you tell Papa?” she asked.

“I have told him, my dear.”

“How did he take it?” asked Miss Grayson anxiously.

“Philosophically, child.”

“I am so glad!” said Miss Grayson, with a relieved sigh. “If you don’t want to marry me, Tony, I can go home with a quiet mind. And I can even forgive you for being so disagreeable.”

“And I,” said Sir Anthony, “can finish my dinner.”

Chapter 3

My Lady Lowestoft

Miss Merriot called “Come in!” to a scratching on the door. Came Mr Merriot into the big bedroom, and walked across to the fireplace where Kate stood. Mr Merriot cocked an eyebrow at Kate, and said — “Well, my dear, and did you kiss her good-night?”

Miss Merriot kicked off her shoes, and replied in kind. “What, are you parted from the large gentleman already?”

Mr Merriot looked into the fire, and a slow smile came, and the suspicion of a blush.

“Lord, child!” said Miss Merriot. “Are you for the mammoth? It’s a most respectable gentleman, my dear.”

Mr Merriot raised his eyes. “I believe I would not choose to cross him,” he remarked inconsequently. “But I would trust him.”

Miss Merriot began to laugh. “Be a man, my Peter, I implore you.”

“Alack!” sighed Mr Merriot, “I feel all a woman.”

“Oh Prue, my Prue, it’s a Whig with a sober mind! Will you take it to husband?”

“I suppose you will be merry, Robin. Do you imagine me in love on two hours’ acquaintance? Ah, you’re jealous of the gentleman’s inches. Said I not so?”

“My inches, child, stand me in good stead. I believe it’s the small men have the wits. My compliments on the sword-play.”

“At least the old gentleman taught me a trick or two worth the knowing,” placidly said the lady, and pulled up her coat sleeve to show a stained shirt. “The last glass went down my arm,” she said, smiling.

Her brother nodded. “Well, here’s been work enough for an evening,” he remarked. “I await the morrow. Give you good-night, child, and pray dream of your mammoth.”

“In truth I need a mammoth to match me,” said Madam Prudence. “Pray dream of your midget, Robin.”

She went away humming a snatch of an old song. It was apparent to her that her brother frowned upon the morrow, but she had a certain placidity that went well with her inches, and looked upon her world with calm untroubled eyes.

The truth was she was too well used to a precarious position to be easily disturbed, and certainly too used to an exchange of personality with Robin to boggle over her present situation. She had faith in her own wits: these failing her she had a rueful dependence on the ingenuity of her sire. Impossible to tread the paths of his cutting without developing an admiration for the gentleman’s guile. Prudence regarded him with affection, but some irony. She admitted his incomprehensibility with a laugh, but it did not disturb her. She danced to his piping, but it is believed she lacked the adventurous spirit. Now Robin might fume at the mystery with which the father chose to wrap himself about, but Robin enjoyed a chequered career, and had an impish dare-devilry that led him into more scrapes than the old gentleman devised. Withal he surveyed the world with a seriousness that Prudence lacked. He had enthusiasms, and saw life as something more than the amusing pageant Prudence thought it.

It seemed he had taken this last, unlucky venture to heart. To be sure, he had had a closer view of it than his sister. She supposed it was his temperament made him enthusiastic for a venture entered into in a spirit of adventure only, and at the father’s bidding. She remembered he had wept after Culloden, with his head in her lap at the old house in Perth — wept in a passion of fury and heartbreak, and dashed away the tears with an oath, and a vow that he hated lost causes. To Prudence it was a matter of indifference whether Stewart Charles or German George sat the throne; she suspected her sire of a like indifference, discounting heroics. They were swept into this rebellion for — God knew what cause; they were entangled in its meshes before they knew it. That was Mr Colney’s way. He made a fine speech, and it seemed they were all Jacobites. A year before they were entirely French, at Florence; before that there was a certain gaming house at Frankfort, whose proprietor of a sudden swept off his son and daughter to dip fingers in a pie of M. de Saxe’s making.

French, German, Jacobite — it was all one to Prudence. But this England was different. She conceived a fondness for it, and found it homelike. Doubtless it was the mother in her, that big, beautiful, smiling creature who had died at Dieppe when Robin was a child.

She remarked on it to Robin next morning, before their departure for London.

Robin laughed at her; he was busy with the painting of his face. “Lord, my dear, you’re the very picture of English solidity,” he said. “Do you ride with the mountain?”

“So I believe,” said Miss Prudence. Her eye fell on John, packing away Master Robin’s razors. “La, child, have you shaved? And you with not a hair to your chin!”

This drew a grim smile from the servant. “You’d best have a care, the pair of you,” he said. “We’re off to put our heads in a noose. The gentleman with the sleepy eyes sees things, I’ll warrant you.”

“What, do you shy away from the mountain?” Robin said. “I might engage to run in circles round it.”

The man looked upon his young master with rough affection. “Ay, you’re a cunning one, Master Robin, but the big gentleman’s awake for all you think him so dull.”

Prudence sat saddle-wise across a chair, and leaned her arms on the back of it. Chin in hand she regarded John, and said lazily: “Where’s the old gentleman, John?”

There was no expression in the stolid face. “I’ve lived with him more years than you, Miss Prue, and I don’t take it upon myself to answer that.”

“How long have you lived with him, John?”

“Since before you were born, mistress.”

Robin put down the hare’s foot, and got up. “Ay, you’re devilish close, a’n’t you, John? Maybe you know what he’ll be at now?”

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t,” was all the answer vouchsafed him. “What’s to be your ladyship’s dress today?”

Robin came down to the coffee-room twenty minutes later in a dimity gown and pink ribands. The hood was cast aside in favour of a straw hat with rosettes, and more ribands, but Prudence, very sober in fawn breeches, and a coat of claret-coloured cloth, carried a fine mantle over her arm, which was presently put about Madam Robin’s shoulders.

Miss Letty was agog to be off. They set forward in good time, Robin and the lady seated demurely in the chaise, with the seeming Mr Merriot and Sir Anthony riding a little way behind, for escort.

There were questions, of course: Prudence was prepared for them and knew no faltering. She spoke of a home in Cumberland — it seemed remote enough — and of the Grand Tour. Sir Anthony had made it: that went without saying. They conversed of foreign towns amicably and safely. Prudence displayed a remarkable knowledge of places; indeed she had the greater part of Europe in her memory, as it were, and an intimate acquaintance with haunts unfrequented by the fairer sex. Once she saw the straight brows rise, and tranquilly awaited developments.

“You’ve seen a vast deal for your years, Master Peter,” said Sir Anthony.

“They number twenty, sir,” she replied. If the truth be told they numbered twenty-six, but she looked a stripling, she knew. “But I lived abroad with my parents some years before my mother’s death. She could not support the English climate.”

Sir Anthony bowed politely, and desired to know where Mr Merriot might be found in London.

“My sister is to visit my Lady Lowestoft, sir,” Prudence answered. “I am her escort, and I believe her ladyship will give me a lodging. Perhaps you are acquainted with her?”

“Faith, all the world knows Lady Lowestoft,” said Sir Anthony. “If she denies you, or you grow tired of the petticoats, my dear boy, you may command a lodging with me at any time.”

Prudence flushed in sudden surprise, and looked sideways at the gentleman. This was unexpected; it seemed Sir Anthony was developing a kindness for her. She thanked him gravely, and learned that he owned a house in Clarges Street.

They came to London in the dusk. Prudence sat straight enough in the saddle, but she owned privately to fatigue. It was necessary to restore Miss Letty first to her father, where also they left Sir Anthony. The lateness of the hour was pleaded as an excuse for not entering the house with Miss Letty, but Miss Merriot promised to wait upon her as soon as might be. The chaise drove on to Arlington Street, and drew up at my Lady Lowestoft’s door.

Prudence came down out of the saddle with a sigh of relief. Robin touched her shoulder. “Bravely done, child. Journey’s end now.”

“A halt,” Prudence amended. “No doubt we’ll ha’ done with our travels when we get to heaven.”

My lady’s black page it was that ushered them into my lady’s withdrawing room. This was a spacious apartment, resplendent with gilt and yellow brocade. My lady, it seemed, had a taste for the new French furniture. The page went away to carry Mr and Miss Merriot’s names to his mistress, and Miss Prudence looked round with a comical grimace. “Faith, it seems my Lady Lowestoft is the same Thérèse de Bruton,” she remarked.

The door was opened, and swiftly shut again behind a lady who came in with a swirl of a silk gown over an enormous hoop — a lady with black eyes like slits in a thin, vivid face, a powdered wig, and many jewels. She stood with her back to the door, her hand still on the knob, and as she looked sharply from one to the other of her visitors the narrow black eyes narrowed still more, and her face was all alive with laughter. “Eh, but which is the man of you, my little ones?” she demanded.

Prudence made her bow. “So please you, madam.”

My lady came to her with quick jerky steps. “Never! Do I not know thee, my cabbage? Eh, Prue, my dear!” She cast her arms about Prue’s large person, and kissed her on both cheeks. Robin fared the same, but returned the caress with greater alacrity than his flushing sister. Prudence had never a taste for stray kisses.

“And the bon papa, my children?” cried my lady, holding a hand of each.

“There, madam, we suppose you to have the advantage of us,” Robin said.

She looked a query, with her head tilted birdlike to one side. “Ah? What’s this? You have no news of him?”

“In truth, madam, we’ve mislaid the old gentleman,” Prudence said. “Or he us.”

My lady burst out laughing again. “I would you had brought him! But that was not to be expected. Yes, he wrote to me. I will tell you — ah, but you are tired! You must sit down. Take the couch, Miss Merriot — tiens, that is not a name for my stupid tongue!  — Prue, my angel, some chocolate, yes? Marthe shall make it herself: you remember Marthe, no?”

“Egad, is it the same fat Marthe,” Robin said. “I drank her chocolate in Paris, ten years ago!”

“The same, my cabbage, but fatter — oh, of an enormity! you would not believe! To think you should remember, and you a little gamin — not more than fourteen years, no? But the wickedness even then! And again in Rome, not?”

“Oh, but it was my Lady Lowestoft, then, at the Legation. We — what were we? Sure, it must have been the Polish gentleman and his two sons. There had been some little fracas at Munich, as I remember.”

This made my lady laugh again. She was off to the door, and sent her page running with orders to Marthe.

“So the old gentleman wrote to you, madam?” Prudence said. “Did he say he would send us?”

“Say? Robert? Mon Dieu, when did he in all his life say what one might so easily comprehend? Be sure it was all a mystery, and no names writ down.”

Prudence chuckled. “Egad, we may be sure of that. But you knew?”

“ A vrai dire. I might guess — since I too know Robert. Ah, he might count on me, he knew well! It is this rebellion, not?” She sank her voice a little, and her bright eyes were keen as needles.

Robin put a finger to his lips. “To be frank, ma’am, I believe I’m under attainder.”

Her very red lips formed an O, and she wrinkled up her nose. “Chut, chut! He must then put your head in a noose too?”

“Why, madam, to say sooth we were not loth. Prudence lay snug enough at Perth.”

My lady beamed upon Prudence. “I had thought you in the thick of the fight, my child. It is well. But since it ended, where have you been? Voyons, it is many months since it is over, and you are but just come to me!”

There came that bitter look of brooding into Robin’s eyes. It was Prudence who made answer. “Robin was fled to the hills, my lady. I waited snug enough, as he says.”

“To the hills?” My lady leaned a little forward. “With the Prince, no?”

Robin made an impatient movement. The cloud did not lift from his brow. “Some of the time.”

“We heard rumours that he had gone. It is true?”

“He’s safe — in France,” Robin said curtly.

“The poor young man! And the bon papa? Whither went he?”

“Lud, madam, do you ask us that?” laughed Prudence. “In France, maybe, or maybe in Scotland still. Who knows?”

The door opened, and the page let in fat Marthe, a tray in her hands. It was a very colossus of a woman, of startling girth, and with a smile that seemed to spread all over the full moon of her face. Like her mistress, from one to the other she looked, and was of a sudden smitten with laughter that shook all her frame like a jelly. The tray was set down; she clasped her hands and gasped: “Oh, la-la! To see the little monsieur habillé en dame!”

Robin sailed up to her and swept a practised curtsey.

“Your memory fails you, Marthe. Behold me — Prudence!”

She gave his arm a playful slap. “My memory, alors! No, no, m’sieur, you are not yet large enough to be mademoiselle.”

“Oh, unkind!” Robin lamented, and kissed her roundly.

“Marthe, there is need of secrecy, you understand?” My lady spoke urgently.

“Bien, madame; I do not forget.” Marthe put a finger to her lips. “ Tenez, it must be myself to wait always upon the false mademoiselle. I shall see to it.” She nodded in a business-like fashion. “John is with you yet?”

“Be very sure of it,” Robin said.

“All goes well, then. No one need suspect. I go to attend to the bedchambers.” She went off with a rolling gait, and was found later in Robin’s room, twitting the solemn manservant.

Chapter 4

Mistress Prudence to Herself

From my Lady Lowestoft much might be learned of Society and Politics. She moved in the Polite World, and made something of a figure in it, for she had sufficient wealth, some charm, and a vivacity of manner that was foreign and therefore intriguing. There sat withal a shrewd head on her shoulders.

She was a widow of no very late date; indeed she had interred Sir Roger Lowestoft with all decency little more than a year back, and having for a space mourned him with suitable propriety she had now launched upon a single life again, which promised to be very much more entertaining than had been the married state. It must be admitted Sir Roger was little loss to his lady. She had been heard to say that his English respectability gave her a cramp in the soul. Certainly she had been a volatile creature in the days of her spinsterhood. Then came Sir Roger, and laid his sober person, and all his substantial goods at her feet. She picked them up.

“I am no longer so young as I was, voyez vous,” she had said to her friends. “The time comes for me to range myself.”

Accordingly she married Sir Roger, and as an Ambassador’s lady she conducted herself admirably, and achieved popularity.

She was ensconced now in her house in Arlington Street, with fat Marthe to watch over her, a monkey to sit in the folds of her skirts, as Fashion prescribed, and a black page to run her errands. She entertained on the lavish scale, her acquaintances were many, and she had beside quite a small host of admirers.

“You understand, these English consider me in the light of an original,” she exclaimed to Prudence. “I have an instant success, parole d’honneur!”

She was off without awaiting the reply, on to another subject. Conversationally she fluttered like a butterfly, here, there, and everywhere. She had much to say of the late executions: there were upflung hands of horror, and some pungent exclamations in the French tongue. She spoke of his Grace of Cumberland, not flatteringly; she had a quick ripple of laughter for his ugly nickname, and the instant after a brimming pair of eyes when she thought how he had earned it. Blood! England must needs reek of it! She gave a shudder. But there must be no more executions: that was decided: no, nor risings either. All that was folly; folly the most outrageous. Peste, how came the Merriots in so forlorn a galère?..

They sat alone at the dinner-table; the lackeys had withdrawn, and even the little black page had been sent away. Prudence answered my lady, since Robin sat silent. “Oh, believe me, ma’am, we ask ourselves! The old gentleman had a maggot in his brain belike. A beau geste, I am persuaded; nothing else.”

“But stupid, my child, stupid! There was never a hope. Moreover, we do very well with little fierce George. Bah, why plunge all in disorder for a pretty princeling?”

“He had the right.” Robin spoke sombrely.

“Quant à ça, I know nothing of the matter, my little one. You English, you chose for yourselves a foreigner. Bien! But you must not turn against him now. No, no, that is not reasonable.”

“By your leave, ma’am, not all chose him.”

She flashed a look at him. “Eh, so he had you under his spell, the bonnie prince? But you — no, my cabbage, you are no Jacobite at heart. A spell, no more.”

“Oh, I am nothing at all, ma’am, rest you content. I meddle no more in the affairs of princes.”

“That is wise,” she approved. “This time you escape. Another time — who knows?”

He laughed irresponsibly. “As to that, my lady, I don’t count myself safe as yet.”

His sister’s serenity was ruffled momentarily. She looked with some anxiety towards my lady, who bent towards her swiftly, and patted her hand.

“Ah, no more of that! Au fond, you do not like to see blood flow, you English. It is thought there has been blood enough: the tide turns. Lie close, and all blows over. I am certain of it — moi qui te parle!”

Robin made a face at his sister. “The creature must needs play the mother to me, madam.”

“Madam, behold my little mentor!” Prudence retorted. “Give you my word I have my scoldings from him, and not the old gentleman. ’Tis a waspish tongue, egad.”

Talk ran a while then on the vagaries of Mr Colney. My lady must needs speculate upon his whereabouts; his dutiful children could not permit themselves to indulge in the optimism of hazarding a guess. Sufficient for them that he had named London as a meeting-place: wherefore behold them here, in all obedience.

My lady professed alarm; Prudence cracked a nut. My lady was urgent to know the nature of Mr Colney’s business in the late rebellion; her queries were met by a humorous quirk of the eyebrow, and a half shrug of the shoulder. Eh bien then, might he with safety show himself in town? Had he not, in effect, been conspicuous up there in the North?

It was Robin who said with a laugh — “Lud, ma’am, and did you ever know him when he was not conspicuous? It has been dark intrigue for him, here and there — a go-between, as I take it. What does one know of him? Nothing! But I’d wager my last guinea he has his tracks well covered.”

My lady reflected on the likelihood of this, but it was evident that she continued to feel some trepidation at the thought of ce cher Robert coming to London, which was, in fact, the lion’s den.

Prudence smiled. “My lady, he has very often informed us that I contrive might well stand for his motto, and, faith, I believe him.”

“I contrive,” mused my lady. “Yes, that is Robert. But it is the motto of the Tremaines.”

“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.”

“My dear, he does not see a yard before his own nose, that one,” my lady assured her. “Fear nothing from him. You will meet him at my rout tomorrow. All the world comes.”

There was no more talk then of Sir Anthony, but he came again into Prudence’s mind that night when she made ready to go to bed. She came out of her coat — not without difficulty, for it was of excellent tailoring, and fitted tightly across her shoulders — and stood for a while before the long mirror, seriously surveying herself. A fine straight figure she made: there could be no gainsaying it, but she found herself wondering what Sir Anthony, of the lazy speech and sleepy eyelids, would make of it. She doubted there might be too great a love of the respectable in the gentleman. She placed her hands on her slim hips, and looked, without seeing, into the grey eyes in the mirror. Sir Anthony refused to be banished from her mind.

Respectable! Ay, there was the sneering epithet of a vagabond for an honourable gentleman. It was tiresome of the man, but there was that in his face inspired one with trust, and a disinclination to simulate. One could not imagine the large gentleman descending to trickery and a masquerade. So much the worse for him, then, if he found himself ever in a dangerous corner. One might give the masquerade an ugly-sounding name: call it Deceit; no good ring to that. Or call it the pitting of one’s wits against the world’s; that had a better smack.

The fine mouth showed a tendency to curl scornfully. One’s wit against the world was well enough; one’s wit against a single fellow creature, not so good. The one was after all a perilous losing game, with all to risk; the other savoured a little of the common imposter. Sir Anthony would be friendly; unpleasant to think that one could show but a false front.

She caught herself up on the thought, turned away from the mirror, and began to untie the lace at her throat. Egad, she was in danger of turning sentimental because a large gentleman looked on her with kindness. A sentimental country, this England: it awoke in one a desire for security.

The neck-cloth was tossed on to the table, and a soft chuckle came. Ludicrous to think of security with Mr Colney for sire. She reflected ruefully that her father was somewhat of a rogue; disreputable even. A gaming house in Frankfort, forsooth! She had a smile for that memory. Hand to mouth days, those, with herself in boy’s clothes, as now. The old gentleman had judged it wisest, and when one remembered some of those who came to the gaming house one had to admit he had reason. A dice box in one pocket, and a pistol in the other, though! Proper training for a girl just coming out of her teens! A mad life, egad, but there had been much to recommend it. One had learned something, after all. Sure, only to live with the old gentleman was an education: one owed him a deal, but if one desired to enter into a life of security his very existence must prove a bar.

She perceived in her thoughts a tendency to edge round to the contemplation of Sir Anthony, and judged it time to have done. Dimly she could see difficulties ahead; characteristically she dismissed them with a fatalistic gesture. Time enough to ponder them when they presented themselves.

She pulled the heavy curtains back from the bed, and of habit slipped a little gold-mounted pistol beneath her pillow. She climbed into the big four-poster, and very soon lay lightly asleep. Not the dark future, nor Sir Anthony would be permitted to disturb Prudence’s repose, though fleetingly both might enter into her dreams. After all, one could not be mistress of one’s thoughts in sleep.

Chapter 5

Sir Humphrey Grayson Waits upon Mr Merriot

The morrow brought Sir Humphrey Grayson early in the forenoon to wait upon Mr Merriot. The message was brought Prudence in my Lady Lowestoft’s boudoir, where she sat in converse with her hostess. The exigencies of his toilet still kept Robin above stairs; his sister had left him to the lacing of his corsets, an operation conducted by John and accompanied by some of the young gentleman’s choicer oaths.

My lady, upon the news of Sir Humphrey’s call being brought, was all agog with curiosity. She had no notion the Merriots held other acquaintance than herself in town, and desired to be told how they were known to Sir Humphrey, who, to be sure, led something of the life of a recluse.

Prudence mentally consigned Sir Humphrey to perdition: it seemed he would be an added complication. The fewer people to know of Miss Letty’s escapade the better for that sprightly lady, but Prudence reflected that there were mysteries and secrets of her own enough to keep close without the addition of another’s. She evaded my lady’s questions. She claimed no acquaintance with Sir Humphrey, but believed Sir Anthony Fanshawe had solicited his kindness on her behalf. My lady was left to make what she could of this; Prudence went downstairs to the room looking out on to the street that was used for morning callers.

There arose at her entrance a tall thin gentleman with stooping shoulders and a limp. He wore the powdered wig of Fashion, but neglected to paint his face. The brown eyes, not unlike Miss Letty’s own, held some trouble. He had the look of a man prematurely aged by ill-health.

The gentleman bowed to Mr Merriot, leaning the while on his cane. Mr Merriot returned the bow and was swift to pull forward a chair for the visitor. “Sir Humphrey Grayson, I believe? Sir, you honour me. Will you not be seated?”

A certain grimness about Sir Humphrey’s mouth vanished as his glance took in Mr Merriot. The young gentleman had a great air of Fashion, but practised what Sir Humphrey had come to believe an old-fashioned courtesy towards the elder generation. He took the chair offered, with a passing reference to a gouty foot. There was a slight squaring of the bent shoulders: it was evident this elderly gentleman had little relish for his visit. “Mr Merriot, I believe you must know the reason of my being here,” he said bluntly. “Let me be plain with you. My daughter has put me in your debt.”

A stiff-backed old man; one must perforce pity the hurt to his pride. Prudence made swift answer. “Why, sir, I protest, there is no need for such talk! Do me the favour of letting a very trifling service be forgot!”

There were further signs of thaw. “Bear with me, Mr Merriot. You must do me the honour of accepting my very heartfelt thanks for your rescue of my daughter.”

“Why, sir, there is nothing to all this. My part was played but a bare half-hour before Sir Anthony came upon us. He would have settled the business as quickly had I let be. Pray let us not speak of it! I am happy to have been of service to Miss Grayson. Or thank my sister, sir, whose quicker wits devised the little plot.”

Sir Humphrey permitted himself to smile, and to incline his head. “I do indeed desire to render my thanks to Miss Merriot. My foolish daughter can talk of naught else but that same plot. At least allow me to compliment you on a tricksy piece of sword-play.”

Prudence gave her rich chuckle. “An old ruse, sir, but useful. I trust Miss Grayson finds herself none the worse for her adventure?”

“Rest assured, sir, my daughter is incorrigible.” But a reluctant smile went with the words.

“Why, sir, it’s a child, after all, with a child’s desire for a romantic venture.”

“It might have led to a most damaging scandal, Mr Merriot.”

Prudence discerned some anxiety in Sir Humphrey’s eye, and made haste to reassure. “All fear of that must be at an end with you sir; of that I am certain. None save Sir Anthony and ourselves can know aught of the matter.”

There was again a bow. “My daughter should count herself fortunate in meeting so discreet a friend in her trouble,” said Sir Humphrey.

This punctilious grandeur became oppressive. Prudence conceived the happy thought of sending a message up to Robin. Sir Humphrey professed himself all desire to lay his compliments before Miss Merriot. Black Pompey was sent running to Robin’s chamber, and in a little while Robin came, all powdered and patched and scented; a fair vision in pale blue taffeta. No girl, Prudence thought, could appear lovelier.

There was a curtsey, a few gliding steps towards Sir Humphrey, and a delicate hand held out. Sir Humphrey bowed low over it, and a faint crease crept between Prudence’s brows. It seemed to her unseemly that the old courtier should kiss her graceless brother’s hand. She met Robin’s dancing eyes of mischief with a look of some reproof. Robin sank into a chair with a billow of stiff silks. “Sir Humphrey, this is too kind in you, I protest! Miss Letty spoke of your love of seclusion. There was no need for this visit. No, no, sir, you shall not thank me for the other night’s work!” A fan was spread, but a laughing pair of eyes showed above it. “Spare my blushes, sir! Conceive me fainting in the arms of the Markham! Oh lud!”

Prudence might retire into the background; Robin had the situation well in hand. She sat down on the window seat, and was at leisure to admire her brother’s adroitness. For some reason he seemed bent upon the captivation of Sir Humphrey. Prudence could guess the reason. Faith, more complications brewing. But it was unseemly again that Robin should ogle so elderly a gentleman. Lord, what a clever tongue the child had!

Indeed, talk ran merrily between the two in the middle of the room. Robin seemed to have the knack of inducing a stiff-necked sire to unbend. Within ten minutes he might count Sir Humphrey very much his friend, and dare even to touch lightly on the subject of Miss Letitia’s indiscretion. There came no rebuff: only a word or two sufficient to show the worried state of Sir Humphrey’s mind.

Robin put by the fan of painted chicken-skin. With a pretty air of coaxing and of deference he cooed softly: “An impertinence in me to speak of the matter at all, dear Sir Humphrey. Forgive me!” He was assured of Sir Humphrey’s forgiveness, nay, more, of his attention. “Well, well!” Madam Kate smiled confidentially upon him. “I own to some few years more than the child can boast, I believe. Perhaps I may whisper a word or two.”

Sir Humphrey begged the favour of Miss Merriot’s advice. Prudence, by the window, was forgot. There was no doing anything; she could but sit by while Robin became as outrageous as the fit prompted him. Lud, but they were plunging deeper and deeper into the morass!

Robin was dropping dulcet words of advice into a father’s ear. Let him not coop Miss Letty up so close; sure, it was a high-spirited child only in need of a little amusement. Too young?  — Oh, fie, never think it! Take her out into the world; let her make her curtsey to Society. By no means take her back to Gloucestershire; that were fatal. So it went on, somewhat to Prudence’s amusement. Robin had a mind to pursue the acquaintance, then? Snared by a pair of pansy-brown eyes, ecod!

The amusement fled before the next words. Sir Humphrey made bold to solicit Miss Merriot’s kindness for his daughter. His sister was, perhaps, not an enlivening companion for so frivolous a child as his Letitia. He should think himself more than ever in her debt if Miss Merriot would take Letty a little under her wing.

“Now how to escape that?” thought Prudence.

But it seemed that Robin had no desire to escape the imposition. There were professions of the utmost willingness; he pledged himself to wait upon Miss Grayson the very next day.

“The rogue!” thought Prudence, and said it aloud as soon as Sir Humphrey had taken his ceremonious leave of them.

Robin laughed, and dropped a mock curtsey. Surely the devil was in the boy today.

“Lord, child, let us be serious. What are you pledged to now?”

“To be a friend to the little dark beauty. I’m all alacrity.”

“It’s evident.” His sister spoke dryly. “I believe it won’t serve, Robin.”

Robin raised one mobile eyebrow. “What’s this? You’ve nervous qualms, my Peter? Faith, I thought there were no nerves in you. I stand in no danger of discovery that I can see.”

“None, child. You’re incomparable,” Prudence said frankly. “You’ve more female graces than ever I could lay claim to, even in my rightful petticoats. I believe my sense of propriety is offended.”

Came a flash into the blue eyes, and a head thrown up a little. “Oh, do you doubt me? Merci du compliment!”

Prudence was unmoved. “Ay, that’s the old gentleman in you. It’s a fine gesture.”

The chin came down; the mouth tightened a moment, then relaxed into a laugh. “You’d enrage a saint, Prue. Well, let us have it.”

Memories of the night’s reflections chased one another across Prudence’s mind. “It’s trickery. You become an impostor.”

“I became one when I entered first into these damned uncomfortable clothes, child. Are you answered?”

Impossible to put those hazy ideas into verbal form. “I suppose so,” said Prudence slowly. “Do you know, I begin to dislike myself?”

Robin looked at her, then put an arm about her waist. “Well, say the word. I’ll take you to France, and we’ll ha’ done with all this.”

“You’re a dear, Robin. No, I chose this road, and we’ll stay.”

“I’ve a notion it may lead to some end. Play it out, my dear. Trickery it is, but we harm none.” Prudence looked sceptical. “Oh, you are thinking of the Grayson child! Never doubt me.”

“I don’t doubt you. But she thinks you are a woman, and there are things she may say you should not be hearing.”

“Do you think I cannot stop her? ’Tis I shall lead the talk. Be at rest, Prue.”

“And if she discovers the truth?”

“I don’t fear that.”

There seemed no more to be said. “We brave it to the end, then. Well, I’m content.”

Chapter 6

The Polite World Receives Mr and Miss Merriot

My Lady Lowestoft made no idle boast when she declared that all the world might be seen at her rout that evening. The world, as she knew it, was the Polite Society of the day; and Polite Society chose to venerate her ladyship. She had the felicity of seeing her salons filled to overflowing. Downstairs there were refreshments laid out in the dining-room; angel cakes, and ratafie; strange French concoctions and some of the late Sir Roger’s best Burgundy; sweetmeats of every known variety and French champagne, sparkling in the glasses, to go with them. There was a card room also, spacious enough to hold some few tables with comfort. Those who wished might escape from the chatter and the scraping of the fiddles in the saloons above, to seek a little quiet diversion here with a dice-box. My lady was fond of all games of chance herself, but her duties as hostess kept her tonight in the main rooms, where people came and went, gathered into knots for conversation, separated again to greet a new arrival, or lent an indulgent ear to the fiddlers scraping away at the back of the room.

Robin, in his character of Miss Merriot, was kept near my lady. He had chosen to array himself in shades of rose pink. A necklace lay on the white skin of his chest, and a bracelet enclasped one rather sinewy arm. If there could be found aught whereat to cavil in his appearance it must be those arms. They lacked the dimpled roundness necessary for beauty. Elsewhere no fault could be detected. The fair hair was piled up on top of his head, lavishly powdered, and decorated with a jewelled ornament; the face below was pink and white as any girl’s, with blue eyes dreamy under delicately pencilled brows, and a nose many a reigning toast mighty envy. A black riband round the throat served to emphasise the creamy whiteness of the skin; the waist, thanks to John’s lacing, was trim enough, and the foot peeping from beneath the hem of a flowered petticoat sufficiently small to escape notice. Maybe it was fashioned on the large size for so dainty a lady, but a high heel disguised a possible fault.

There could be no fault found either in his deportment. Standing a little back from the crowd, Prudence watched him with a critical eye. He had several times before donned this woman’s garb, but never for so long a stretch. She had coached him to the best of her ability, but well as she knew him could still fear some slip. She had to admit knowledge of him was deficient yet. Sure, he might have been born to it. His curtseys were masterpieces of grace; the air with which he held out a hand to young gallants so consummate a piece of artistry that Prudence was shaken with silent laughter. He seemed to know by instinct how to flirt his fan, and how to spread his wide skirts for the curtsey. Apparently he might be left safely to his own devices. His sister withdrew her gaze from him, reflecting that she would give much to hear what he was saying to the beautiful Miss Gunning standing beside him. If the spirit of mischief did not carry him away there was naught to be feared in his bearing. Prudence turned away, and came upon my Lady Lowestoft, in gay talk with Mr Walpole, who, since he lived so close, was naturally a late comer.

My lady manoeuvred the elegant Mr Walpole away from Prudence’s vicinity, and disposed of him at length to his dear friend Gilly Williams, who, with Mr Selwyn, seemingly but half awake, stood talking by the fire.

My lady came rustling back to the door, for there were guests still ascending the stairs. To Prudence, under her breath, she said: “I take him away, so! Of an inquisitive disposition, my cabbage! You would not believe! I feared he might pry too close... Ah, madame!” She curtseyed to a new arrival, and, a moment later, was exchanging witticisms with my Lord March, that saturnine peer.

A gentleman but lately introduced to Prudence suggested a hand at picquet. She looked calmly at this gentleman and professed herself all readiness. It took her no more than a minute to reach the conclusion that she was to be a lamb for the fleecing. Well, the gentleman should see.

There were several men in the card room, some few dicing, some talking idly beside, and one party engaged in a hand of lansquenet. Prudence sat down with Sir Francis Jollyot at a table away from the door, and assented placidly to his proposed stakes. They seemed large, but she had played for larger, and was in no wise perturbed.

“’Tis a game I’m devilish partial to,” Sir Francis observed. “You play it much, eh?”

“A little, sir,” Prudence said and displayed hesitation over the question of her discard. Across the table Sir Francis smiled in infinite good humour. He had played with young gentlemen from the country before, and foresaw a profitable evening. When the game was over he condoled with Mr Merriot on his ill-fortune, and proposed a fresh one. Prudence accepted most cordially. She perceived a greater skill at picquet in herself than in her smiling opponent. Played carefully this game of turning the tables on the wolf would be amusing. With no less hesitation in her demeanour, but with much less folly in her discards, she won the game. She was complimented on the cards she had held, and embarked upon the third encounter.

“A reverse!” commented Sir Francis gaily. “I hardly thought you would keep a guard to that Queen in the last hand, throwing the King of Hearts.”

The crease showed between Prudence’s brows. “Did I throw my King? You played out your cards so fast, you see, I scarcely...” She left the end of her sentence to be understood. Sir Francis thought that he did understand, and sorted his hand with a smile ill concealed.

There came a fresh arrival into the room, and paused a while in the open doorway. This gentleman was very large, with wide shoulders under a coat of maroon velvet, and a strong, handsome face. Under heavy lids his eyes fell on Prudence and rested there.

“Why, Fanshawe! I had thought you were out of town. Someone told me you had gone down to Wych End.” Mr Troubridge, standing nearby, stepped closer to Sir Anthony, and offered his snuff-box. “What are you looking at? Oh, my Lady Lowestoft’s protégé! By name Merriot, and seemingly a pleasant youth. That face should captivate the ladies.”

“It should,” Sir Anthony replied. “Jollyot wastes no time, I see.”

Mr Troubridge laughed. It was after all, no concern of his. “Oh, trust Jollyot! By the way, young Apollo has a prodigious fine sister. Have you seen her? One of your fair beauties. She’s above stairs in the withdrawing room.”

“I’ve been presented.” Still Sir Anthony’s eyes dwelt on the unconscious Prudence. “Up from the country, are they? Now, neither has the look of it. Our young gentleman yonder” — very slightly he indicated Prudence with a movement of his quizzing-glass — “has all the air of a town beau.”

“Very modish, to be sure. He’ll have need of keen town wits if he plays with Jollyot.” Mr Troubridge smiled a little, and looked towards the picquet table.

Prudence sat sideways at it, an arm laid along it, and one shapely leg stretched out before her. She wore a coat of dull gold brocade, with the skirts very full and stiffly whaleboned, and the great cuffs turned back to the elbow. There was much foaming lace at throat and wrists, and a jewelled buckle was placed above the black riband that confined her powdered locks in the nape of her neck. She was looking at the cards held in one hand, her face expressionless. There was a patch set at the corner of the firm mouth, and one high up on the cheek-bone. Her other hand, with a glowing ring on it, lay lightly on the arm of her chair. As though conscious of the gaze upon her, she looked up suddenly, straight at Sir Anthony. A tinge of colour rose in her cheeks; involuntarily she smiled.

“Oh, do you know him?” asked Troubridge, surprised.

“We were introduced above stairs,” Sir Anthony answered, with a fine disregard for the truth, and went across the room to Prudence’s side. “Well met, my dear boy.” His hand pressed on Prudence’s shoulder to prevent her rising. “No, do not permit me to interrupt.”

At the sound of that lazy, pleasant voice a faint frown crossed Sir Francis’ face. He acknowledged Sir Anthony’s greeting only by a curt nod, and declared a point of five.

Sir Anthony stood still behind Prudence’s chair, and in silence watched the play through his eye-glass. The stakes had been raised at each new game; at the end of this one Sir Francis was most strangely a heavy loser. Either the young sprig from the country had played the game a-many times before, or else the Providence who guides the hands of novices had exerted herself most prodigiously on Mr Merriot’s behalf. Sir Francis was disinclined to believe Mr Merriot an adept: he had not the manner of it.

Sir Anthony moved at last, and spoke before Jollyot could suggest yet a fourth game, “Will you take a hand with me, Merriot?”

“I should be pleased, sir,” Prudence swept the little pile of guineas to one side.

There was nothing for Sir Francis to do but to go elsewhere. He gave up his seat to Fanshawe, and trusted he might have an evening with Mr Merriot some time in the near future.

“Why, sir, I shall count myself fortunate,” said Prudence.

Sir Francis moved away to a group of men by the window. Prudence turned to find Sir Anthony shuffling the pack. “Will you name the stakes, sir?” she said.

“What you will,” Sir Anthony replied. “What were they with my friend, Jollyot?”

She told him indifferently enough.

“Do you make it a rule to play for so large a sum?” blandly inquired Sir Anthony.

“I make it a rule, sir, to play for whatever sum my opponent suggests,” was the quick answer.

The heavy lids lifted for a moment, and she saw the grey eyes keen. “You must needs have faith in your skill, Mr Merriot.”

“In my luck I have, Sir Anthony.”

“I felicitate you. I will play you for the half of Jollyot’s stakes.”

“As you please, sir. Will you cut?”

It would not do to show a change of front now that the large gentleman had watched her at play with Sir Francis. Prudence fumbled a little at the cards, and displayed a beginner’s uncertainty. Sir Anthony seemed to be engrossed with his own hand, but as she hesitated once more over the five cards of her discard he glanced up, and drawled: “Oh, spare yourself the pains, my dear boy! I am no hawk.”

Prudence fenced cautiously; she was not quite sure what the gentleman would be at. “The pains of what, sir?”

“Of all this dissimulation,” said Sir Anthony, with a disarming smile. “I must suppose you were taught to play picquet in your cradle.”

Almost she gasped. It seemed as though John had reason when he said that large gentleman was awake for all his sleepiness. She laughed, and forbore to evade, judging her man with some shrewdness. “Nearly, sir, I confess. My father has a fondness for the game.”

“Has he indeed?” said Sir Anthony. “Now, what may have induced you to play the novice with my friend Jollyot, I wonder?”

“I have been about the world a little, Sir Anthony.”

“That I believe.” Leisurely Sir Anthony looked at the three cards that fell to his minor share. “It seems you lost no feathers in that bout.”

She laughed again. “Oh, I’m an ill pigeon for plucking, sir! I declare a point of five.”

“I concede it you, my fair youth.”

“A quarte may perhaps be good?”

“It depends, sir, on what heads it.”

“The King, Sir Anthony.”

“No good,” Sir Anthony said. “I hold a quarte to the Ace.”

“I am led to believe, sir, that three Kings won’t serve?”

“Quite right, my dear boy; they must give way to my three Aces.”

This was all in the grand manner. Prudence chuckled. “Oh, I’ve done then! My lead, and I count six, sir.”

The hand was played. As the cards were gathered up Sir Anthony said: “I take it so shrewd a youth stands in no need of a friendly warning?”

Certainly the enigmatic gentleman was developing a kindness for her. “You’re very kind, sir. I do not know why you should be at this trouble for me.” It was spoken with some warmth of gratitude.

“Nor I,” said Fanshawe indolently. “But you are not — in spite of those twenty years — of a great age, and there are plenty of hawks in town.”

Prudence bowed. “I shall take that to heart, sir. I have to thank you.”

“Pray do not. Plucking pigeons has never been a favourite pastime of mine... Well, I concede your point, but I claim a quinte and fourteen Queens, besides three Kings. Alack for a spoiled repique! Five played, sir.”

The game came presently to an end. “Very even,” said Sir Anthony. “Do you care to honour me at a small card party I hold on Thursday evening?”

“Indeed, sir, mine will be the honour. On Thursday and in Clarges Street, I think?”

Sir Anthony nodded. He beckoned to a lackey standing near, and sent him to fetch wine. “You will drink a glass with me, Merriot?”

“Thank you, a little canary, sir.”

The wine was brought; one or two gentlemen had wandered towards the table, and stood now in converse there. Sir Anthony made Mr Merriot known to them. Prudence found herself pledged to ride out next morning in the Park with a chubby-faced young gentleman of a friendly disposition. This was the Honourable Charles Belfort, who combined a passion for dice with almost phenomenal ill-luck, but managed to remain cheerful under it.

“Well, Charles, what fortune?” Sir Anthony looked up in some amusement at the young profligate.

“The same as ever. It always is.” Belfort shook his head. “Bad, very bad, but I have a notion that my luck will turn tomorrow, at about eight o’clock.”

“Good Gad, Bel, why at eight?” demanded Mr Molyneux.

The Honourable Charles looked grave. “Angels told me so in a vision,” he said.

There was a shout of laughter.

“Nonsense, Charles, they were prophesying your entry into a spunging house!” This was my Lord Kestrel, leaning on the back of Fanshawe’s chair.

“You see how it is, sir” — Belfort addressed himself plaintively to Prudence.  — “They all laugh at me, even when I tell them of a visitation from heaven. Irreligious, damme, that’s what it is.”

There was a fresh outburst of mirth. Through it came Sir Anthony’s deep voice, full of friendly mockery. “You delude yourself, Charles: no angel would visit you unless by mischance. Doubtless a sign from the devil that he is about to claim his own.” He rose, and picked up his snuffbox. “Well, Merriot, I must do myself the pleasure of making my bow to your sister. Upstairs, when I was there, she was surrounded.”

“I’ll lead you to her, sir,” said Prudence readily. “At nine in the morning, Mr Belfort: I shall be with you.”

Sir Anthony went out on Mr Merriot’s arm. Halfway up the broad stairway he said: “It occurs to me you may be in need of a sponsor at White’s, my dear boy. You know you may command me. May I carry your name there?”

So she was to become a member of a club for gentlemen of quality? Egad, where would it all end? No help for it: the large gentleman overwhelmed one. She accepted gracefully, and then with a hesitancy not unpleasing in a young man looked up into the square face, and said diffidently — “I think you go to some trouble for me, Sir Anthony. From all I have heard I had not thought to find so much kindness in London.”

“There are any number would do the same, boy — my friend Jollyot, for instance. But you had better take me for sponsor.”

“I do, very gladly, sir.”

They came into the withdrawing room, where the crowd had dwindled somewhat. Robin was easily found, talking to an exquisite of advanced years. From the looks of it he was receiving some extravagant compliments. Prudence could not but applaud inwardly the pretty modesty of the downcast eye, and the face slightly averted.

Over his fan Robin saw them. He rid himself of his elderly admirer with some adroitness, and came rustling forward. “My dear, I vow I am nigh to swooning from fatigue!” he told Prudence. He swept a curtsey to Sir Anthony, and flashed him a dazzling smile. “Give you good even, sir. I saw you a while back, but there was such a press of people then!”

Sir Anthony’s lips just brushed Robin’s hand. “All gathered about Miss Merriot,” he said gallantly.

“What, with the beautiful Miss Gunning in the same room? Fie, sir, this is flattery! Peter, of your love for me, procure me a glass of negus.”

Prudence went away to execute this command; Robin sat down with Sir Anthony upon a couch. When Prudence returned with the wine it seemed as though a good understanding had been established between them. Robin looked up brightly. “Sir Anthony tells me he is to steal you from me on Thursday, my Peter. Thus are we poor sisters imposed upon!”

“I want also to sponsor your Peter at White’s, ma’am,” Sir Anthony said, smiling. “Thus still more are you imposed upon.”

“Oh, these clubs! This means I shall see nothing of the creature.” Miss Merriot put up her fan to hide her face from Sir Anthony, in feigned indignation. So, at least, it appeared, but behind the fan that mobile eyebrow flew up for Prudence’s benefit, and the blue eyes brimmed with laughter. It was done in a trice, and the fan shut again with a snap. “Your kindness to Peter is much greater than your consideration for his poor sister, sir!” she rallied Fanshawe.

“Why, as to that I offer my apologies, ma’am. I stand somewhat in both your debts.”

“Ah, let’s have done with that!” Prudence said quickly. “There is no debt that I know of.”

“Well, let us say that what you are pleased to call my kindness is naught but a seal to what I hope is a friendship.”

“I’m honoured to have it so, sir,” Prudence said, and felt the colour rise, to her annoyance.

The large gentleman had a mind to befriend her, and there was no help for it. And was one glad of it, or sorry? There was apparently no answer to the riddle.

Chapter 7

A Taste of a Large Gentleman’s Temper

The morning’s ride sowed promising seeds of a new friendship. The Honourable Charles had an engaging frankness; he kept no secrets from those admitted into the circle of his acquaintance, and it seemed probable that his life might be an open book for Prudence to read if she had a mind that way. With admirable dexterity she steered all talk into channels of her own choosing. She was certainly not squeamish, but half an hour spent in the company of the expansive Mr Belfort was enough to show that the greater part of his reminiscences was calculated to bring a blush to maiden cheeks. Prudence maintained an even complexion, and had sense enough to think none the worse of him for all his lurid confidences. Sure, they were not meant for a lady’s ears.

The ride at an end, it was Charles and Peter with them; they might have been blood brothers. Prudence acquiesced in it, but grimaced to herself when she reflected that it had been in her mind to lie close in London. Evidently this was not to be. But there was nothing to be feared from Mr Belfort: the disguise was deep enough to hoodwink a dozen such rattlepates.

She came back to Arlington Street to find Robin posturing above a bouquet of red roses. Robin achieved a simper. “Behold me, my Peter, in a maidenly flutter!”

Prudence put down her whip and gloves. “What’s this?”

“My elderly admirer!” said Robin in an ecstasy, and gave up a note. “Read, my little one!”

Prudence gave a chuckle over the amorous note. “Robin, you rogue!”

“I was made to be a breaker of hearts,” sighed Robin.

“Oh, this one was cracked many times before!”

Robin tilted his head a little; the merry devil looked out of his limpid blue eyes. “I’ve a mind to enthrall the mountain,” he said softly.

“You won’t do it. He’s more like to unmask you than to worship at your shameless feet,” Prudence answered.

“Oh? Here’s a change of front, by my faith! Unmask me, is it? Now why?”

“John was right. The gentleman’s wide awake for all we think him so dull.”

“So?” Robin awaited more. She told him of the incident at cards the night before. He listened in silence, but shrugged a careless shoulder at the end. “I don’t see a great deal to that. Easy enough to see your game if he stood at your elbow. Did you fleece the wolf?”

“Some fifty guineas. We may stand in need of them if this is to continue long. But Sir Anthony — ” she paused.

“You’re bewitched. What now?”

“I believe we shall do well to preserve a strict guard before him.”

“As you please, but I think you rate a mountain’s intelligence too high. Consider, my dear, how should any man suspect what is after all the very light of improbability? Why should so wild a surmise so much as cross his brain?”

“There is that, of course. Plague take the man, he must needs load me with favours!”

Robin laughed. “He takes you to White’s, eh? Some little matter of a card-party too, I think?”

“On Thursday, at his house.”

Robin folded pious hands. “I believe my sense of propriety is offended,” he quoted maliciously.

The shot glanced off her armour. “You’ve none, child, rest assured.”

Robin let be at that, and went off to make ready for a call on Miss Grayson. My Lady Lowestoft’s town chaise bore him to the house, and a lackey in sombre livery ushered him into the withdrawing-room.

An elderly lady arose from a chair near the fire, and dropped a stately curtsey. Before Robin could return the salute Miss Letty bounced out of her chair and came running towards him. An embrace was clearly offered; Robin withstood temptation, and held out his hands. Miss Letty’s were put into them, and so he kept her at arm’s length.

“My dear, dear Miss Merriot! I have so hoped you would come!” Letty cried.

The elder Miss Grayson spoke an austere reproof “Letitia, your manners, child!”

Robin swept a curtsey to the lady. “Why, ma’am, I beg you’ll not chide her. I should be flattered indeed to receive such a welcome.”

“I fear, ma’am, our Letitia is a sad madcap,” Miss Grayson said. “Pray will you not be seated? My honoured brother told me we might expect the pleasure of this visit.”

Miss Grayson’s honoured brother at that moment made his entry and stayed some little while in converse with Miss Merriot. When he went out again he took his sister with him. Robin enjoyed an hour’s tête-à-tête with Miss Letty, at the end of which time the lackey came in to announce the arrival of Mr Merriot to fetch his sister.

Mr Merriot must come in, Letty declared. Her greeting was scarcely less warm than had been her greeting to Robin. Sir Humphrey, reappearing, was cordial enough, and had to endure a rapturous hug from his daughter upon his announcement of an invitation but this instant received from my Lady Dorling, for a masked ball. My Lady Dorling begged the pleasure of the Misses Grayson’s company, and Sir Humphrey said that Letty might go.

Would Miss Merriot be there?  — Miss Merriot could not answer with certainty.

“I wonder, will Miss Merriot be there?” Prudence said when they sat together in the coach.

“Don’t doubt it, child. A masked ball... Well, we shall see.”

There was that in the tone which made Prudence look up sharply. “What devilry’s afoot?”

Robin’s eyes mocked from beneath long lashes. “You would give much to know, would you not?” he taunted.

Prudence declined to encourage this spirit in her brother. “What’s the upshot là-bas?” she inquired. The jerk of her head might be supposed to indicate the direction of the Grayson abode.

“Letty’s to appear in Society. My doing.”

“And the Markham?”

“I’m somewhat at a loss. I might gather a word here and there, you understand: not many. I take it there’s a deadlock. All Sir Humphrey’s concern is to keep the affair dark. Wherein I am to suppose Fanshawe with him.”

“There’s to be no meeting?”

“What, are you in a flutter?” Robin gibed.

“As you see,” was the placid rejoinder.

“Ay, you’re a cold-blooded creature, a’n’t you? There’s to be no meeting. I had thought it might easily be arranged, but it seems the Markham is an ambitionless creature, and lacks the desire to meet your mountain. There was some little talk of Fanshawe’s swordsmanship.” He pursed his lips. “As to that, I crave leave to cherish doubts.”

“They say he’s a swordsman?”

“So I was given to understand. It’s my belief the English don’t understand the art. There’s some mobility required. Do you see the mountain on the skip?” He laughed gently. “With pistols I will believe him an expert. It’s a barbarous sport.”

Prudence frowned. “You would say there can be no meeting for fear of the Markham making a disclosure?”

“I apprehend the matter runs something after that fashion.”

“Faugh! It’s a very cur.”

“Certainly, child, but curs may snap. I need not tell you to step warily, I suppose.”

“I stand in some danger of being called out, you think? I shall be all conciliation. It’s possible the dear soul may himself step warily. That blow in the coffee-room — a child’s trick, egad!  — would make pretty telling.”

“Just, my dear, but run no risks. There are pitfalls on all sides.”

“You do perceive them, then? I’ve trod no trickier maze. And we plunge deeper and deeper.”

“There is flight open to us if need arise. I console myself with that thought.”

Prudence crossed one leg over the other. “And the old gentleman?”

“Oh, the devil take him! This is in part a maze of his making. Have you considered it?”

“Of course. There should be word from him soon. I suppose we are to be swept back to France to await the next mad freak.”

“You don’t want that?” Robin looked sideways.

“I’m in love with respectability,” said Prudence lightly.

There was a teasing word ready, but Robin forbore to utter it. This change in his sister promised to complicate things still further. Not a doubt of it, the mountain had caught her fancy, but there could be little hope of a happy ending. Gentlemen of Sir Anthony’s stamp did not marry daughters of — egad, the daughter of what was she? There was no saying, but “rogue’ might serve as a general term. Cast off the old gentleman, and all his wiles. A shabby trick, that: she would never hear of it. Nor would they be in much better case. A girl must have some parentage, after all.

They came back to Arlington Street to find Sir Anthony himself paying his duty to my lady. It appeared he had come to fetch Mr Merriot to White’s, hard by in St James’s. He bore Prudence away with him; she felt herself powerless to resist.

There was quite a sprinkling of people gathered at White’s, and amongst them was Mr Markham in conversation with a sandy-haired gentleman of some forty years. Prudence caught the sound of a name, and looked again with some interest. So the sandy gentleman was the new Lord Barham, of whom Lady Lowestoft had warned them? Certainly there was no great good to be observed in the heavy jowled face. She remembered some snatches of Belfort’s talk that morning. There was a suspicion, so the Honourable Charles hinted, that Barham’s methods of play were not quite impeccable.

Mr Molyneux came in, and had a pleasant greeting for Sir Anthony and his companion. After a moment Lord Barham walked across to say something to Mr Molyneux, who made Prudence known to him.

My lord stared upon the stranger and slightly inclined his head. It was evident that his lordship had no intention of wasting civilities upon an unknown gentleman; he turned a broad shoulder, and made some idle observation to Sir Anthony.

Fanshawe looked sleepily through his eyeglass: it was wonderful what an air of lazy hauteur the large gentleman could assume. “You lack finesse, Rensley,” he said in a bored voice. “I see my friend Devereux by the window, Merriot. Let me present you.”

My lord flushed angrily. As she followed in Fanshawe’s wake Prudence heard him say to Markham — “Who’s that cockerel Fanshawe’s befriending?”

Mr Markham’s reply was lost to Prudence, but she had seen the scowl on his face when he had first perceived her. But a little while later he came up to her, and exchanged a greeting, and a smile had taken the place of the scowl. Prudence liked it no better; she had a notion Mr Markham meant mischief. There was not a word spoken of the disastrous meeting on the road to Scotland; all was politeness and affability. Upon the approach of Sir Anthony, however, Mr Markham fell back.

Prudence came through the ordeal of this visit to White’s with flying colours, and through a dozen other such ordeals, as the days passed. At Sir Anthony’s card party she played at faro, and cast dice, and her luck held. She had to witness the gradual collapse under the table of more than one gentleman, but her host maintained a perfect sobriety. Prudence admired the hard head of the man. The Honourable Charles could still stand, but his legs were uncertain under him, and he showed a disposition to tell a long and obscure story to anyone who could be got to listen. Prudence walked back to Arlington Street in the dawn, accompanied part of the way by Mr Devereux, who hung affectionately on her arm, and professed, between hiccups, an everlasting friendship.

There were other card parties to follow this; a visit to Ranelagh Gardens; a rout party, and later, my lady Dorling’s masked ball. My lady had sent cards to Mr and Miss Merriot for this event: it promised to be one of the largest parties of the season.

“Do you go, Sir Anthony?” Prudence asked, at Belfort’s card party.

“I suppose I must,” Sir Anthony answered. “These balls are a plaguey nuisance. I’ve a mind to go down to my house at Wych End after this one. Do you care to bear me company?”

She was at a loss for a moment, but her wits never deserted her for long. “Why, sir, it would give me much pleasure, but I believe my sister has some claims on my company.”

“She might be induced to spare you for a week,” Sir Anthony suggested.

“You tempt me, sir, but no, I think I must refuse. There are some engagements binding me besides.”

Sir Anthony raised his eyebrows a moment. “You’re very positive about it,” he remarked.

She looked up. “I offend you, sir,” she said directly.

“By no means. But I wonder why you will not come?”

“It is not will not, Sir Anthony. I would like above all things to join you, but as I have said — ”

“To be sure: those engagements,” nodded Sir Anthony, and turned away.

Prudence was left to stand alone in the middle of the room. She felt curiously forlorn, for it was evident Sir Anthony was not pleased.

Belfort called to her to come and throw a main with him. She moved across to his table, and out of the corner of her eye saw Sir Anthony sitting down to faro by the window. There was no getting near him after that; she became a prey to Lord Barham, who deigned to recognise her, and was conscious of a protective influence withdrawn. She was forced to play with my lord, and she lost rather heavily, and knew the reason. Escaping at length, she engaged on a hand at picquet with the optimistic Jollyot, and presently took leave of her host, complaining of the headache. The serious grey eyes travelled towards the faro table somewhat wistfully; Sir Anthony looked up.

There was a hard look on his face; he met the grey eyes coolly, and Prudence saw the fine mouth unsmiling. She turned aside to the door, and heard his deep voice speak. “Oh, are you off, Merriot? Stay a moment, I’ll bear you company.”

Five minutes later they were descending the steps into the street, and Sir Anthony drawled — “How came you out of that bout with Rensley, my fair youth?”

“Badly,” Prudence replied evenly. She misliked the ironic note in the gentleman’s voice.

“The pigeon lost some feathers, eh?”

“At least the pigeon played fair, sir!” said Prudence rather tartly.

“Softly, softly, my child! Do you say that Rensley cheated?”

Prudence flashed a glance upwards into that inscrutable face. “Do you think he would not cheat a pigeon, sir?”

“No, little man, I thought that he would.”

She bit her lip. “You’re scarcely just to me, sir.”

“What, because I would not scare away an ogre from the nursling? Experience harms none, child.”

“I think you wanted to show me, sir, that I was at the mercy of all once away from your side,” said Prudence plainly.

“And are you not?” Sir Anthony inquired.

“There is perhaps a trick or two up my sleeve yet, sir. But why should you desire to demonstrate thus to me?”

“A further step in your education. You should thank me.”

The imperturbable voice exasperated one. Was there no coming to grips with the man?

“I think you are not entirely honest with me, Sir Anthony.”

“Expound, my sage. Wherein am I dishonest?”

She said steadily — “You are angry with me for refusing to go with you to Wych End. I don’t complain that you left me to Lord Barham. Indeed, I had rather you stood aloof, for I have no claim on you, and I believe I may take care of myself. But when you say that what you did was to educate me, sir, you are at fault.”

“What I did, then, was done out of spleen, you think?” Quite unruffled was the voice.

“Was it not, Sir Anthony?”

There was a slight pause. “I have an idea I don’t suffer from an excess of spleen,” Fanshawe said. “Shall we say that my rendering you up to the wolf was a punishment for churlishness?”

This was coming to grips with a vengeance. Decidedly it was not well to cross the large gentleman. One felt something of a midget.

“I am sorry that you should think me churlish, sir.” She discovered that her voice sounded small, and rather guilty, and made an effort to pull herself together. “I think you misunderstand the reason of my refusal to go to Wych End.” That was no sooner said than she wished it unsaid. God knew where it might lead.

“I don’t consider myself omniscient,” said Fanshawe, “but I am under the impression that life in town is more amusing than life at Wych End.”

She perceived the trend of the matter. Ay, here was a pretty tangle. It was, after all, an honour for an unknown young gentleman to be invited to stay with the great Sir Anthony Fanshawe. Her excuse had been lame; in a word, she must appear cubbish. And how to retrieve the false step? “You are under a false impression, sir.”

“I am, am I?”

“I know very well, sir, that I am unduly honoured by your proposal, but I have been taught that it is a greater rudeness to ignore previous engagements than to refuse a flattering new invitation.”

“You have that wonderfully pat,” admired Sir Anthony. “Pray let us forget the matter.”

“So long as I do not stand in your black books,” Prudence said tentatively.

There was a laugh, and a hand on her shoulder. “I confess, I have an odd liking for you, young man. You are absolved.”

Ridiculous that one should feel a weight removed from one’s mind. Prudence decided to say nothing to Robin of the matter, dreading his mirth.

Chapter 8

The Black Domino

My Lady Lowestoft stole up to the door of Prudence’s chamber, threw a swift glance round to see that no one was by, and went in, firmly shutting the door behind her. Prudence sat before her dressing table, haresfoot in hand. She looked round to see who came in so unceremoniously. “Fie!” she said, and turned back to the mirror.

“My reputation if any one saw me!” said my lady, and sat down in a swirl of purple silk. She carried a strip of velvet in one hand, and a purple domino hung from her shoulders. She put up the velvet to her face. “So! Am not I intrigante, my dear?”

“Very, ma’am. You always are, masked or not.”

“So they say,” nodded my lady. “Oh, la-la! we’re very fine tonight, not?”

Prudence smoothed the crimson silk sleeve of her coat, and smiled a little. “ My pièce de résistance, ma’am.”

“Oh, you look very well. That goes without saying. But what a wardrobe! The bon papa finds himself in affluent circumstances now?”

“Up and down, my lady. There seemed to be money enough when I saw him last.” Prudence pressed a patch on to her cheek with expert fingers. “Are you for setting forward? I’ll go see if Robin’s dressed.” She picked up the crimson domino from the bed, and her mask and hat with it, and went out.

Robin’s voice desired to know who it was that scratched on the door. Prudence answered, and heard him say: “Oh, enter, my dear.”

She went in humming a snatch of song. It died on her lips at what she saw, and she shut the door rather quickly. In place of the lady she expected to find there stood in the middle of the room a slim, lithe young figure in satin small clothes, and a cambric shirt. The fair hair was powdered thickly, and tied back with a black riband in the neck; the white throat was hidden by a lace neck-cloth which fell under the chin in deep ruffles down the shirt front. If Robin made a pretty girl, he was beyond doubt a very handsome young man.

“Robin, are you mad?” said Prudence quietly.

In the background, shaking out the folds of an elegant coat, John growled: “Ay, you may well ask, mistress. It’s taken leave of his senses he has.”

Robin laughed out. “My poor John! I shall be the death of you yet.”

“You’ll be the death of yourself, sir, and well you know it.”

Prudence came further into the room. “What mischief now?”

“Madam Prude! I salute you. No mischief, nor any madness either.”

“I’m not so sure. Pray will you be serious?”

He held the mask over his eyes. “What, shall I be known?”

“There’s to be an unmasking at supper. What then?”

“At the supper hour — farewell, Robin!” He blew an imaginary kiss from the tips of his fingers, and tossed the mask on to a chair. “Don’t play the spoil sport, sister mine.”

She shrugged. “It’s to jeopardise your life for a pair of brown eyes.”

“It’s to play with fire for the sake of romance, and when have we done aught else? Get you into a hoop and petticoats, and play with your mountain.”

“Ah now, will you ha’ done, sir?” John put down the coat, scowling. “You’ll do no such thing, Miss Prue!”

“Not I. Robin, one single mischance, and you’re sped.”

“My dear, you grow fearful of shadows. Let be. Tomorrow I shall be again the demure Miss Merriot.”

Prudence knew too well that demon of perversity to attempt further argument. My Lady Lowestoft’s voice begged permission to enter. Prudence turned, and opened the door. “Oh, come in, ma’am, here’s a piece of mad folly for you to see.”

My lady came in all curiosity, and gave a little shriek of laughter at sight of Robin. “Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, you vaurien!” she said. “This is to go a-wooing, no? Don’t tell me! Me, I know well!”

“It’s to run a thousand dangers,” said Prudence. “The devil’s in him, I believe.”

Robin was busy fixing a diamond pin in the lace at his throat. “I pledge you my word I run no risk, Prue. The waistcoat, John.”

“He, but this is adventure!” cried my lady, her eyes sparkling. “You are anxious, my Prue? But no! Who should suspect? He may vanish before the unmasking, and Marthe shall be on the watch to let him into the house. It will all go well, I promise you.”

“Madam, you’re a jewel!” Robin told her, struggling into his coat. He shook out his ruffles, and gave his neck-cloth a twist. “I am myself again.”

My lady surveyed him critically. “Du vrai, you are a very pretty young man,” she said. “N’est-ce pas, Prudence?”

“Something undersized,” amended Prudence, with her slow smile.

“Prue can only admire a mammoth, ma’am,” said Robin. His eyes ran over his sister’s large frame. “Well, perhaps she has reason.”

Thus it was that midway through the evening a slight gentleman in a black domino begged my Lady Dorling to present him to a little lady in a pink domino, seated against the wall by an austere spinster.

Lady Dorling said laughingly: “What shall I call you, sir, for indeed the mask baffles me?”

White teeth showed in a dazzling smile. “You shall say that I am l’Inconnu, madam.”

She was delighted. “Miss Pink Domino should feel Romance at hand on such an introduction. Why, it’s the little Grayson child.” She led the Black Domino up to the Pink one, and smilingly said: “My dear, may I present a partner to you for the minuet? He has no name that I can find — only l’Inconnu. See if he will tell you more.” She rustled away on the words, leaving Miss Letty looking wonderingly up at the unknown.

He stood bowing deeply before her, one hand holding a point-edged tricorne over his heart, the other laid lightly on the hilt of his dress-sword. The black domino fell all about him in silken folds; the velvet mask through which his eyes glittered strangely baffled recognition.

Miss Letty made her curtsey, still gazing into the Unknown’s face.

“Mademoiselle will bestow her hand on me for this dance?”

There was something faintly familiar in the elusive voice. “I may go, Aunt?”

The elder Miss Grayson gave reluctant consent. Masked balls, where strange gentlemen with fanciful sobriquets might claim introductions were not to her taste, but there was no help for it. Miss Letty went away on the Unknown’s arm.

“I have an odd feeling I know you, sir,” she confided, looking up with a child’s smile. “Please tell me, do I?”

He shook his head; she thought his smile intriguing beyond words. “How should you know l’Inconnu, mademoiselle?”

This was Romance indeed. “But you know me, do you not?” They were dancing now, and she asked the question as she sank to the curtsey.

They came together again. “Ah, that is another matter entirely,” said the Black Domino.

She pouted. “And you won’t tell me! So many people I’ve guessed; oh, at once! There is Tony, for instance.”

She nodded towards a massive figure in a grey domino. “There is no mistaking him, to be sure. And I think I know which is Mr Merriot. I thought that lady in the blue domino was his sister, but of that I am not sure. Do you know, sir?”

“No, mademoiselle, but then I do not want to know. I am content to have found Miss Grayson.”

She blushed, and turned away her head.

“I offend Miss Grayson?” the Unknown said softly.

No, she was not offended. Only — only it was so very strange not to know who he was.

“My name you would not know if I told it,” he said. “Why spoil a perfect hour?”

Her lips were a little parted. “A perfect hour!” she echoed. “Is it perfect, sir?”

“For me at least, Letitia.”

“But — but you must not call me by my name!” she said. Yet she did not sound angry.

“Nor tell you that I came only to dance with you?”

“D-did you, sir?”

He nodded. “But, of course. Didn’t you guess it, Letitia?”

“No, oh no! How should I? And — and you use my name again, sir.”

“But then it is such a pretty name,” he pleaded. “Make me free of it for one night!”

“It is like an adventure,” she said. Behind the mask her eyes were like stars.

“An adventure, or a dream.” He led her out of the dance, away to an alcove behind great pots of flowers.

“Not a dream! Oh no, for then I should wake up, and I do not want to. I want to see your face at the unmasking.”

“You won’t see it, Letitia; I shall remain the Unknown.”

She sat down on the couch placed in the alcove. “But you will have to unmask, won’t you? Everyone must.”

He smiled, and shook his head. “To unmask would be to kill Romance, Letitia.”

She was doubtful. “Would it? But how shall I know you again if I do not see your face tonight?”

“Ah, but will you want to know me again? Or will you not regret the perfect hour?”

“No, I am sure I shall not. And of course I shall want to know you again. Shall you not want to know me?”

“Always, but I have you in my dreams, Letitia.”

She blushed adorably. “Do you know, that is the very prettiest thing anyone has ever said to me,” she confided. “But I would like — I mean, I do not want to live only in your dreams. Shan’t you wait upon my papa?”

The white teeth showed again in a smile of some mischief. “L’Inconnu never waits upon papa,” he said. “You will remember me only as a Black Domino.”

Her face fell. “I shan’t see you again?”

“Yes, you will see me — perhaps.”

“And know you?”

He hesitated; then laughed, and stretched out his hand. “When you see that ring again, Letitia, you will know that I have come once more.”

She looked down at the ring on his little finger, a curious piece of wrought gold in a fantastic design. “Only by that?”

“Only by that.”

“But — ” she considered awhile. “You might forget to wear it,” she pointed out.

“I shall not forget.”

She sighed. “It is all so mysterious. I fear perhaps it is just a game, and I shan’t ever see you again.”

He quoted a Spanish proverb.

“Oh, are you foreign?” she exclaimed, as though that explained all.

“No, child, but I have been much in foreign lands.”

“How exciting!” she said. “Tell me about it.”

But a large figure stood in the entrance to the alcove, and a pleasant voice said: “Mistress Pink Domino, will you give your hand to a Grey one?”

L’Inconnu came to his feet, and bowed gracefully. “I surrender you,” he said. “But only for a little while.”

Sir Anthony held out his arm to Miss Grayson, and looked curiously at the Black Domino.

Miss Grayson went reluctantly, saying over her shoulder: “I believe you will disappear.”

“I shall claim you again, be very sure.”

“Who in the fiend’s name may that be?” said Sir Anthony.

“I don’t know, Tony. He is just called l’Inconnu, but he knows me and I have a feeling I have met him. You don’t know, either?”

“I haven’t a notion, my dear. I am not quite sure that I approve of unknown gentlemen.”

Her eyes pleaded. “Oh, don’t, don’t tell Aunt, Tony!” she begged. “Truly, I am not being indiscreet.”

“You don’t contemplate an elopement with the mysterious stranger?” he asked teasingly.

“Tony!”

“I beg your pardon,” he bowed solemnly.

“That was prodigiously ill-natured, Tony.”

“Never say so, my dear.”

“I have a very good mind not to dance with you now.”

She was conducted promptly to an antechamber, where there were refreshments spread. “An excellent mind,” said Sir Anthony. “I was never a good dancer. A glass of ratafie?”

She laughed. “It’s too bad of you, Tony!”

“My dear, it would be worse if I stood up with you, I assure you. My forte lies in fetching food and drink for my partners.”

She sat down, perforce. “Well, a little ratafie, then. I do not intend to go near Aunt again all the evening. She may scold as much as she likes afterwards.”

Sir Anthony poured two glasses of wine. “She’s absorbed in euchre, child; you need have no fear. I drink to your very good health.”

Letty sipped at the wine, and dimpled haughtily. “You might drink to my eyes, Tony.”

“No doubt I might,” he said, but showed no disposition to do so.

Letty looked meditatively up at him. “I wonder whether you will ever say pretty things?” she said, aggrieved.

“Not to you, minx.”

“I know that. But to someone else?”

“My dear, I doubt I haven’t the aptitude for it. I will tell you if ever I discover it in myself.”

“I don’t suppose you will. Tell me, I mean,” said Letty with a flash of insight.

“There’s no knowing. I’m to understand your ear’s been tickled with pretty speeches tonight?”

She spread out her fan, and began to trace the pattern on it with one rosy-tipped finger. “I shan’t tell you that, Tony.”

“You need not.” Sir Anthony smiled a little. “It leaps to the intelligence.”

“But don’t you think, Tony,” said Letty sweetly, “that it would be very wonderful if no one had said pretty things to me?”

Sir Anthony regarded her calmly. “You bid fair to become a rare handful,” he remarked. “And that is all the compliment you’ll have from me.”

“I am very glad I am not going to marry you,” said Letty frankly. “You would not suit me at all. Perhaps you’ll marry my dear Miss Merriot instead.”

“Withhold your felicitations awhile,” he replied. “The event is not imminent.”

“I expect you’re agog to be off to claim her hand for the dance,” nodded Miss Letty sapiently.

Sir Anthony set down his empty glass. “I shall have to curb my impatience, then,” he said. “She’s not here.”

“Oh, is she not? I quite thought that was she in the blue domino. Who told you?”

“My Lady Lowestoft. She is kept at home with the migraine, as I believe.”

Letty was all concern. “Oh, poor Miss Merriot! But Mr Merriot is here, isn’t he? In the crimson domino? Yes, I thought so.”

“To say truth, it was he set me on your track. He told me he had sought you for the minuet only to find you spirited away by a man in a black domino.”

This brought the Unknown back to mind. “I would like to return to the ballroom, please,” said Letty decidedly.

But it was Mr Merriot who claimed her hand, and led her into the quadrille. Letty went with a good grace, but looked eagerly about her. The Unknown was nowhere to be seen, yet at the end of the dance he seemed to spring up out of the ground, as it were, and stood confronting Mr Merriot with that tantalising smile curling his lips. “The lady is promised to me,” he said; there was a faint note of mockery in his voice.

“On the contrary,” said Prudence. “The lady is mine.”

Really, a masked ball was a most fascinating entertainment. Miss Letty clasped her hands in the folds of her domino, and waited breathlessly.

The hilt of a sword was thrust slightly forward. “Why, I would meet you for the honour of holding her hand,” said the Unknown. “But she shall choose.” He turned, and offered an arm. “Madam, will you walk?”

She looked beseechingly at Prudence. “Mr Merriot, I have to choose l’Inconnu because I am a female, and they say the silly creatures love a mystery.”

Prudence laughed and bowed. “I retire from the lists, then, cruel Pink Domino.”

“Besides,” said Letty coaxingly, “your crimson and my rose go vilely together, sir!” She threw a smile over her shoulder as she went off, threading her way through the throng of people.

“Bereft, my Peter?”

Prudence started, and turned to face Sir Anthony, standing at her elbow, “Robbed, sir, by a man in a black domino. I chose the wrong colour, and Miss Grayson won’t stay to clash with my crimson.”

“So the mysterious stranger filches the lady from you. Too bad, my dear boy. Come and drown your sorrows in claret.”

Out on the terrace, under a starry sky, the Unknown raised Miss Grayson’s hand to his lips, and held it there a long moment. She shivered a little, and her eyes widened.

“Take off the mask!” He spoke little above a whisper. “Oh — no!” she said, and drew her hand away.

“Ah, don’t deny me!” An arm slid round her shoulders, and deft fingers sought the mask’s string over her ear.

“You — you must not!” Letty said faintly, and put up her hand to stop his against her hair.

But the string was untied, and the mask fell. Her hand was caught and held; she lay back against the Unknown’s shoulder, and felt his other hand gently forcing up her chin.

It must surely be a mad dream from which she would awaken soon. She looked up and saw only glittering eyes behind the blackness of the mask, and the hint of a smile in the moonlight. The arm tightened about her shoulders; the hand beneath her chin pressed more insistently, and the Unknown bent his head till his lips found hers.

The spell held for a moment; then she quivered, and made a fluttering movement to be free. The Unknown sank on one knee, and lifted the hem of her gown to kiss. “Forgive me!” he said. “I may never have the chance again, Letitia.”

She stood poised for flight, but his words kept her still. Half timidly she stretched down her hand to him.

“Oh, do not!” she said. “I think we are both mad tonight.”

He came to his feet, and stood holding her hands between his. “But you will remember.”

“I shall see you again?” It was a forlorn petition.

“Who can say? This I promise: if ever you are in danger, or in need of a champion you will see me, for I shall come to you then.” He stood for a moment, silhouetted by the silver light against the deep blue sky; then once more he bent, and, turning her hand upwards, pressed a kiss into the palm. “Adieu, ma belle; you will not forget.”

He moved swiftly to the low parapet that walled the terrace in; looked over an instant, and placing his hand on the top, vaulted lightly over, down into the silent garden a few feet below.

She ran forward, and peered over the low wall. There was no one in sight, but she thought she heard an echo of his adieu borne back to her on a soft wind.

Chapter 9

Mohocks Abroad

It seemed Robin was well satisfied with the night’s work; his sister visited him as he lay sipping his chocolate in bed next morning, and cocked a quizzical eyebrow. Robin smiled sweetly, but volunteered no confidences. He went to call upon Miss Grayson later in the day, but although Letty was delighted to see her dear Kate, she was a little abstracted, and had but a few words to say of the ball. Yes, it had been very amusing; she wished Kate had been there. Yes, she had danced with a number of gentlemen. It was a pity Mr Merriot had chosen to wear crimson.

Robin went off with a smile playing about the corners of his mouth. He was constrained to drive out visiting with my Lady Lowestoft, and went, smothering a yawn.

Prudence — she was beginning, she thought, to feel more of a man than a woman — strolled round to White’s, and found Mr Walpole there reading the “Spectator”. Mr Walpole was graciously pleased to exchange a few words; he had a small flow of tittle-tattle at his tongue’s tip, and announced his intention of retiring to Strawberry Hill. He protested that these late nights in town were harmful to his constitution. He raised supercilious brows at the sight of Mr Markham entering the room, and retired once more behind the “Spectator”.

Mr Markham bowed to Prudence, and went to write letters at a table against the wall. Prudence stood talking to one Mr Dendy, and was presently tapped on the shoulder.

“Here’s your man, Devereux!” said the voice of Sir Francis Jollyot.

Mr Devereux came up with his mincing gait. “’Pon my soul, so ’tis!” He swept a leg, flourishing a scented handkerchief. “I am but this instant come from Arlington Street, where they told me you had walked out. I have to beg the honour of your company at a small gathering I have a mind to hold tonight. A little game of Chance, you understand.” He held up a very white finger. “Now don’t, I implore you, don’t say me nay, Mr Merriot!”

Prudence smothered a sigh. “Why, sir, I confess I had purposed to spend this evening with my sister,” she began.

“Oh, come now, Merriot!” expostulated Jollyot jovially, “you must not deny me my revenge!”

“To be sure, I live in a most devilish outlandish spot,” said Mr Devereux mournfully. “But you may take a chair: you know you may take a chair. ’Pon rep, sir, I do positively believe an evening spent at home is vastly more fatiguing than a quiet card-party. ’Pon my honour, sir!”

There was nothing for it but to show polite acceptance.

Mr Devereux was wreathed in smiles. “To tell you the truth, sir, I’ve had a devilish ticklish task to find anyone free tonight,” he said naively. “Fanshawe’s engaged; so’s Barham. Molyneux goes out of town; Selwyn’s in bed with a trifling fever.”

Over against the wall Mr Markham stopped writing, and raised his head.

“I’m overwhelmed by the honour done me,” said Prudence ironically.

The irony went unperceived. “Not at all, my dear Merriot. Oh, not in the least! I shall see you then, at five? You can take a chair, you know, and be there in a trice.”

“As you say, sir. But I think I have not the pleasure of knowing your address.”

Mr Devereux simpered elegantly. “Oh, a devilish inconvenient hole, sir! I’ve apartments in Charing Cross.”

“Ah yes, I remember the street now,” Prudence said. “At five o’clock, sir.”

Mr Devereux beamed upon her, and airily waved one languid hand. “Au revoir, then, my dear Merriot. You will take a chair, and suffer not the least inconvenience in the world. An evening at home — oh no, ecod!” He drifted away on Jollyot’s arm, and the rest of his sentence only reached Prudence as a confused murmur.

Mr Markham went on with his writing.

Prudence walked slowly back to Arlington Street, and remarked to Robin, on his return, that she was in danger of wearing herself away to skin and bone.

Robin was bored. “Heigh-ho, would I were in your shoes! All this female society gives me mal-à-la-tête.”

“Give you my word these card-parties and drinking bouts will be the death of me.”

Robin swung an impatient foot. “Does it occur to you, my dear, that events have not transpired precisely as they were planned?” he inquired with a rueful look.

“It has occurred to me many times. We meant to lie close.”

“Oh!” My Lady Lowestoft was arranging flowers in a big bowl. “But the bon papa planned it thus, my children. I was told to present you to the world.”

“Egad, we owe it to the old gentleman, do we?” said Robin. “I might have known. But why?”

“Seulement, I think he judged it wisest. You escape remark this way. That is true, no?”

“I suppose so. But the impropriety of Prue’s conduct — oh lud, ma’am!”

“Consider only the impropriety of your own, my child!” chuckled my lady.

“I do, ma’am, often. But as regarding this charming réunion tonight, Mistress Prue, you’ll be pleased to take a chair, and eschew the Burgundy.”

“Behold the little mentor!” Prudence bowed to him. “Rest you content, my Kate.”

The evening was like a dozen other such evenings. There was dinner, and some ribald talk; cards, with the decanter passing from hand to hand, and the candles burning lower and lower in their sockets. Prudence made her excuses soon after midnight. Her host rolled a bleary eye towards her, and protested thickly. Prudence was firm, however, and won her way. A sleepy lackey opened the front door for her, and she stepped out into the cool night air.

The street was deserted, but she knew a chair might be found at Charing Cross, a few score yards away. She swung her cloak over her arm, and walked in that direction, glad of this breath of clean air after the stuffiness of the card room.

It may have been that never quite dormant watchfulness in her that warned her of danger. No more than fifty yards up the street she felt it in the air, and checked her pace slightly. There was a shadow crouched in an embrasure in the wall a few steps further on — a shadow that had something of the form of a man. She slid a hand to her sword hilt, loosening the blade in the scabbard. She must walk on: no use turning back now. A little pale, but steady-eyed as ever, she went forward, her fingers closed about the sword hilt.

The shadow moved, and behold! there were two other shadows springing up before her. There was a flash of steel as she wrenched the sword free from the scabbard, and for a moment the shadowy figures held back. The moment’s hesitation was enough to allow her to get her back against the wall, and to take a sure grip on the cloak over her left arm. Then there was a hoarse murmur, and the three rushed in on her with cudgels upraised.

Her rapier swept a circle before her; the foremost man jumped back with a curse, but the fellow to the right sprang in to aim a vicious blow at Prudence’s head. The rapier shot out, and the point struck home. Came a gasp, and a check: the cloak, unerringly thrown, descended smotheringly over the wounded man’s head, and there was at once a tangle of cloth and hot oaths.

Prudence made lightning use of this momentary diminution in the number of her assailants, parried a blow aimed at her sword arm, sprang sideways a little, and lunged forward the length of her arm. There was a groan, and the sword came away red, while the cudgel fell clattering to earth.

She was breathless and panting; this could not last. Even now the third man had got himself free of the cloak, and was creeping on her with it held in his hand. She guessed he meant to catch at her blade through it, and her heart sank. She thrust shrewdly at the man before her, and staggered under a blow from a cudgel on her left. She was nearly spent, and she knew that a few moments more must end it.

Then, from a little way down the street came a shout, and the sound of a man running. “Hold them, lad, I’m with you!” cried the newcomer, and Prudence recognised the voice of Mr Belfort.

He fell upon her assailants from the rear, and there was swift and bloody work done. With a howl the man Prudence had first wounded went running off down the street, one hand clipped to his shoulder. His flight was a signal for the other two to follow suit. In another minute the street was empty, save for Prudence and the Honourable Charles.

Mr Belfort leaned panting on his sword, and laughed hugely. “Gad, see ’em run!” he said. “Hey, are you hurt, lad?”

Prudence was leaning against the wall, dizzy and shaken. The shoulder which had sustained the blow from the cudgel ached sickeningly. With an effort she stood upright. “Naught. A blow on the shoulder, no more.” She swayed, but mastered the threatened faintness, and bent to pick up her cloak. Her hand shook slightly as she wiped her sword in its folds, but she managed to smile. “I have — to thank you — for your prompt assistance,” she said, trying to get her breath. “I rather thought I was sped.”

“Ay, three to one, blister them,” nodded Mr Belfort. “But white-livered curs, ’pon my soul. Not an ounce of fight in ’em. Here, take my arm.”

Prudence leaned gratefully on it. “Just a momentary breathlessness,” she said. “I am well enough now.”

“Gad, it must have been a nasty blow!” said Mr Belfort. “You are shaken to bits, man. Come home with me; my lodging is nearer than yours.”

“No, no, I thank you!” Prudence said earnestly. “The blow — struck an old wound. I hardly heed it now.”

“Tare an’ ’ouns, but that’s bad!” cried Mr Belfort. “Really, my dear fellow, you must come to my place and let me look to it.”

“On my honour, sir, it’s less than naught. You may see for yourself I am quite recovered now. I shall not trespass on your hospitality at this hour of night.”

He protested that the night was young yet, but not to all his entreaties would Prudence yield. They walked on together towards Charing Cross, the Honourable Charles still adjuring Prudence at intervals to go home with him. “By gad, sir, these Mohocks become a positive scandal!” he exclaimed. “A gentleman mayn’t walk abroad, damme, without being set upon these days!”

“Mohocks?” Prudence said. “You think they were Mohocks, then?”

“Why, what else? The town’s teeming with ’em. I was set on myself t’other day. Stretched one fellow flat!”

Prudence thought of the words she had caught as she had come up to the embrasure. A rough voice had growled: “This is our man, boys.” She said nothing of this, however, to Mr Belfort, but assented that without doubt the men had been Mohocks, intent on robbery.

“A good thing ’twas I left Devereux’s rooms directly after you,” said Mr Belfort. “But that Burgundy, y’know — demned poor stuff, my boy! There was no staying longer. How a man can get drunk on it beats me. Look at me now! Sober as a judge, Peter! Yet there’s poor Devereux almost under the table already.”

They parted company at Charing Cross, where Mr Belfort saw Prudence solicitously into a chair. She was borne off west to Arlington Street, and set down safely outside my lady’s house.

A light burned still in Robin’s room. Sure, the child would never go to bed until she was come home. She went softly in, and found Robin reading by the light of three candles.

Robin looked up. “My felicitations. You escaped betimes.” His eyes narrowed, and he got up. “Oh? What’s toward, child?” he said sharply, and came across to Prudence’s side.

She laughed. “What, do I look a corpse? I was near enough to it. But there are no bones broken, I believe.”

The beautifully curved lips straightened to a thin line; Prudence saw her brother’s eyes keen and anxious. “Be a little plain with me, child. You’ve sustained some hurt?”

“No more than a bruise, I think, but oh, Robin, it hurt!” Again she laughed, but there was a quiver in her voice. “Help me to come out of this coat; ’tis on my left shoulder.”

The shoulder was swiftly bared and an ugly bruise disclosed. There came a soft curse from Robin. “Who did it?”

“Now, how should I know? Charles spoke of the Mohocks.”

Robin was searching on his dressing table for ointment, and came back to her with the pot in his hand. As he smeared the stuff lightly over the bruise, he said remorsefully: “’Tis I who was at fault. I should have seen to it you had my lady’s chaise out.”

“Oh, no harm done, as it chances. But there were three of them and I was all but sped. Then Charles came running up, and there was an end of it.” She slipped her shirt up again over her shoulder. “Thanks, child. I would you had seen my sword play. I am sure it did you credit.” She paused and looked at the guttering candles. Her tone changed, and became serious. “I have a notion they were creatures of Markham’s set on to beat me.”

“Markham’s?” Robin set down the ointment.

“I know of no one else with a grudge against me. They were not common Mohocks.” She told him what she had heard.

He strode to the window and back again, frowning. “I think this is where we make our bow,” he said at last.

“Devil a bit!” was the cheerful response. “For the future I shall remember to take a chaise; that’s all there is to it.”

“I had rather see you safe in France.”

“I won’t go.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, do you turn stubborn?”

“As a mule. We go down to Richmond with my lady tomorrow, and the Markham may think that I’ve gone into retirement on account of my mauling. He should be satisfied. I await the old gentleman, for I’ve a curiosity to see what his game is.” She got up, and stretched her long limbs, wincing at the pain of her bruised shoulder. “Get you to bed, Robin.” She went out, yawning.

They were gone on the morrow down to my lady’s house at Richmond. My lady was loud in her exclamations of horror at what had befallen Prudence, but Prudence could chuckle now that all was over, the while Robin sat in frowning silence. His petticoats began to irk him.

Mr Markham heard of the affair at White’s, from the lips of Mr Belfort. He professed himself all concern, but his friend Lord Barham, drawing him aside, said with a snigger: “So that’s a score settled, eh, my buck?”

“It’s not,” said Mr Markham curtly, and scowled.

“Gad, I’d give something to know what you have against the young sprig!” said his Lordship. “It’s a conceited puppy, ecod! I’ve a mind to give it a trouncing myself.”

Mr Markham saw Sir Anthony Fanshawe, idly twirling his quizzing-glass, and rather testily requested his noble friend to guard his tongue. Sir Anthony continued blandly to survey the pair. Mr Markham strode off, rather red about the gills.

Sir Anthony turned to Mr Belfort, standing in a circle of his acquaintances. “Well, Charles, have you been fighting with the devil’s emissaries?” he said genially. “What’s this I hear of Mohocks?”

“Three of them, right in the middle of town, if you please!” said Mr Belfort. “Thunder an’ turf, but it’s a crying disgrace! I’m saying to Proudie here that measures ought to be taken.”

Sir Anthony took out his snuff-box, and shook back the ruffles from his hand. “Oh, were you attacked?” he inquired.

“Not I. ’Twas young Merriot they set upon, as he came off from Devereux’s last night.”

The strong hand paused for a moment in the act of unfobbing the snuff-box. The sleepy eyes did not lift. “Indeed?” said Sir Anthony, and awaited more.

“Three to one, the ruffians, and lucky I chanced along, for the lad’s not over strong in the sword arm, I take it. Game enough, but he was soon blown.”

“He was, was he?” Sir Anthony took snuff in a leisurely fashion. “And — er — was he hurt?”

“A blow on the shoulder. It seemed to knock him pretty well endways. But he said something of an old wound there, which would account for it,” said Belfort, feeling that some excuse was needed.

“Ah, an old wound?” Sir Anthony was politely interested. “Of course. That would, as you say, account for it.”

“There’s naught to be said against the lad’s courage,” Belfort assured him. “Game as a fighting cock, pledge you my word. I was all for taking him off to my lodgings to attend to his shoulder, but no, he’d none of it!”

“He refused to go with you, did he?” Sir Anthony nicked a speck or two of snuff from his sleeve.

“Oh, wouldn’t hear of it! Naught I could say was to any avail. He would be off home, and have no fuss made.”

“Very creditable,” said Sir Anthony, stifling a yawn, and strolled away to meet my Lord March, just come in.

Chapter 10

Sudden and Startling Appearance of the Old Gentleman

At Richmond, in the pleasant house with its gardens running down to the river, Sir Anthony was one of my Lady Lowestoft’s visitors. He rode out to pay a morning call, and was fortunate enough to find my lady and her two guests at home.

Sir Anthony indicated Prudence’s stiff shoulder with a movement of his quizzing-glass. “So you must needs go brawling about our streets, little man?”

There was a quick contraction of Robin’s brows. He looked up to find the sleepy gaze upon him, and straightaway achieved a shudder. “Oh pray, sir, don’t speak of it!”

“You should keep him closer tied to your apron strings, ma’am,” said Sir Anthony, and began to talk of the state of the roads. But upon my lady’s going out of the room he broke off to say: “Have you any idea that it was Markham’s men set upon you, young man?”

“Some little suspicion of it,” Prudence admitted. “I shall be more wary in the future.”

“It’s a vengeful creature.” Sir Anthony crossed one leg over the other. “I believe you would do well not to go abroad unaccompanied at night,” he said, and fell to twirling his eyeglass by its riband.

He presently took leave of them, and rode off back to town. Robin said with a laugh: “Oh, it’s all solicitude! The benevolent mammoth!”

“Lord, must you still be jeering!” Prudence demanded and left him rather abruptly.

They returned to Arlington Street at the end of the week, arriving on the day of her Grace of Queensberry’s rout, whither they were bidden. They went in state in my lady’s town chariot, and my lady regaled them on the way with some highly entertaining details of my Lord March’s private life.

Her Grace’s salons were large enough to accommodate even the crowd that assembled at her house that evening. There were bright lights in sparkling chandeliers, and many heavy-scented flowers, and over all the hum of gay chatter. Her Grace stood at the head of the stairs to receive her guests, and had the felicity of knowing that my Lord March, her son, was adorning the rout with his unaccustomed presence.

My lord was in excellent spirits, and stayed for at least an hour in the big withdrawing rooms. After having done his duty there so nobly, he retired to the card rooms for a spell, in search of a little relaxation.

Robin’s elderly admirer found him out, and showed an ardent desire to know more of him. Prudence left him, murmuring compliments into one bashful ear.

It was quite late in the evening when there came a slight stir about the doorway, and Prudence had returned to Robin’s side, ousting the elderly beau. She stood now behind his chair, Sir Raymond Orton a few paces from her, and my Lady Lowestoft, laughing immoderately at something Mr Selwyn was saying to her, not far distant.

Some late comer, it appeared, was arriving; a knot of ladies gathered near the door gave way, and Prudence could enjoy a clear view.

Two gentlemen came in, and stood for a moment looking round. One of these was my Lord March; the other was a slight, elderly gentleman with arresting grey eyes, a nose inclined to be aquiline, and thin, smiling lips. He was magnificently attired in puce satin, with embroidered waistcoat. His wig must surely have come straight from Paris; his shoes, with their jewelled buckles, had preposterous high red heels to them; the cut of his coat spoke the most fashionable tailor of the day in every line. There was the hint of a diamond in the lace at his throat, and on his breast he displayed several scintillating foreign orders. He stood very much at his ease, his head slightly inclined to hear what my Lord March was saying, and one thin white hand delicately raising a pinch of snuff to a finely chiselled nostril.

Prudence’s hand found Robin’s shoulder, and gripped hard. Robin looked up, and she felt him stiffen.

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.

“But what’s his claim?” persisted Prudence.

“Oh, that! To be sure, no one remembered his existence in the least, but it seems he’s a brother of old Barham, who died a month or two back. Odd, a’n’t it? I never heard of any brother, but it was all rather before my time, of course. Anyway, Cloverly was telling me he has all the papers to prove he’s the man, and a fine romantic story it all is. A jolt for Rensley, though!”

“Does Rensley acknowledge him?” Prudence found strength enough to inquire.

“As to that, Rensley’s lying low, I take it, but I believe he told Farnborough he was sure his cousin was dead, and that this man had stolen the papers. But Rensley would take that tone, y’know.” Mr Belfort perceived a friend close by, and was off to greet him.

“And what do you make of that?” said Prudence calmly in her brother’s ear.

Robin shook his head. “It’s the most consummate piece of impertinent daring — gad, it beats our masquerade!”

“But how can he carry it off? And for how long?”

“And why?” Robin demanded. “It’s senseless! Why?”

“Oh, the old love of a fine dramatic gesture. Don’t we know it? It’s to rank with the time he played the French Ambassador in Madrid. And he came off safe from that.”

“But this — this is England!” Robin said. “Cordieu, will you but look at him now?”

The magnificent gentleman was bowing before Miss Gunning. Well they knew that flourish of a laced handkerchief. Egad, but he had all the airs of a Viscount, or of a Duke for that matter. A large figure came up with him; the new Lord Barham gave Sir Anthony Fanshawe two fingers to clasp. Sir Anthony stayed but to speak a few words, and then walked leisurely away.

Came a gasp from my Lady Lowestoft’s direction. My lady sprang up. “Mon cher Robert!” she cried, and held out her hands. Volubly she explained to Mr Selwyn that this dear gentleman had long been known to her.

“Thérèse!” My Lord Barham kissed both her hands. “I have the supreme felicity to find you!”

“Faith, it’s an ecstatic old gentleman!” The voice came from behind Prudence. Sir Anthony Fanshawe had come round the room to her side.

“I’m to understand it’s a lost viscount, or some such matter?” Prudence took snuff with an air of unconcern.

“Quite so. The last of the Tremaines, it appears. Offspring don’t so far materialise.”

My Lady Lowestoft was bearing down upon them with a hand on Lord Barham’s arm. “Mon cher, I must present to you some dear young friends of mine,” they heard her say. “It is a Mr and a Miss Merriot, who are staying with me for a space.”

“I am enchanted to meet a friend of my Thérèse!” his lordship declared, and was straightway presented to Miss Merriot.

Robin arose, and spread out his skirts; as he rose from the curtsey he extended a hand right regally, and gazed limpidly into the face of his sire.

My lord bowed deeply over the hand, and, looking up, bestowed a glance of admiration upon Miss Merriot’s fair countenance. “But charming!” he said. “Charming, I protest!”

It was Prudence’s turn now, and she made my lord a leg. Deep down in the grey eyes the twinkle lurked. “I am honoured, sir,” she said.

My lord bowed slightly, as became a man of his years and rank, and smiled with delight upon Mr Merriot. Indeed, a most affable old gentleman. He turned to compliment my lady on having two such enchanting friends to stay with her, and promised himself the pleasure of waiting upon her in the morning. With yet another bow to Miss Merriot he walked away with my lady on his arm.

“I am entirely overpowered,” complained Sir Anthony, and sat him down beside Robin.

Robin tilted his head speculatively. “Something of a foreign air,” he mused. “Do you agree, sir?”

“Something of an oppressive air I find it,” answered Sir Anthony, with a chuckle.

“My lady seems to know him very well,” remarked Prudence, and went away to glean what information she could.

Accounts varied, but it seemed my lord had quarrelled violently in his youth with his father, and taken himself off to France with a low-bred bride of his own choosing. Since that day he had never been heard of, until suddenly, soon after the death of his elder brother, he descended on the town in a blaze of magnificence. Prudence expressed surprise that he had not shown himself upon the death of his father, but the answer to that was ready. There were rumours that there had been little love lost between the brothers: the remarkable gentleman had chosen to remain in obscurity.

She could obtain no more certain information, and returned with her gleanings to Robin. My Lady Lowestoft was ready to go home; they greeted her proposal with relief, and were borne off under her wing. My Lord Barham, seeing them go, waved his hand, and said: “A demain!” most gallantly.

Not until they were safe inside the coach did my lady give way to the mirth that was consuming her. But then she lay back against the padded cushions and laughed till the tears ran down her painted cheeks.

Robin regarded her gloomily. “Ay, it’s a rare jest, ma’am.”

“It is — it is altogether magnifique!” she gasped. “It is a coup the most superb! Not even I dreamed of anything so superb!” She sat up and dabbed at her eyes. “ Voyons, was there ever such a man? I myself am ready to believe him to be Lord Barham. What an air! What effrontery! Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, I have not been in such an agony of laughter since he stole the Margrave’s mistress!”

“That’s a tale I don’t know,” said Prudence. “I perceive that a hurried flight to France awaits us.”

“But no, but no! Why, my cabbage? He proves himself the lost vicomte, and who is to know more?”

“Oh, it’s simple!” said Robin dryly. “But there is always the possibility of the true viscount’s appearance.”

“How, my child? We see the bon papa with all the papers. The real viscount is dead, of course! How else could Robert have the papers?”

“Good God, ma’am, do you put it above the old gentleman to steal them from a live man?”

“There’s more to it than that.” Prudence’s calm voice broke in. “A counterfeit for a day, a week, a month is very well, but even the old gentleman can’t maintain it for ever. Rensley won’t be satisfied with a few documents. There’ll be traps set, and others of no one’s setting into which he is bound to fall. Consider, ma’am, what it means suddenly to become an English peer with estates, and a large fortune! The thing’s not so easily done, I believe.”

“There’s also the little matter of the late fracas in the North,” said Robin. “Certain, he discards the black wig, and the French accent, but there must be information out against him.”

“My children, I have faith in him!” her ladyship declared. “He is as I have said — magnifique!”

Chapter 11

My Lord Barham in Arlington Street

When the black page announced my Lord Barham next morning both Mr and Miss Merriot were with my lady in the morning-room. My lord was ushered in, very point-de-vice, with laced gloves, and a muff of miniver, and a long beribboned cane. The muff and the cane were given into the page’s charge; the door closed behind this diminutive person, and my lord spread wide his arms. “My children!” he exclaimed. “Behold me returned to you!”

His children maintained an admirable composure. “Like Jonah cast up out of the whale’s belly,” said Robin.

My lord was not in the least put out of countenance by this coolness. “My son!” He swooped upon Robin. “Perfect! To the last detail! My Prudence!”

Prudence submitted to a fervent embrace. “Well, sir, how do you do?” she said, smiling. “We perceive you are returned to us, but we don’t understand the manner of it.”

He struck an attitude. “But do you not know? I am Tremaine. Tremaine of Barham!”

“Lud!” said Robin. “You don’t say so, sir!”

He was hurt. “Ah, you do not believe in me! You doubt me, in effect!”

“Well, sir” — Prudence sat on the arm of Robin’s chair, and gently swung one booted leg to and fro — “We’ve seen you as Mr Colney; we’ve seen you as Mr Daughtry; we’ve even seen you as the Prince Vanilov. You cannot altogether blame us.”

My lord abandoned his attitude, and took snuff. “I shall show you,” he promised. “Do not doubt that this time I surpass myself.”

“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.”

“Robin acquires geography!” My lord smiled gently. “It is the land of my birth. I am come home, enfin. I am Tremaine of Barham.”

“And pray what are we, sir?” inquired Robin, with interest.

“At present, mes enfants, you are Mr and Miss Merriot. I compliment you. It is admirable. I see that you inherit a part of my genius.” He kissed his finger-tips to them. “When I have made all secure you are the Honourable Robin, and the Honourable Prudence Tremaine.”

“Of Barham,” interpolated Prudence.

He looked at her affectionately. “For you, my beautiful Prue, I plan a great marriage,” he informed her magnificently.

“A Royal Prince, belike?” said Prudence, unimpressed.

“I will choose from an older house than this of Hanover,” my lord said grandly. “Have no fear.”

Robin looked at his sister. “My dear, what to do?” he said helplessly.

“Leave all to me!” commanded my lord. “I do not make mistakes.”

“Except in the matter of Royal Princes,” said Robin, with meaning.

“Bah! I forget all that!” The past was consigned to perdition with a snap of thin fingers. “It might have chanced otherwise. I seized opportunity, as ever. Do you blame me for the Rebellion’s failure?”

Prudence shook her head. “Ah, sir, you should have been put at the head of it,” she mourned. “The Prince would be at St James’s today then.”

My Lord was forcibly struck by this view of the case. “My child, you have intuition,” he said seriously. “You are right. Yes, beyond all doubt you are right.” He sat lost in meditation, planning, they knew, great deeds that might have been.

They exchanged glances. My lady sat by the window, chin in hand, raptly gazing upon the old gentleman out of her narrow eyes. There was nothing to do but to wait for him to come out of his trance. Robin sat back in his chair with a shrug of fatalism; his sister continued to sling one booted leg.

My lord looked up. “Dreams!” he waved them aside. “Dreams! I am a great man,” he said simply.

“You are, sir,” agreed Prudence. “But we should like to know what you plan now.”

“I have done with plans and plots,” he told her. “I am Tremaine of Barham.”

There seemed to be no hope of getting anything more out of him. But Prudence persevered. “So you have told us, sir. But can you prove it to the satisfaction of Mr Rensley?”

“If Rensley becomes a nuisance, Rensley must go,” my lord declared, with resolution.

“Murder, sir?”

“He will disappear. I shall see to it. It need not worry you. I arrange all for the best.”

“I wonder whether Mr Rensley will see it in that light?” said Prudence. “Does he acknowledge you, sir?”

“No,” admitted his lordship. “But he fears me. Believe it, he fears me!”

Robin had been sitting with closed eyes, but he opened them now. “I grant you this much, sir: you are to be feared.”

“My Robin!” My lord flung out a hand to him. “You begin to know me then!”

“I’ve a very lively fear of you myself,” said Robin frankly. “Give me audience a moment!”

“Speak, my son. I listen. I am all attention.”

Robin looked at his finger-tips. “Well, sir, the matter stands thus: we’ve a mind to turn respectable, Prue and I.” He raised his eyes. His father’s expression was one of courteous interest. “I admit we don’t see our way clear. We wait on you. To be candid, sir, you pushed us into the late Rebellion, and it is for you to extricate us now. I’ve no desire to adorn Tyburn Tree. We came to London under your direction; we stayed for you here, according to the plan. True, you have come as you promised you would, but in a guise that bids fair to compromise us more deeply still. We don’t desert you: faith, we can’t, unless we choose to go abroad again. But we’ve an ambition to settle in England. We look to you.”

The old gentleman heard him out in smiling silence. At the end he arose. “And not in vain, my children. I live but to settle you in the world. And the time has come! Listen to me! I answer every point. For the Rebellion, it is simplicity itself. You cease to exist. You vanish. In a word, you are no more. Robin Lacey — it was Lacey?  — dies. Remains my son — Tremaine of Barham! I swept you into the Rebellion it’s true. In a little while I have but to stretch out a hand, and you are whisked from all danger. Have patience till I make all secure! Already I announce to the world the existence of a son, and of an exquisite daughter.” He paused. Applause — it was clearly expected — came from my lady, who clapped delighted hands. His eyes dwelt upon her fondly. “Ah, Thérèse, you believe in me. You have reason. Not twice in five hundred years is my like seen.”

“The world has still something to be thankful for,” sighed Robin. “It’s all very fine, sir, and I had as lief be Tremaine of Barham as Robin Lacey; but how do you purpose to arrive at this promised security?”

“That I do not as yet know,” said his lordship. “I make no plans until I see what I have to combat.”

“You realise there’s like to be a fight, sir?”

“Most fully. There are maybe some few will know me from foreign days. Those I do not fear. They are less than nothing.”

“And,” interrupted his son, “there may be also some few will know you from Scottish days. What of them?”

“They too are less than nothing,” said my lord. “Who would dare to seek to expose me?” He laid stress on the last word; it seemed fitting. “What man knows me among the Jacobites whom I do not know? Not one! I have some papers in my possession make me dangerous beyond the power of imagination.”

“Jacobite papers?” said Robin sharply. “Then burn them, sir! You are not, after all, Mr Murray of Broughton.”

My lord drew himself up. “You suspect me of infamy? You think that Tremaine of Barham turns informer? You insult me! You, my son!”

“Egad, sir, let us have done with heroics. I’m to suppose you keep your papers for some purpose.”

“You may consider them as a Sword of Damocles in case of necessity,” said my lord. “There is only one thing that I fear. One little, significant scrap of paper. I shall overcome the obstacle.”

“Paper? You’ve set your name to something? Where is it?” demanded Robin.

“If I knew, should I fear it?” my lord pointed out.

“It seems to me, sir,” said Prudence slowly, “that there is a Sword of Damocles poised above your head as well.”

“There is, my child. You perceive that I conceal nothing. But it is my fate to be victorious. I shall contrive.”

The grey eyes widened. “I contrive,” said Prudence softly. “Do you know, sir, you puzzle me.”

“It has ever been my motto,” the old gentleman pointed out triumphantly. “It is the word of the Tremaines. Consider it, my daughter! Consider it well! I take my leave of you now. You will find me in lodgings at Half Moon Street — close by my loved ones. I have come, and your anxieties are at an end.”

“It is in my mind that they are only just beginning,” said Prudence ruefully.

My lady got up to lay a hand on his lordship’s sleeve. “You do not take possession of your fine town house yet, no?” she inquired.

“In time, Thérèse, in good time. There are legal formalities. I do not trouble myself with lawyers!” This was once more in the grand manner. My lord beamed upon his children. “Farewell, mes enfants! We meet again later.” He kissed my lady’s hand, and was gone with a click of red heels on the wood floor, and the wave of a scented handkerchief.

Chapter 12

Passage of Arms between Prudence and Sir Anthony

They were left to stare at one another. My lady showed an inclination to laugh. “Well, my children? Well?” she demanded.

“I’m glad you think so, ma’am,” bowed Prudence.

“Oh, what’s to be done with the man?” Robin said impatiently.

Prudence walked to the window, and stood looking out into the sunny street. Her voice held some amusement. “My dear, I take it the question is rather what he will do with us.”

“Can you make head or tail of it?”

“Not I, faith.”

“Ay, you preserve your placidity, don’t you?” Robin said.

She laughed. “What else? If we fall, why then, we must. I see no way of preventing it. Alack, I haven’t the trick of coaxing the old gentleman into sense.”

“There is no way. We’re treading another of his mazes, and the devil’s in it that we’ve no choice. For myself, if the old gentleman would be a little plain with us I’m willing enough to play this game out. But I would know where I stand. We ply him with questions, and what answer have we? Why, that he’s a Tremaine of Barham, forsooth! What to do with a man who can say naught but what is assuredly a lie?”

“I think he believes it,” Prudence remarked, twinkling.

“Of course he believes it! He always believes in his own inventions. I’ll swear therein lies his success. Lord, it’s a wonderful old gentleman!”

My lady brushed her hand lightly across the table’s polished surface. She looked curiously at her young friends. “But you — you do not believe it?”

“Hardly, ma’am.” Robin shrugged. “Do you?”

“Me, I know nothing. Would he embark on it, do you think, if there were not some truth behind?”

“Ma’am, you’ve heard him. He believes himself omnipotent.”

“There’s the motto.” Prudence spoke reflectively.

“I don’t set great store by that. He may have had this in mind many a long day.”

“How?” She turned her head.

“We don’t know when he came by these documents he holds,” Robin pointed out. “As I see it he may have met the real Tremaine any time these forty years. When did Tremaine die? Or if he lives yet when had the old gentleman those papers from him? I believe this may have been deep laid.”

“Ah, so do not I!” Prudence came back into the room. “His genius lies in grasping opportunity at a moment’s notice. I’ll swear this was not in his mind when he swept us into the Rebellion.”