The Masqueraders

by Джорджетт Хейер

  “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.”

  Robin was silent, puzzling over it. Came the page to announce Sir Anthony Fanshawe. Sir Anthony had called to fetch Mr Merriot to ride out past Kensington with him. Prudence went off, and my lady’s black eyes twinkled merrily.

  “That is a romance, not?” she said.

  Robin caught back a sigh. “I don’t see the happy ending, ma’am.” He got up and began to pace the room. “I wish I saw my way,” he said, pausing. He bit one finger-tip, frowning.

  Her ladyship watched him. “You stand by the bon papa, yes?”

  “It seems likely. I see no other hope of a fair conclusion. This is to risk all for the slim chance of gaining all. Well, it has ever been our way. I might be off to France, taking Prue with me. That’s the safe road. I can fend a path for us both. But it’s the end to her romance.”

  “And to yours, mon enfant,” said her ladyship softly.

  “Perhaps. That does not signify so much. I was, after all, born to this game. But Prue’s not. She hankers now after the secure life, wedded to the mountain, I suppose. It’s a pretty coil.” He resumed his pacing. “I’ve thought on all this, ma’am. I don’t see the way to compass it, for the mountain’s a respectable gentleman, and we — well, to be plain, we’re adventurers. Now comes the old gentleman, in a preposterous guise, and — egad, it’s a forlorn hope, but the only one that I can perceive. If he can brave it out — why then, the Honourable Prudence becomes a fitting bride for an even greater man than the great Sir Anthony.”

  She nodded. “That’s certain. Me, I do not see so very much to fear.”

  “I see a multitude of things, ma’am, and one more clearly than all the rest. He admitted himself there was somewhere a document bearing his name. If I but knew who holds it!” He broke off, and compressed his lips.

  “You think you could obtain it, my child?”

  There was a confident little laugh. “Let me have but wind of it!” Robin said.

  “I shall see you yet as the heir of Barham,” my lady prophesied, and went off to send out the cards for her next evening party.

  Along the road to Kensington Prudence rode by Sir Anthony’s side, and talked idly of this and that. Sir Anthony rode a big raw-boned chestnut, and sat his horse well. The brute had tricksy manners, but he seemed to know his master, and responded to the slightest movement of the strong hand on the bridle.

  Prudence herself had horsemanship. The bay mare from my lady’s stable chose to curvet all across the road, in a playful endeavour to throw her off. She swayed gracefully to the mare’s buckings, humoured her a little, and brought her up alongside her
chestnut companion.

  Sir Anthony sat easily in the saddle, watching her, a hand laid lightly on his hip. “She’s a little fresh,” he remarked.

  Prudence leaned forward to pat the mare’s neck. “Playful. There’s no vice.”

  The mare reared up as though to protest against this reading of her character, and of a sudden all the indolence left Sir Anthony. He bent swiftly forward, and caught the mare’s bridle close to the bit before Prudence knew what he would be at. The mare was brought down by a man’s iron hand, but her rider sat unshaken.

  Now, what possessed the man to do that? “She doesn’t throw me so easily, sir,” Prudence said gently.

  “As I see.” Sir Anthony pricked onward. “In all, you puzzle me, boy.”

  Prudence studied the road ahead. “I do, sir?” she said. “I don’t know why I should.”

  The heavy-lidded eyes rested on her profile for a minute. “Don’t you?” said Sir Anthony.

  A pulse began to beat rather fast in her throat. She waited.

  “You are,” Sir Anthony said, “a curious mixture. You’d no suspicion of it?”

  She laughed. “None, sir, upon my word.”

  “A babe in our midst,” he remarked thoughtfully. “And yet — not a babe.”

  “I told you, sir, that I have been about the world a little.”

  “It may be that. Was all this junketting about by yourself, I wonder?”

  She was being cross-examined. One must step warily. “There was usually a friend with me,” she answered indifferently.

  “You must have spent a prodigious time touring Europe,” he said pensively.

  “I don’t know why you should think so, sir. I made the Grand Tour.”

  “You must have made it a very extended one to have seen so much,” Sir Anthony pointed out gently.

  “You forget, sir, a great part of my life was spent abroad with my parents.”

  “Ah, to be sure!” he nodded. “No doubt many of your experiences were gained then.”

  “Yes, Sir Anthony.”

  There was a slight pause. The gentleman was looking straight between his horse’s ears. “What a very tender age at which to have seen so much!” he remarked blandly.

  The mare bounded forward under a spur incautiously driven home. “Sir,” said Prudence, “for some reason I don’t guess you seem to hold me in suspicion.” It was a daring move, but she could see no other.

  Up went the straight brows, in sleepy surprise. “Not at all, my dear boy. Why should I?”

  “I have no notion, sir.”

  They rode on in silence for a little while. “Shall we have the pleasure of seeing your respected father in town?” inquired the tiresome gentleman.

  “I believe not, sir.”

  “Why, I am sorry.” said Sir Anthony. “I confess I have an ambition to meet the begetter of so worldly-wise a youth.”

  “No doubt my father would surprise you, sir,” said Prudence, with truth. “It’s a remarkable old gentleman.”

  “No doubt he would,” agreed Fanshawe. “I find that life is full of surprises.”

  For a moment grey eyes met grey. “The sudden appearance of the lost Viscount, for instance,” said Prudence lightly.

  “Precisely. And the no less sudden appearance of the Pretender not so long back.”

  So that was the gist of the matter, was it? Prudence drew in her breath.

  The lazy voice continued. “And — when one thinks of it — the sudden appearance of the Merriots.”

  “Oh, that! Sudden to you, I make no doubt, but believe me it was not sudden to us. My sister was in a fever of anticipation for weeks before.”

  The danger point seemed to be past. Sir Anthony preserved a thoughtful silence.

  “You did not go down to your house at Wych End after all, sir,” remarked Prudence at length.

  “No, little man. I changed my mind since your company was denied me.”

  She flushed, and looked up frankly. “I wonder that you should so greatly desire my company, Sir Anthony.”

  He stroked the chestnut’s neck with the butt of his whip, and smiled a little. “Do you?” he said, and turned his head. “Now why?”

  Faith, when he let one see them the gentleman had most understanding eyes.

  “Well, sir” — Prudence looked demure — “I have a notion you think me an escaped rebel.”

  “And if you were,” said Sir Anthony, “must I necessarily deny you my friendship?”

  “I believe you to be a good Whig, sir.”

  “I hope so, little man.”

  “I took no part in the late Rebellion, sir.”

  “I have not accused you of it, my dear boy.”

  The horses dropped to a walk. “But if I had, Sir Anthony... What then?”

  “You might still rest assured of my friendship.”

  There was a warm feeling about her heart, but he did not know the full sum of it, alack.

  “You are very kind, Sir Anthony — to an unknown youth.”

  “I believe I remarked to you once that I have an odd liking for you, little man. One of these strange twists in one’s affections for which there is no accounting. If I can serve you at any time I desire you will let me know it.”

  “I have to thank you, sir.” She could find no other words.

  “You may perhaps have noticed, my dear boy, that my friends call me Tony,” he said.

  She bent to fiddle with her stirrup leather, and her reply was somewhat inarticulate. When she sat straight again in the saddle she showed a heightened colour, but it might have been due to the stooping posture.

  Chapter 13

  Encounter at White’s

  Far from exhibiting a disposition to seek any sort of seclusion, such as might be supposed to become a gentleman waiting upon so large a claim, the new Lord Barham showed himself abroad whenever opportunity presented itself. It was quite impossible for anyone living in polite Society to be long ignorant of his lordship’s existence: he was a most prominent gentleman. His stature might lack something in height, for he was after all but a small man, but this was more than compensated for by the overwhelming personality of the man. He had but to enter a room for every eye to turn involuntarily in his direction. It was not in his dress that this distinctiveness lay, though that was always gorgeous; it was not even in his carriage, however haughty that might be. It was thought to lie in the arresting quality of his eyes: if he looked at one, one was straightway conscious of no little magnetism.

  Discussion concerning him was rife; his children had to listen to all manner of conjectures and rumours, and derived therefrom some amusement, and some alarm as well.

  He had his supporters; in the ranks of the ladies they were numberless. Who, pray, could like that coarse Rensley? The ladies knew nothing of claims, or legal matters, but they were sure this gentleman had all the air of a great man, and was far more fitted to be a Viscount than that odious Rensley.

  Amongst the men opinions were varied. There were those who said he had the look of the Tremaines, and there were others who could see no resemblance. Foremost of these was old Mr Fontenoy, who had some recollection of the lost Tremaine as a boy. He said that the lad he had known was a frank, impetuous youth, and could by no means have developed into the incorrigible actor this fellow showed himself to be.

  But opposed to Mr Fontenoy stood my Lord Clevedale, that jovial peer, who claimed also to have known young Tremaine. He could very easily imagine that the hot-headed boy might easily change into the present figure as the years went by. He claimed old acquaintance with Lord Barham, and was accepted with rapture. To be sure, the Viscount seemed to remember very little of those bygone days, but then my Lord Clevedale’s memory was also a trifle hazy. It was all so many years ago — thirty at least, his lordship believed, for young Tremaine had run off to the Continent when he was scarce a day more than eighteen.

  No one set much store by Mr Rensley’s stout refusal to acknowledge his supposed cousin. Naturally Rensley would
fight. The trouble was to know how to address poor Rensley. One could not have two Viscounts of the same name, but until the lawyers had done ferreting out information, and quibbling over documents the new lord had no claim to any title at all, and Rensley might continue to hold it, as he held the estates and the houses. Yet for some reason — it must again lie in that magnetic eye — the newcomer was everywhere addressed as Lord Barham, while his less forceful relative sank back into undistinguished esquiredom.

  It was thought to augur well for the authenticity of my lord’s claim that he made no demand on the estate. An impostor, so it was argued, would have been sure to try to get money advanced him from the lawyers. But his lordship had put forward no such suggestion; nor did he show any desire to oust Rensley from the town house in Grosvenor Square until all should be satisfactorily proved. The ladies thought this showed a sweet disposition in the old gentleman; the gentlemen wagged solemn heads, and did not know what to make of it.

  When my lord made his stately way in at the sacred portals of White’s club there were one or two gentlemen muttered darkly of effrontery. But the mutterings died down; my lord became a member of the club. No one quite knew the man responsible for this; it was Sir Anthony Fanshawe who said with a deep chuckle that he believed they might see my lord’s proposer in my lord himself. Several gentlemen were quite indignant when the full force of this suggestion dawned on them, but there was no movement made to eject his lordship. He was accepted, perforce, and it had to be admitted that in spite of some foreign extravagancies of manner, his ton was all that it should be, and his general bearing a fine mixture of stateliness and affability.

  But there was no denying the man was a puzzle. No one could remember ever to have heard him announce, point-blank, that he was in very truth what he claimed to be. It was recollected that naturally no one cared to ask him this ticklish question, and this was thought by some to extenuate this omission on his part. But others felt that an honest claimant should have an open way with him. Instead of offering any proof to Rensley, and the world at large, of his identity he seemed content to remain an enigma until the lawyers should have done. Lord Clevedale considered this attitude to be a point in the old gentleman’s favour, but Mr Fontenoy shook his head, and said it was not at all in keeping with the character of young Tremaine.