My lord still seemed dissatisfied. After a moment Sir Anthony went on. “And I want now, sir, to spirit her off. She tells me she must needs wait upon your claim.”
“Certainly,” said my lord. “She shows a proper feeling. She has faith in me, enfin.”
“That’s as may be, sir, but I rather see her in safety now.”
“I applaud her decision,” said my lord. “She will await my re-instalment; and you may then pay your addresses to her with all propriety. As for Robin, he is my son, and I want no pardons for him. I arrange all in a manner sublime beyond your comprehension. You may place your trust in me.”
A deep, calm voice spoke from the doorway. “In fact, sir, we are all of us wandering in a maze, and there is only one of our number knows the path out of it.”
Sir Anthony turned quickly; my lord bowed ineffably in acknowledgment of a compliment he had no hesitation in taking to himself. Prudence stood on the threshold, neat in brown velvet, with brown hair unpowdered. She met Sir Anthony’s gaze, and there was a little smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “I’ve this much faith in my father, sir, that I believe we may ruin all by a step taken without his knowledge.”
“My Prue!” His lordship stretched a hand towards her. “I said you had intuition.”
“It seems to me,” said Sir Anthony whimsically, “that I, too, am being drawn into this maze.”
“Inevitably,” nodded his lordship. “You, too, are in my toils.”
“I’m a respectable creature, sir, I believe.”
“If I did not think it, sir, I should deny you the right to aspire to my daughter’s hand.”
Sir Anthony bowed, but Prudence was not pleased. “Let’s have done with that, sir. Sir Anthony honours me beyond my deserts. I don’t desire to see him in the maze.” She came forward and put her hand on Fanshawe’s sleeve. She looked up at him seriously. “Stand back from us, sir. I ask it of you.”
He covered her hand with one of his. “Faith, you ask more than I can perform. I don’t meddle, but I reserve to myself the right to watch over you.”
My lord smiled indulgently, and helped himself to a pinch of snuff. Prudence said earnestly: “Believe me, we were born to this game of hazardous chances. But you are not. Stand back from us.”
“My child, you need have no qualms,” my lord assured her. “My plans are not overset even by Sir Anthony’s entering into them.”
“That was not what was in my mind, sir,” said Prudence dryly.
Sir Anthony smiled down at her. “My dear, I know, but I may take care of myself. Don’t worry over my safety. I am to wait: you’ll none of my help. Well, I said that it should be so, and I abide by my word. But things must be the same between us, if only to avert suspicion. You will visit me as frequently as ever. My Lord Barham can trust me.”
My lord waved his hand. “Implicitly, my dear Fanshawe! Are you not to be a second son to me? I can even applaud your forethought. Certainly my daughter visits you the same as ever.”
Observing a troubled crease between Prudence’s brows, Sir Anthony said softly: “And Prudence herself has naught to fear from me, neither exposure nor importunities. I remain her friend Tony.”
“Admirable,” nodded my lord. “You are all delicacy, sir.”
Prudence looked up into the square face, and smiled mistily. “Indeed, Tony, I think so,” she said.
Chapter 20
Ingenuity of My Lord Barham
Robin had, perforce, to wish his sister joy of her conquest. He perceived her to be troubled, an unusual state of mind with her, and abandoned the teasing note. “To be honest, my dear, I was wrong in under-rating the mountain. What happened last night?”
She told him, choosing her words carefully, he thought. “He caught my wrist,” she ended, “and bore it downwards. I knew then, of course. There was no more to say. I know when it is time to have done with lies.” She pushed back the ruffles from her hand, and inspected the wrist closely.
“What, do the marks still linger?” Robin was inclined to be indignant.
“No. I thought they did,” she said inconsequently. “He asked my name; I told him. He guessed that I was the old gentleman’s child. The rest is nothing.”
Robin let that pass. He fell to playing with his rings. “I’m of the opinion he’ll have you, Prue.”
She smiled at that, but the smile died. “I don’t like it, Robin. It was very well to play this part when none knew the truth, but now — he knows, and — do you understand at all?”
“Certainly, child. You might leave your part. He offers you a change.”
She turned her head. “Oh, and you thought that I would take it, did you not?”
“No, my Prue. I thought you would not,” Robin grinned. “For myself I don’t mind the large gentleman. For all his respectability there’s some humour in the man. I’ve a notion he doesn’t approve of your little brother. We shall see.”
The Honourable Charles, appearing then to claim Mr Merriot, there was an end to further discussion. Prudence went off with Mr Belfort. Later in the day she met Sir Anthony at White’s Club. She knew a momentary embarrassment, but something in Fanshawe’s demeanour banished it. He walked home with her, and if she had dreaded some love-making, that fear was quickly dispelled. He was as he had said he would be, her very good friend. It was only when she had parted from him that she realised how possessive was the gentleman’s attitude. He seemed to consider that she belonged to him already. She pondered the question thoughtfully, and arrived at the conclusion that perhaps he had reason.
My Lord Barham, when he left Arlington Street, sauntered back to his lodgings in great good humour. He had no objection to Sir Anthony having complete knowledge of the masquerade; so slight a deviation from the original plan was not enough to perturb his lordship. That quick brain was busy with the fitting of Sir Anthony into my lord’s machinations. He reflected with a pleased smile that John, the unbelieving, should see how even a big man with sleepy eyes should dance to his piping.
My lord came to his rooms in Half Moon Street to find that a visitor awaited him. My lord’s valet took his hat and cane, and murmured the name of Markham. My lord listened with a head gently inclined in interest, and went into his dining-room, smoothing a wrinkle from a satin sleeve.
Mr Markham arose at his entry, and bowed slightly. My lord smiled with the utmost affability, and put up his quizzing-glass. “My friend of Munich days!” he said softly. “How I am honoured!” His eyes dwelt lovingly on Mr Markham; there was no reading in them the smallest hint of what thoughts were passing swiftly across that subtle mind. “But sit down, my dear Mr Markham! Pray sit down!”
Mr Markham obeyed this injunction, and was silent while the valet set wine and glasses on the table. My lord’s white hand hovered over the Burgundy decanter; my lord looked inquiring.
“I won’t drink, I thank you,” said Mr Markham.
“But positively I insist!” My lord was pained. “You will permit me to give you some claret.”
Mr Markham watched the valet go out of the room. “You must guess I’ve come upon business,” he said curtly.
“No; but no, my dear Markham. I thought you had come to recall old days,” said his lordship. “I never occupy myself with business. You cannot interest me in such a subject. Shall it be claret or Burgundy?”
“Oh, claret, then!” Mr Markham said impatiently.
“I am quite of your opinion,” nodded my lord. “Burgundy is the very King of Wines, but it was not meant to be taken in the morning.” He handed his guest a brimming glass, and poured another for himself. “To your very good health, my dear sir!”
Mr Markham made no answer to his toast. He drank some of the wine, and pushed the glass from him. “I venture to think, my Lord Barham, that the business I am come upon will interest you vastly,” he said.
My lord re-filled his glass. “I am sure if anyone could interest me in such a subject, it must be you, dear Markham,” he said warmly.
Against such smooth-spoken politeness Mr Markham found it difficult to proceed. He felt somewhat at a disadvantage, but comforted himself with the thought that it was my lord who should feel at a disadvantage in a very few moments. He plunged abruptly into the subject of his errand. “As to this claim of yours, sir, that you are Tremaine of Barham, I don’t believe in it, but I am taking no interest in it now.”
“That is very wise of you,” my lord approved. “You must allow me to compliment you.”
Mr Markham ignored this. “For all I care, you may ape the part of Barham to your heart’s content. It’s nothing to me.”
“Positively you overwhelm me!” my lord said. “You oppress me with kindness, sir. And you come, in fact, to set my mind at rest! Believe me all gratitude.”
“I don’t come for that purpose at all,” said Mr Markham, annoyed. “I come for a purpose, for which you may not be so damned grateful.”
“Impossible!” My lord shook his head. “The mere felicity of seeing you here in my rooms must fill me with gratitude.”
Mr Markham broke in on this without ceremony. “Barham you may be, but there is one thing you have been which is certain!” He paused to let this sink in.
My lord did not seem to be greatly impressed. “Oh, a number of things!” he assured his guest. “Of course, there are a number of things I have not been, too. They have never fallen in my way, which is the reason, you see. But continue! Pray continue!”
“I will, my lord. You may not find it so palatable as you imagine. You have been — you may be still, for aught I know — a cursed Jacobite!”
My lord’s expression of polite interest underwent no change. “But you should tell this to my cousin Rensley,” he pointed out.
“You may be thankful I don’t, sir. It’s nothing to me: my information goes to the highest bidder. If you haggle, my lord, Rensley shall have it. But I don’t think you will haggle.”
“I’m sure I shan’t,” my lord answered. “I am not a tradesman.”
“You’re a damned Jack-of-all-trades, in my opinion!” said Markham frankly. “You assume a mighty lofty tone, to be sure — ”
“No, no, it comes quite naturally,” my lord interpolated sweetly. “I assume nothing; I am a positive child of nature, my dear sir. But you were saying?”
“Ay, it doesn’t interest you at all, does it?” Mr Markham achieved a sneer.
My lord was apologetic. “Well, not just at the moment, my dear friend of old days. But presently I feel you will arrive at a climax which will astound me. I am all expectation.”
“It may well appal you, my lord. I have here” — he laid his hand on the breast of his coat significantly — “something that spells ruin for you.”
“What, in your heart?” My lord was puzzled.
“No, sir! In my pocket!” snapped Markham.
“Oh, I see! An inner pocket! A very cunning contrivance, sir: I must have one made for myself. What did you tell me you had in it?”
“I have a certain paper, sir — a letter writ to my Lord George Murray: writ by a man who called himself — Colney!”
“Good Gad, sir!” said my lord placidly. “But you don’t drink! You find my claret insipid, I fear. Let me send for some canary. Or do you prefer ale in the morning? My man shall procure you some on the instant. You have but to say the word.”
“You, sir, are that man!” declared Mr Markham in a ringing voice.
My lord jumped and blinked. “I am anything in the world you please,” he assured Mr Markham. “But don’t, I implore you, give me another such start!”
Mr Markham put a hand to his pocket, and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. This he spread before my lord’s eyes, keeping it well out of reach.
My lord looked at it and nodded. “Very interesting,” he said.
“Very dangerous, my Lord of Barham!”
“Then I should take care of it,” advised my lord. “I do wish you would drink. I feel you detect something amiss with the claret which has escaped my palate.”
“To hell with the claret! What will you give for this document, my lord? What’s it worth, eh? A man’s life?”
My lord shook his head decidedly. “If you want that for it, take it elsewhere, my dear Markham.”
Markham stowed it safely away. “With your leave, sir, we’ll ha’ done with this foolery. I know you for Colney. I hold a paper that would send you to the gallows-tree. Come out into the open, sir, and be plain with me. I’ve no animosity towards you; I wish you no harm. But you’ll pay well for the letter.”
My lord rose, and made a fine gesture. “I perceive that you would be a friend indeed. I embrace you! We understand one another.”
“As to that,” said Markham, rather bewildered by this sudden effusion, “I am neither your friend nor your foe. But I hold you in the hollow of my hand.”
“You do, my dear Markham, you do! And if I were given the choice of a hand to be held in, I should choose yours. My word for it, sir, my solemn oath!”
“I might have taken this paper to Rensley,” Markham went on, disregarding. “I thought of it; I weighed it well. I decided it was more vital to you to get the paper than Rensley. And I came as you see.”
“A master-mind!” said my lord. “I drink to it.” He did so, with considerable flourish. “You must accept my homage, Mr Markham. I descry in you a shrewd brain. I venerate it; we were made for each other. Rensley could never have given you what I can give you. My dear friend, I have something which might have been designed expressly for you. But still you don’t drink.”
Mr Markham tossed off the wine, and set his glass down again. “You’re mighty pleased over it,” he remarked.
“I am, sir. You have divined me correctly. I could embrace you.”
“It is not your embraces I want, my lord.”
My lord smiled wickedly. “But do I not know it! It is Letitia Grayson’s embraces you crave, my dear Markham.”
Mr Markham choked and swore. “Curse it, what do you know of Letty Grayson?”
“Very little, sir, but I shall hope to know more when she is Mrs Markham. I drink to that happy day.”
A gloomy look came into Mr Markham’s face. “You may spare your pains: it’s far off.”
“No, no, my friend, it is close at hand!” said my lord radiantly.
Mr Markham looked suspicious. “What do you know of it? You are off at a tangent. I’ve come to sell you your own treasonable letter, not to talk of Letty Grayson.”
My lord sat down again. “My friend, I will show you a sure road to Miss Letty,” he promised.
“I wish there was such a road,” Markham said. The truth was Miss Grayson’s dimpled loveliness haunted him almost as much as did Miss Grayson’s golden fortune.
“There is,” said my lord. “But it is known only to me. Let us be plain — you did wish me to be plain with you, did you not? Well, my dear Markham, at first I thought, no: I will not show my Munich friend the road. But then, sir, then I fell in love with your wit. You remember that I was impelled to compliment you. You seem to realise that I might not be quite all I pretend to be. I admire that perspicacity. Then you assured me that you had no animosity towards me. I was struck by this, sir: I was amazed. I saw in you a friend: I changed my mind. I will put into your hands a certain means of winning Letitia Grayson. You might be away to Gretna in a week, if you chose.”
“H’m!” said Mr Markham sceptically. “That’s to play the same game twice. With Fanshawe on my heels, as he was before. No, I thank you.”
“I myself will keep Fanshawe away,” announced my lord. “You will stop only to change horses; you arrive at Gretna — ”
“And Letty refuses to marry me. Very pretty.”
“You have it quite wrong,” said my lord. “She goes willingly. You are married; she becomes mistress of her mother’s fortune on that day. You are at once rich, and a happy bridegroom.”
Mr Markham’s eyes glistened. It was an attractive picture, and he could not resist dwelling
on it for a space. “You seem to know a devilish lot about the Graysons,” he remarked.
“I do, my friend, as you shall see. I know she becomes mistress of a charming fortune on the day she marries, with or without Sir Humphrey’s consent. You must be master of it. I am determined on it.”
“But how?” demanded Mr Markham.
My lord arose, and went to where a locked desk stood. Mr Markham watched him open it, and saw him take a bundle of papers from a hidden drawer, and select one from the bundle. My lord came back with it in his hand, and spread it for his visitor to read. A smile of simple triumph illumined his countenance.
Mr Markham read with knit brows. It was a letter from Sir Humphrey to a man Markham did not know. It was vague in tenor, but there were references to the “Prince,” and a half promise to render assistance in the “venture to be attempted,” if the Prince would come without foreign aid into England. Mr Markham sniffed. “The old dog!” he said. “That wouldn’t send him to Tyburn. He’s a friend of Bute’s. He never lifted a finger in the Rising, and they’d never touch him.”
“But would the little Letty see that with the same quickness, my friend? Your brain leaps to it, true, but do you rate her intelligence as high as yours? I cannot allow it to be so.”
A dim scheme began to form itself in Mr Markham’s brain. “I’ll take it,” he said suddenly.
“You shall, dear sir. And I will take that letter you keep in your cunning pocket. It’s all so delightfully simple.”
“That won’t quite do, I’m afraid,” said Mr Markham. “I want more for it than that. I’ll see the colour of your money, my lord.”
My lord folded the paper. He was still smiling. “It would disappoint you, my friend. It is just the same colour as everyone else’s. And you never will see it.”
“I shan’t, eh? You prefer me to take my letter to Rensley?”
“Infinitely,” said my lord. “You won’t see the colour of his money either. You must look ahead, my friend; you must look far, and consider the situation well. You have not thought on it deeply enough. I am not Lord Barham yet. You have your doubts of me; you are a very clever man, Mr Markham; I felicitate you. I am not going to tell you whether my claim is true or not. There is not, perhaps, the need. You seem to understand me so well, my dear sir. Now, you want a large sum for your letter. You realise, of course, that unless my claim is just, I can have nothing approaching it. All I have lies in the letter I hold, and I offer it to you. I can give no more.”
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