The Masqueraders

by Джорджетт Хейер

  “It was not very difficult,” Sir Anthony pointed out.

  “Egad, I hope there are no more of that opinion!”

  “You have to remember that I know something of you. But I’m in the dark. What possessed Letty to elope a second time? I could have sworn she had not a jot of tenderness left for Markham.”

  Robin frowned. “There’s more to it than that,” he said.

  It was at this moment that my Lord Barham swept into the room. My lord waved a hand in recognition of Sir Anthony, but swooped upon his son. “My Robin!” he cried. “Superb! A time-thrust worthy of myself! I have the whole from John. I knew I might rely on you!”

  Sir Anthony cast up his eyes, and retired to the fireplace. “I might have known!” he said. “Of course I should have known!”

  My lord’s eagle eye was upon him. “I assume this gentleman to be in your confidence, my children. I admit him into mine. Sir Anthony, you behold in my son a master-swordsman. I permit myself to take pride in him. A time-thrust — the most dangerous, difficult thrust of all! I kiss your hands, my Robin! I remember that I taught you that pass.”

  “The honours would appear to be divided,” murmured Sir Anthony, unable to repress a twinkle. “Sir, I am wholly at a loss. I wish some one would enlighten me. Do I understand that you planned this affair, my lord?”

  My lord was surprised. “But can you ask?” he said.

  “I suppose there is not the need. But I should like to know how you had wind of the elopement.”

  My lord gazed at him. “Wind of it? I planned it!” he said magnificently.

  The smile died on Sir Anthony’s lips; he stopped twirling his quizzing-glass. He opened his mouth to speak, and shut it again, as though he could find no words.

  “You amaze the large gentleman, sir,” said Robin dryly. “I am not altogether surprised.”

  Sir Anthony swung round. “Were you in this?” he asked, and there was that in his voice which made Prudence grimace oddly. “Am I to believe you were party to such a scheme?”

  “Acquit me, kind sir. My indignation almost equalled yours.”

  Sir Anthony looked at him a moment, and appeared to be satisfied. He turned back to my lord, who was still dwelling fondly on his son’s prowess. “You must explain a little further, sir, if you please. I suppose you had some reason for this.”

  The compelling gaze rested on him. “Certainly!” said my lord. “Be very sure of it. I regard the whole affair as one of my chefs d’oeuvres.”

  “Do you indeed?” Sir Anthony was again sardonic. “Make it plain to me, sir. I beg of you! I am unable to appreciate it at present.”

  Prudence interposed. “You had best be frank with Tony, sir. He knows us for escaped Jacobites.”

  My lord appeared to censure the term. “My child, I live in the present, not in the past. Not even I could save the Prince’s affairs from being bungled: I reject his whole cause. It was a venture not worthy of me. Do not call me a Jacobite.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” Prudence bowed. “Say then only that Sir Anthony knows the truth concerning us.”

  “I deplore the indiscretion,” said my lord. He became reproachful. “Never divulge more than is necessary, my Prudence. Surely I taught you that lesson many years ago!”

  “To be frank, sir, the gentleman had already guessed it.”

  Robin arose from his seat by the window. “No matter. The whole scheme was complicated beyond your imagination, Sir Anthony.”

  “Subtle,” amended his lordship.

  “Tortuous, sir. You’re to know, Fanshawe, that my father was unwise enough to set his name to a certain treasonable letter.”

  “An indiscretion,” said my lord. “I admit it. But it was not my own name, Robin. Do not forget that.”

  Sir Anthony was surprised. “I had not thought that of you, my lord. It seems unlike you.”

  My lord was at once benevolent. “You are blessed with a good understanding, my dear sir. I have admitted an indiscretion. One is sometimes carried away by one’s enthusiasms. You see that even I can make mistakes. A lesson may be learned from that.”

  “Give me leave, sir,” interrupted Robin. “This letter, Sir Anthony, came into the hands of the late Mr Markham, who thought to sell it to my father at a fabulous price. You take me?”

  Sir Anthony nodded. “There’s a ray of daylight,” he said.

  “There shall be more. My father held in his possession a letter writ by Sir Humphrey Grayson, containing half-promises to help the Prince’s cause. It does not surprise you?”

  “Only that your father should have the letter. The rest I knew.”

  “Then there is nothing in the world to surprise you. When you know my father better you will know that he would of course hold the letter.”

  “Don’t cry God forfend, sir!” Prudence said on a chuckle. “Spare our filial feelings!”

  My lord held up his hand. “My daughter, Sir Anthony must surely realise that it is a privilege to know me.”

  Sir Anthony’s mouth twitched at the corners. “I wonder if Markham thought so?” he said. “Proceed, Robin. I begin to understand.”

  “My father, sir, exchanged letters, and that is all there is to it. He assures me that there were at least a dozen other ways of getting Markham’s paper from him, but this one appeared to him to be the neatest.”

  “Of course,” said his lordship. “It needs no explanation. I was able thus to rid myself for ever of my Munich friend, and to present my son to Miss Grayson in the role of a hero. I surpassed myself.” He became aware of Sir Anthony’s wondering gaze upon him, and waved his handkerchief gracefully. “You are spell-bound. I expected it. You can never before have seen my like.”

  “Never, upon my honour!” said Sir Anthony emphatically.

  “And you never will again, my son,” said his lordship with a touch of vicarious regret.

  “Thank God fasting,” advised Robin.

  Sir Anthony laughed suddenly. “No, it is a privilege,” he said. “I would not forego your acquaintance, sir, for the worlds. My horizon broadens every hour.”

  My lord smiled graciously. “That was inevitable,” he said. “It could not be otherwise.”

  Sir Anthony walked to the window and back again, struggling with varied emotions. At last he turned, and made a gesture of despair. “Sir, you demoralise me. Until the privilege of knowing you was conferred upon me I protest I led a sober life, and my opinions were all respectable. I find myself walking now in your train, sir, caught up in I know not what lawless schemes, and I perceive with horror that the day approaches when I shall be lost to all sense of propriety and order.”

  My lord acknowledged a compliment. “I had once some acquaintance with a Jesuit father,” he said reminiscently. “That was in the days of my youth. I profited by it. Yes, I learned some few things.”

  “More than the Jesuit father taught you, I’ll lay my life,” said Robin.

  “Yes,” admitted his lordship. “But then, my son, his brain had its limits.”

  “Have you limitations my lord?” asked Sir Anthony.

  My lord looked at him seriously. “I do not know,” he said, with a revealing simplicity. “I have never yet discovered them.”

  Came my Lady Lowestoft into the room in a fine bustle.

  Her sharp eyes darted from one guest to the other. “Tiens! Such a party!” She untied the strings of her mantle, and cast it from her. “Robert, I know very well you have done some wickedness! Your children of a certainty did not visit friends at Barnet last night.” She pointed an accusing finger. “It is my belief Robin killed the Markham — by your orders, Robert! It is a scandal! a madness! I gasp at it!”

  “A time-thrust,” nodded my lord. “Superb!”

  “What’s that? What is it, a time-thrust?” cried my lady.

  “You would not understand, my dear Thérèse. It is to lunge as your opponent lunges — you may judge how ticklish! — to parry his blade as you come through, and to pass on with not the s
mallest check to — the heart, was it not, my son?”

  “Then it is true!” said my lady. She seemed to have no interest in the brilliance of Robin’s sword play, unlike Sir Anthony, who was looking at Robin with an appraising, marvelling eye. “Good God, Robert, what shall come of this?” She pounced on Sir Anthony. “And you! Do not tell me you had a hand in this too!”

  “Alack, ma’am, no.”

  My lady put her hands to her temples. “The head turns on my shoulders. Of a certainty we are all mad!” She sat down weakly. “You want to end at Tyburn, all three?” she demanded.

  “I’m inclined to think the honour of being executed on Tower Hill must be conferred upon the old gentleman at least,” said Prudence. “Tyburn might do for us, I suppose.”

  “You are ridiculous, Thérèse.” My lord was severe. “What have the Merriots to do with duels and masked men?”

  “I may be ridiculous,” said my lady, “but this I say! the sooner you end this masquerade the better now. Mark me well! We will retire to Richmond, my children. Then if the wind of suspicion should blow your way — eh, but Robert shall send word, and you vanish!”

  “I will go further than that,” interposed Sir Anthony. “I’ve to visit my sister, Lady Enderby, in Hampshire next week. I desire to take Mr Merriot along with me.”

  Prudence shook her head. My lord rose, and picked up his hat. “Do not meddle in my plans,” he advised them all. “Go to Richmond if you will, but await there my orders. It is not possible that suspicion should fall upon my son.”

  He was right thus far, but he had reckoned without Miss Grayson. Prudence, summoned to make a deposition, could tell the gentlemen of the Law very little. Her evidence was admirably given; nothing could exceed the tranquillity of her bearing, nor the frankness of her replies. She was complimented on her share of the night’s work, disclaimed gracefully, and departed.

  Miss Grayson’s evidence was of another colour. She had a worried father in support, but her self-possession was, under the circumstances, almost as creditable as Mr Merriot’s. She listened acutely to the conflicting stories of the coachman and the postilion, and adapted her own as best she might to theirs. The tale as told by these lackeys would perhaps have surprised Robin and John. The postilion was inclined to grant Robin a height he lacked; the coachman, more cautious on this point, waxed impassioned on the subject of the unparalleled ferocity displayed by both men. The third man was the most cautious of all. He said that one man had fired at him before he could raise his blunderbuss, but although he had been forced to surrender it he had not thought the masked men ferocious. Pressed further, he deposed that the smaller man had told the lady to keep Mr Markham covered with his own pistol, which she had done.

  This produced quite a sensation. Miss Letty said with spirit: — “I did not care whether I fell into a highwayman’s hands so long as I was rid of that odious Abductor.”

  It was felt that there was some sound sense displayed in this, but still it was unusual for a lady to be so completely at ease with a couple of highwaymen.

  Miss Letty thought it best to adhere as closely as possible to the third man’s tale. She avowed unblushingly that the highwayman who had fought the duel was of medium height, had brown hair, and was nothing out of the ordinary in appearance. When asked if he was not, as the coachman said, a man of polished address, she seemed uncertain. She would hardly say he had polish, but she admitted he had something of the air of a gentleman. Yes, he had kissed her hand, certainly, but to her mind that was little better than an insult considering he had previously filched her pearls from her. “Whoever it was,” she announced, “he rescued me from a monster, and I am very grateful to him.”

  Faced with the question of abduction, the questioners shook dubious heads. That was a criminal offence, but murder on the King’s Highway — .

  Miss Letty broke in hotly with a flat disclaimer. She turned to the coachman and demanded whether it was not a fair duel. Perceiving that his late master was in danger of being convicted — if you could convict a dead man, of which ticklish point he was not certain — of abduction, the coachman bestowed some of his support on the other side. Decidedly it had been a fair fight, so far as he was able to judge.

  The affair was, in fact, a strange mystery, but the officers of the Law hoped to unravel it.

  Sir Humphrey shook his head gravely when he found himself alone with his daughter, and said only that they were not likely to hear the end of this for many a long day.

  Chapter 26

  Arrest of Mr Merriot

  My Lady Lowestoft was true to her word: she bore her guests off to the Richmond house, and gave there, lest any should think the retirement suspicious, a large ball. All London came, including my Lord Barham, who was overpoweringly resplendent in silver brocade, and wonderfully benign. Sir Anthony Fanshawe was also there. He danced several times with Miss Merriot, and Mr Molyneux was inclined to think that there was a match in that direction. Quite a number of people were of his opinion: Prudence told Robin she was growing jealous.

  She had a little tussle of wills with the large gentleman that evening: he was pledged to visit his sister, and he wanted to take Prudence with him. She would have none of it; she, too, had some strength of purpose and her nay could be very steadfast.

  She had, in fact, small desire to be presented to my Lady Enderby in her present guise. Sir Anthony guessed something of this, and drew a reassuring picture of his sister. She was, he said, a comfortable soul, with no respect for conventions. Still Prudence held to her refusal. To go down to Hampshire with Sir Anthony meant that she must marry him forthwith; she wanted to see first the issue of the old gentleman’s claim. Sir Anthony must be guarded against himself.

  It cost her something to stand out so resolutely against him; for all her calm she was troubled, and looked wistfully when Sir Anthony ceased to press her. She had seen that expression in his face once or twice before; she remembered how at the very outset she had remarked to Robin that she would not choose to cross him. Well, it was true, and he was an ill man to withstand. But one had one’s pride after all. Egad, it was a poor love that could wish to see the gentleman pulled down to marry an adventuress. That sister of his had probably some views other than he knew of on the subject of his marriage. My Lord Barham’s daughter would be well enough; an impostor’s daughter very ill indeed.

  She stood still before him, a slim figure in dove-grey velvet, one hand fingering the black riband that held her quizzing-glass, and her tranquil eyes resting on his face. Even though he was angry with her for her obstinacy he could find it in him to admire the firm set of her mouth, and the clean-cut determination of her chin. She had spirit, this girl, in the man’s clothes, and with the man’s brain. Ay, and she had courage too, and a calmness of demeanour that pleased. No hysterics there; no sentimentalism; no wavering that one could see. Bravery! He warmed to the thought of it. She made nothing of this masquerade; she had faith in herself, and for all the restfulness that characterised her, that slow speech, and the slow smile she had, the wits of her were quick, and marvellously resourceful. She would fleece the wolf at cards, flash a sword out on a party of Mohocks, and stand by with a cool head while her brother fought a grim duel. She could even contemplate a duel on her own account without outward flinching.

  Involuntarily Sir Anthony’s face softened. “My dear, I hate to leave you here,” he said.

  The smile crept back into the grey eyes. “I was afraid you were angry with me, Tony.”

  “I was,” he answered. “But you disarm anger. Will you not come with me?”

  He was not to know how that shook her resolve. She shook her head. “Don’t ask me. I must stand by my word. If my father’s claim succeeds — ”

  There was a momentary tightening of the mouth. “If that tiresome old gentleman were not your father, Prue — ”

  Came the deep twinkle. “Oh, I know, sir! You would say to the devil with him. We often do.”

  He laughed. “You’re a d
isrespectful couple. I believe I’ll postpone my visit to Hampshire.”

  “If you would please me, Tony, you will go as you planned.”

  “So that you may disappear while I am away?”

  “Can you trust my word?” He nodded. “I won’t disappear. But I would rather that you went.”

  “For a week I will, since you ask it of me. I wonder why you wish it?”

  She had few feminine evasions at her command, few subtleties. “To say truth, sir, you shake my resolution.”

  There was an eager look, dispelling sleepiness. “Give me back my promise!”

  She shook her head, and smiled a little. “I hold you to it.”

  There was no more to be said. He bowed. “I obey you — now. Take a lesson from me.”

  She felt herself weakening. Lord, she desired nothing better than to do his bidding. It would not be wise to let him see that. She said lightly: “Oh, if you marry me in the end, sir, I promise you a dutiful wife.” Her eyes fell before the look in his. “As for your fears for me, you need have none, Tony. I’m not like to come to any harm.”

  She did not know how exactly Miss Letty, all unconsciously, had described her to the gentlemen of the law.

  Nor did she suspect the hand of an enemy to be turned against her. She had forgotten Mr Rensley, newly arisen from his bed of sickness.

  Mr Rensley, permitted to sit up in his room, heard the news of Markham’s death rather late in the day from his chatty surgeon. He was quite shocked, even a little put out. There had been a sudden coolness between himself and Markham, but this news was upsetting. He evinced a lively interest; the surgeon liked to talk; Mr Rensley soon had all the circumstances from him. He was particularly anxious to know how the Merriots came to chance along the road at such a late and opportune hour. To one who knew of enmity existing between Mr Merriot and Markham, the thing had a significance. When the surgeon had departed Rensley spent some time in earnest thought. Young Merriot had hung about the heiress quite noticeably; it was possible, nay, probable, that the original quarrel had sprung up out of some rivalry.