Masqueraders

by Georgette Heyer

  There was an uncomfortable air of strain in the room; my lord was too much master of the situation. Rensley sat on Mr Clapperly’s right hand, and scowled at the table. Mr Clapperly had begged him to leave all to his men of business, and he had agreed to hold his peace. He did not look at my lord; the sight of that smiling countenance enraged him to the point of desperation.

  Mr Fontenoy preserved his prim severity; my Lord Clevedale lounged beside the old gentleman, and was frankly agog with curiosity. Burton and his sister sat together on one side of the table, and appeared to be rather bewildered.

  Mr Brent signed to his clerk, who brought forward a leather case. Mr Brent opened this, and produced a slip of paper. It seemed to have been cut from a letter, for it was closely written over. ‘Perhaps, sir, you would be good enough to tell us if you recognize this writing,’ he said courteously, and gave the slip to the clerk, who carried it to my lord.

  My lord put out a white hand to receive it. He glanced at it, smiled, and gave it back. ‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘It is my father’s hand.’

  Mr Rensley shot a quick look at him, and bit his lip.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ bowed Mr Brent. ‘And these?’

  My lord took three other such slips. One he handed back at once. ‘My brother. Pray take it away.’ He frowned over the second and shook his head. ‘I have not the smallest notion,’ he said calmly. ‘I doubt whether I have ever seen it before.’ He turned to the third, and spent some time over it. ‘I am inclined to think that this must be my Aunt Susanna,’ he said.

  ‘Inclined, sir?’

  ‘Inclined,’ nodded my lord. ‘I never received a letter from her in my life that I can remember. But I perceive the word Toto. My respected aunt, when I knew her – and I do trust she’s dead? – had a small dog of that name. A yapping, petted little brute of a spaniel. Mr Fontenoy would remember.’

  Mr Fontenoy nodded. The lawyers exchanged glances. If this were indeed an impostor he knew a deal about the family of Tremaine.

  ‘But the second letter, sir?’

  My lord raised his brows. ‘I told you, did I not? I do not know the hand at all.’ He put up his glass and looked at it again. ‘Very ill-formed,’ he remarked. ‘No, I know no one with such an undistinguished hand.’

  Mr Rensley reddened angrily and opened his mouth to speak. Mr Brent put up a hand to silence him. ‘Is it not a little strange that you should not know the writing of the man you claim as cousin, sir?’ he asked.

  My lord was aghast. He looked at Rensley. ‘Good gad, cousin, is it yours indeed? I have been guilty of a breach of manners! I am desolated to have passed such a stricture on your hand.’

  ‘You do not answer me, sir,’ Mr Brent pointed out.

  My lord turned to him. ‘I crave your pardon. But does it need an answer? I thought I had made the situation between the Tremaines and the Rensleys clear to all. It is not in the least strange that I should not recognise the hand. I had never seen it before.’

  Mr Brent bowed in a non-committal manner, and drew a miniature from the case before him. ‘Do you know this face, sir?’

  ‘I ought to,’ said my lord. ‘But do put it away again, dear sir! I’ve not the smallest wish to gaze upon my late brother’s image.’

  Old Mr Clapperly gave a dry cackle of laughter. Young Mr Clapperly looked reproachful, and said: ‘I believe, gentlemen, we cannot regard that as conclusive. The late Viscount was well known. Show him the other one.’

  My lord held a miniature of a dark lady at arm’s length, and surveyed it critically. ‘When was this done?’ he inquired. ‘It quite fails to convey an impression of her charm.’

  ‘You know the face, sir?’

  ‘Dorothea,’ said my lord. ‘At least, so I suppose, but it is very bad. More like my aunt Johanna. There is a far better portrait of her in the gallery of Barham.’ He showed the miniature to Mr Fontenoy. ‘You knew my sister, sir. Do you agree that this does her less than justice?’

  ‘Miss Tremaine had certainly more animation than is shown here,’ Mr Fontenoy answered.

  My lord gave back the miniature. There was a gleam in his eye. ‘But why not produce a picture of myself ?’ he suggested.

  Mr Fontenoy, and old Mr Clapperly looked sharply. Rensley said triumphantly: – ‘You make a slip there, my clever gentleman! There is no picture of you!’

  My lord smiled. ‘No? And does my friend Mr Fontenoy agree with that?’

  Mr Fontenoy said nothing. My lord tapped the lid of his snuff-box. ‘What of the sketch that was taken of me when I was eighteen?’ he asked softly.

  It was plain Rensley knew nothing of this; equally plain was it that my lord had impressed the two eldest people present. ‘It is true that there was once such a portrait, sir,’ said old Mr Clapperly. ‘But it exists no longer.’

  ‘You may be right,’ said my lord politely. ‘It is a long time since I left England. But perhaps you have not looked for it in the right place.’

  ‘We have searched both in this house, and at Barham, sir. It is not to be found.’

  ‘I see that I must assist you,’ smiled my lord.

  There was an alert look in Mr Brent’s face. ‘Indeed, sir, and do you know where this likeness is to be found?’

  ‘I hope so, Mr Brent. But do not let us be rash. If the likeness is still where I hid it, then I can find it.’

  Mr Fontenoy lost some of his primness. Everyone was staring eagerly at my lord. ‘Where you hid it, sir?’

  ‘Where I hid it,’ repeated my lord. ‘Now I have overheard you to say, Mr Fontenoy, that young Robert Tremaine was a romantic youth. It is very true! Years have not dulled the edge of my romantic fervour.’ He laid down his snuff-box on the table before him, and his strangely compelling eyes swept the room. ‘They have only sharpened a brain that was always acute, gentlemen. You cannot fail to have observed a forethought in me that excites the admiration. I had it even as a boy.’ He smiled benignantly. ‘Such a contingency as the present one I dimly expected, even in those far-off days. I saw that the day might come when I might desire to prove my identity. The romantic boy, Mr Fontenoy, hid a picture of himself in this very room, to serve as a proof if ever he should need one.’

  ‘In this room!’ ejaculated my Lord Clevedale, looking round.

  ‘Certainly,’ said my lord. ‘That is why I chose this room to-day.’ He rose. ‘Tell me, cousin, are you a great reader?’

  ‘No, I am not,’ said Rensley curtly.

  ‘Nor was my brother,’ said his lordship. ‘I thought of that at the time. My father was much addicted to the works of Shakespeare but I believe he had no Latin.’

  ‘What’s all this to do with it?’ Rensley demanded uneasily.

  My lord’s glance travelled to the top shelf of the books that lined the room. ‘Do you ever chance to take down the works of the poet Horace, cousin?’

  ‘No, I do not, and I don’t see –’

  ‘Nor did my brother, I am convinced,’ said my lord. ‘I thought it was safe – wonderfully safe, and wonderfully neat. I admire my own astuteness.’ He met the puzzled eyes of my Lord Clevedale. ‘A great pity to have no knowledge of the humanities,’ he said. ‘It is an estimable advantage. Had you been familiar with the Odes of Horace, cousin – but you are not. But take them down now: it is never too late to begin. Over in that corner, on the top shelf you will find the first volume, elegantly bound in tooled leather, the covers clasped by wrought hasps.’

  ‘Pray, sir, what’s your meaning?’ Mr Brent asked.

  ‘Why, is it not plain?’ said my lord. ‘I ask my cousin to pull the steps to that corner, and to take down the Odes of Horace. Let him open the clasps, and turn to the Fifth Ode.’

  ‘You speak in riddles, sir.’

  ‘But the riddle will very soon be answered, sir, if my cousin will do as I say. The fir
st volume and the Fifth Ode. It will be most enlightening.’

  Rensley went impatiently to the shelves. ‘Mountebank! What am I to find there?’

  ‘The missing sketch, my dear Rensley, of course.’

  ‘What!’ Mr Clapperly looked up. ‘You put it there, sir?’

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ Rensley said, and went quickly up the ladder. He found the book, and pulled it out. A moment he fumbled with the clasps. The leaves parted naturally at the Fifth Ode. Mr Rensley stood staring down at the book.

  Every head was turned his way. ‘Is it there?’ demanded Mr Clapperly.

  ‘You were told of this!’ Rensley burst out, and flung the book violently to the ground. A drawing fluttered across the room, and was pounced on by Mr Fontenoy.

  Instantly everyone save my lord went to peep over Mr Fontenoy’s shoulder. ‘It is certainly Robert Tremaine,’ Mr Fontenoy said. He looked from it to my lord. ‘And there is – a likeness.’

  ‘Why, damme, sir, the eyes and nose are exact!’ cried Clevedale.

  Mrs Staines ventured to speak. ‘’Deed, sir, but you have a look of Master Robert.’

  ‘My good Maggie, you ought to know that I am Master Robert,’ said his lordship. ‘I perfectly remember you.’

  She stared. ‘You do know my name, sir. But your lordship will pardon me – it is so long ago, and you’ve changed, my lord.’

  ‘So it would appear,’ said his lordship. ‘I said I should satisfy you, gentlemen.’

  ‘Pardon, sir,’ Mr Brent interposed. ‘It seems a proof certainly. But we must not forget that you might have been told of this.’

  ‘How?’ inquired my lord. ‘No one but myself knew of it.’

  ‘I am assuming, sir, for the moment, that you are not Tremaine.’

  ‘An impertinence,’ said my lord. ‘But I suppose I must forgive it. Pray continue. The legal mind is very wonderful.’

  ‘And if – I only say if, sir – you are not Tremaine, you might have heard this from the man himself.’

  My lord looked at him in blank astonishment. It was Clevedale who spoke. ‘Lord, what in the plague’s name would Tremaine tell such a secret for?’

  ‘It is a possibility, my lord: I do not say a probability.’

  ‘This is all quite ridiculous,’ said my Lord Barham. ‘Moreover I am becoming weary of it. I bring you papers, and you say I stole them. I show you where I hid my own portrait, years ago, and you say I was told of it. I show you a ring, and you say I stole that. What a pity it is I have no birthmarks! Or would you say that I had stolen them as well? It is a very good thing that I brought my friend Mr Fontenoy. And here is Mr Clapperly as well may remember a little about me.’

  ‘Vividly, sir.’ Mr Clapperly inclined his head.

  ‘Then I am sure you will remember the circumstances of my departure, all those years ago?’

  ‘I do, sir.’

  ‘Then I beg you will correct me if I should err in my tale. It is quite short.’ He offered snuff to Clevedale. ‘My own mixture, Clevedale. You will like it. Well, gentlemen, you know that I was never at one with my father: he could not appreciate the genius that was in me. I disliked my brother only less than he disliked me. He hated me, I believe, but he would not have chosen to set you in my shoes, cousin, in spite of it. He was, after all, a Tremaine. I was no doubt a wild youth. I can remember incidents here and there – but no matter. I overspent my allowance with amazing regularity. I shall be careful to put no limits to my son’s income. Then I committed the indiscretion of falling in love with a lady called Maria Banstead. She was the daughter of a farmer.’

  ‘Near Barham,’ nodded Mr Clapperly.

  My lord looked ironically across at him. ‘Your memory fails you, sir. Not in the least near Barham. She lived at Culverly, on the estate of my aunt Johanna’s husband. I was, I admit, young, and possibly hot-headed. But I have never regretted my marriage. An incomparable creature! I led her a sad dance I fear me. I eloped with her secretly, and went to France, just as soon as I heard that I had been thrown off by my indignant family. That is my story, gentlemen. Is it true?’

  It was admitted to be true. My lord indicated the clerk with a wave of his hand. ‘Tell your clerk, Brent, to call my man in. He is in the hall.’

  ‘Certainly, my lord. Go, Fawley.’ It was the first time he had addressed my lord by his title and Rensley flushed as he heard him.

  The clerk went out, and a moment later John stood in the doorway.

  Everyone looked towards him, since it seemed he had been called for some special purpose. But my lord’s eyes were on Mrs Staines’ face. ‘He does not change much with the passing of time, I believe,’ he said.

  Mrs Staines was staring. The colour left her face, and she put up a hand to her ample bosom. ‘Johnny!’ she faltered. ‘Oh, dearie, dearie, am I dreaming?’

  Burton was incredulous. ‘It’s never our John!’ he gasped. ‘Bless my soul, but it is really yourself, John?’

  ‘Ay, it’s me,’ John said grimly and sustained the shock of having his sister cast herself on his chest. ‘Well, Maggie, how do you, eh? Remember where you are, lass!’

  Mrs Staines was quite oblivious of her surroundings. ‘Oh, Johnny, to think of you come back to us after all these years! Snakes, and I scarcely knew you, dearie, you’ve grown so grey! Sam, do you know your brother?’

  Mr Samuel Burton gripped Mr John Burton’s hand. ‘Well, John!’ was all he could find to say.

  ‘Did you ever learn to master the bay mare?’ John asked grinning.

  It appeared to be an old jest. Samuel shook with laughter. ‘Lordy, John, to think you’d remember that! Ay, I was naught but a stripling then, and the mare the tricksiest piece – well, to think you’d remember!’

  Surprise had held the others spellbound, but Mr Brent recovered himself. ‘Mrs Staines, do you recognise this man?’

  ‘Oh, the legal mind!’ murmured my lord.

  ‘Why, of course I do, sir! It’s our John, who went off years ago soon after Master Robert.’ She turned again to her brother. ‘And you’ve been with him all the time! Eh, and we never thought of it! But you was always saying you’d be off to Americky to try your fortune, Johnny, and we made sure you’d gone there.’

  Mr Brent put a question no one thought needful. ‘Is this gentleman Viscount Barham?’ he said.

  John looked scornful. ‘Ay, of course he is,’ he answered. ‘Is there ever another would have that nose but a Tremaine?’

  ‘You have been with him all these years?’

  ‘I have, sir, and a pretty dance he’s led me.’ John smiled grimly at my lord. ‘Many’s the time I’ve told his lordship I’d be off home again. But we Burtons have always served Tremaine.’

  There was a long silence. Mr Brent was slowly putting his papers together; Mr Clapperly smiled knowingly at his son; Rensley stood staring at the floor.

  ‘Cousin,’ said my lord. ‘I trust you are at last satisfied.’

  ‘There is no more to be said, my lord,’ said old Mr Clapperly.

  My lord picked up his hat. ‘In that case I will take my leave of you. I should like my house at the end of a week, if you please. Brent, you will make the arrangements necessary, and put my terms before Mr Rensley. I hope he will not find me ungenerous. Clevedale, your arm!’

  Thirty-one

  The Honourable Robin Tremaine

  People flocked to offer their congratulations to my Lord Barham, and to tell him how delighted they were that his claim – which they had always felt to be true – had been successfully proved. He received these visitors with his usual smile, and deprecated the suggestion that he had made a most handsome settlement on his cousin Rensley. How this news got about no one knew, for certainly Rensley said nothing about it. Rensley went abroad almost immediately, for his health. He cherished no kind feelin
gs whatsoever towards my lord: he even talked wildly of bringing an action against him. Mr Clapperly dissuaded him from so foolish a proceeding, and ventured to say that my lord had behaved towards the usurper with positive magnificence.

  So my Lady Lowestoft thought, and wondered at it. My lord waved a lofty hand. ‘I am Tremaine of Barham,’ he said. ‘A lesser man might have shown meanness.’

  ‘You are superb, Robert,’ she told him.

  ‘Certainly,’ he said.

  In due course my lord took possession of his house in Grosvenor Square, and travelled down to Barham for a day or two, to warn the servants there of his coming later with guests. To his friends he announced that he did but await the advent of his children to proceed in state to the Court.

  If he had been sought out before he was now inundated with invitations from all sides. He spent not a single evening alone: either he went out, or he gave select card-parties in his own house. A great many mammas courted him blatantly in expectation of the arrival of his son; Mr Devereux told his friend Belfort that since that aunt of his showed every promise of being immortal he had a good mind to try his luck with the Honourable Prudence Tremaine. Charles Belfort opined that she would have a squint, or a face scarred by small-pox. He said that with the exception of Letty Grayson all heiresses were ill-favoured. Mr Belfort had been very much put out by the defection of Peter Merriot, and could still talk of little else. He had no interest, he said, in my Lord Barham’s children.

  It was not many days before a post-chaise, piled high with baggage, came to the house in Grosvenor Square, and drew up before the door. A slight young gentleman sprang out, followed by a French valet. One of my lord’s servants opened the door to this young gentleman, and inquired politely who he might be. The young gentleman said briskly: ‘My name’s Tremaine. I must suppose I am expected.’