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 neckcloth 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
