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.
There was some discussion also as to the ticklish point of my lord’s social position while the matter stood in abeyance, but in the end it was decided, no one quite knew how, that he was to be received. In this the ladies may have had something to say, for they frankly doted on his lordship. So the old gentleman paraded the town, and became immersed in social engagements. His children met him almost every day at some house or other, and it was observed that his lordship was developing quite an affection for these young guests of his dear friend, Lady Lowestoft.
Sir Anthony saw fit to twit Prudence on the growing intimacy, one late afternoon at White’s. They were standing in the card-room, Sir Anthony but just come in, and Prudence having risen from a faro table.
She had her answer ready. “Oh, it’s quite an amusing old roué!” she said, with a startling lack of respect for so near a relative. “He comes to visit my lady, and ogles my poor Kate.”
“And how does Miss Merriot take that?” inquired Sir Anthony, nodding across the room to Mr. Belfort.
“With equanimity, sir. I tell her she’s like to lose her heart to the old gentleman. Pray, is he married, do you know?”
“I should have thought you would be more likely to have the answer to that,” was the unexpected rejoinder.
“I, sir?”
“My Lady Lowestoft should know, surely,” said Sir Anthony in mild surprise.
She bit her lip. Fool, to make so stupid a slip! A sure sign her nerves were not so steady as they had been. She proceeded to smooth over the slip. “Oh, we know he had a wife once,” she said. “But she has been dead these many years. He says nothing of a fresh marriage, but I believe he does not tell my lady all.”
There was a movement behind them. They stood a little in front of the door, and they turned now to see my Lord Barham came in on the arm of Lord March.
“Ah, my dear Fanshawe!” said the old gentleman. “And my young friend Peter Merriot! You behold me fresh from the fatigues of a full hour with my perruquier.” He put up his arm, and surveyed the room through it. “Now where, where is my good friend Clevedale?”
Clevedale himself came up. “Well, Barham, what’s this? You’re half an hour late, and here am I waiting on you.”
My lord flung up his hands. “The perruquier! I crave ten thousand pardons, my dear Thomas! But the exigencies of the perruquier! Had it been anything else in the world the claims of picquet had held me adamant. But adamant, my dear Thomas! My tailor, even, I would despatch to the devil. But a perruquier! You absolve me: you have to absolve me!”
Clevedale laughed. “Gad, what foppery! Oh, I hold you excused. God send I never see you bald. Come off to my table. I’ve held it in the teeth of Molyneux this half-hour.” He bore my lord off to a place near the window.
“I wonder, doesn’t he find that manner a thought fatiguing to maintain?” said Sir Anthony meditatively.
“Clevedale?” Prudence looked inquiringly.
“No, my innocent: the new Viscount.”
Mr. Belfort came over to them. “Tony, here’s Devereux wants to play at lansquenet, and all the world’s bent on faro. Will you and Merriot join us? The devil’s in Devereux that naught else will do for him. But the poor fellow’s feeling plaguily low today: he’s had bad news, y’know.” Mr. Belfort nodded profoundly. “One must try to cheer him, so I’m pledged to find a four for lansquenet. Always plays lansquenet when he’s in trouble, does Devereux.”
“Pray, what’s the nature of his trouble?” Prudence asked solicitously.
“Oh, cursed bad news, my boy! That old aunt of his from whom he has expectations has rallied, and they say she’ll last another ten years. Poor old Devereux, y’know! Must try and raise his spirits.”
So with this praiseworthy intention
