“But we drift from the point,” Sir Anthony said genially. “We were talking of Newmarket, and, as I remember, I queried an assertion on your part, child, that you’d no fear of me.”
“Why, what should I fear in you?” Prudence asked, and chuckled, “You tell me you won’t call me out, and I’m able to breathe again.”
Sir Anthony’s mouth relaxed into a smile of real amusement. “I do verily believe, young man, that you’d meet me with perfect sangfroid.”
“Oh, as to that, sir, I might know some serious nervous qualms. I’m to understand you’re accounted something of a master of the small sword.”
“You’ve been misinformed. Do you ever have nervous qualms I wonder?”
Her ringers closed round the stem of her wineglass; she was looking at the ruby liquid sparkling in it. “Often, sir. Why should you suppose me cast in the heroic mould?”
“I’d a notion you’d a vast deal of courage, my friend,” placidly replied Fanshawe.
“Good Gad, sir, why? Because I would fight Rensley?”
“That, and some other things.” Sir Anthony drained his glass, and refilled it, glancing at the untouched wine in the glass Prudence still held.
He selected a nut from the dish, and became busy with the cracking of it. Now was her moment, while his eyes were bent on his plate. Prudence raised her glass to her lips, as though to toss off the whole; there was a quick practised turn of the wrist, over in a flash, and the contents of her glass were sent down her arm.
But quicker even than her own movement, Sir Anthony leaned forward. His hand shot out, and the hard fingers closed round her wrist. Relentlessly her arm was borne down: down till the glass she held emptied its dregs on to the floor.
She made no effort to break free; perhaps she breathed a little faster. The fingers were clamped still about her wrist; Sir Anthony was looking down at her hand, watching the wine trickle down her arm, and drip on to the carpet.
She sat perfectly still; her eyes were calm, even meditative, resting on Fanshawe’s face. She had lost some of her colour, and the lace at her bosom rose and fell rather quickly, but other signs of alarm there were not.
It seemed an age before her wrist was released. At last the merciless fingers left it, and Sir Anthony sat back in his chair. She brought her hand up, and set the glass down on the table. In a detached manner she noticed that her hand did not shake, and was vaguely pleased.
The large gentleman’s voice broke in on her reflections. “There is no Borgia blood in my veins, Peter Merriot.”
There was some sternness in the tone. Her left hand came mechanically to cover the maltreated wrist; the marks of the gentleman’s fingers still lingered. “I did not suppose it, sir.”
Sir Anthony rose, pushing back his chair. He walked to the window and back, and the grey eyes followed him. He stopped, and looked down at Prudence; there was gravity in his face, but no anger, she thought. His words gave her a slight start. “My dear, I wish you could find it in your heart to trust me,” he said.
’Deed, but trust was there, in her heart, but how tell him?
“I’ve had suspicions of your secret since the first evening you dined with me here,” he went on. “Of late I have been as certain as a man may be of so wild a masquerade.”
So much for Robin, and for my Lady Lowestoft, scornful of his perspicacity. Well, she had had fears of this. But not even she had realized how much the sleepy gentleman saw. Egad, what must he think of her? The colour rose at the thought. She lifted her eyes; it did not occur to her to try evasion. “I would trust you willingly, Sir Anthony,” she said in a still, calm voice. “I have not liked the lies I have told, and the great lie I have acted.” She put a hand up to her neckcloth; it was tight round her throat of a sudden. “But there is not only myself involved. If it were all to do again, I would do it.” A look of pride came into her face; her chin was up, but it sank after a moment. She looked down at the ring on her finger, and wiped the trickle of wine from her hand with a crumpled napkin.
“Will you tell me your name?” Sir Anthony said gently.
“It is Prudence, sir. In truth, I know no more. I have had many surnames.” There was no hint of bitterness in her voice, nor any shame. It was best the large gentleman should know her for the adventuress she was.
“Prudence?” Sir Anthony was frowning now. “So that is it!” he said softly.
She looked up, searching his face.
“You are not very like your father,” said Sir Anthony.
She gave nothing away in her expression, but she knew that he had very nearly the full sum of it.
There fell a silence. “Prudence …” Sir Anthony repeated and smiled. “I don’t think you were very well named, child.” He looked down at her, and there was a light in his eyes she had never seen there before. “Will you marry me?” he said simply.
Now at last there came surprise into her face, on a wave of colour. She rose swiftly to her feet, and stood staring. “Sir, I have to suppose—you jest!”
“It is no jest.”
“You ask a nameless woman, an adventuress to marry you? One who had lied to you, and tricked you! And you say it is no jest?”
“My dear, you have never tricked me,” he said, amused.
“I tried to do so.”
“I wish you would call me Tony,” he complained.
She had a tiny suspicion she was being punished. Sure, the fine gentleman would never ask her to be his
