She smiled at that, but the smile died. “I don’t like it, Robin. It was very well to play this part when none knew the truth, but now—he knows, and—do you understand at all?”
“Certainly, child. You might leave your part. He offers you a change.”
She turned her head. “Oh, and you thought that I would take it, did you not?”
“No, my Prue. I thought you would not,” Robin grinned. “For myself I don’t mind the large gentleman. For all his respectability there’s some humour in the man. I’ve a notion he doesn’t approve of your little brother. We shall see.”
The Honourable Charles, appearing then to claim Mr. Merriot, there was an end to further discussion. Prudence went off with Mr. Belfort. Later in the day she met Sir Anthony at White’s club. She knew a momentary embarrassment, but something in Fanshawe’s demeanour banished it. He walked home with her, and if she had dreaded some lovemaking, that fear was quickly dispelled. He was as he had said he would be, her very good friend. It was only when she had parted from him that she realised how possessive was the gentleman’s attitude. He seemed to consider that she belonged to him already. She pondered the question thoughtfully, and arrived at the conclusion that perhaps he had reason.
My Lord Barham, when he left Arlington Street, sauntered back to his lodgings in great good-humour. He had no objection to Sir Anthony having complete knowledge of the masquerade; so slight a deviation from the original plan was not enough to perturb his lordship. That quick brain was busy with the fitting of Sir Anthony into my lord’s machinations. He reflected with a pleased smile that John, the unbelieving, should see how even a big man with sleepy eyes should dance to his piping.
My lord came to his rooms in Half Moon Street to find that a visitor awaited him. My lord’s valet took his hat and cane, and murmured the name of Markham. My lord listened with a head gently inclined in interest, and went into his dining-room, smoothing a wrinkle from a satin sleeve.
Mr. Markham arose at his entry, and bowed slightly. My lord smiled with the utmost affability, and put up his quizzing-glass. “My friend of Munich days!” he said softly. “How I am honoured!” His eyes dwelt lovingly on Mr. Markham; there was no reading in them the smallest hint of what thoughts were passing swiftly across that subtle mind. “But sit down, my dear Mr. Markham! Pray sit down!”
Mr. Markham obeyed this injunction, and was silent while the valet set wine and glasses on the table. My lord’s white hand hovered over the Burgundy decanter; my lord looked inquiring.
“I won’t drink, I thank you,” said Mr. Markham.
“But positively I insist!” My lord was pained. “You will permit me to give you some claret.”
Mr. Markham watched the valet go out of the room. “You must guess I’ve come upon business,” he said curtly.
“No; but no, my dear Markham. I thought you had come to recall old days,” said his lordship. “I never occupy myself with business. You cannot interest me in such a subject. Shall it be claret or Burgundy?”
“Oh, claret, then!” Mr. Markham said impatiently.
“I am quite of your opinion,” nodded my lord. “Burgundy is the very King of Wines, but it was not meant to be taken in the morning.” He handed his guest a brimming glass, and poured another for himself. “To your very good health, my dear sir!”
Mr. Markham made no answer to his toast. He drank some of the wine, and pushed the glass from him. “I venture to think, my Lord Barham, that the business I am come upon will interest you vastly,” he said.
My lord refilled his glass. “I am sure if anyone could interest me in such a subject, it must be you, dear Markham,” he said warmly.
Against such smooth-spoken politeness Mr. Markham found it difficult to proceed. He felt somewhat at a disadvantage, but comforted himself with the thought that it was my lord who should feel at a disadvantage in a very few moments. He plunged abruptly into the subject of his errand. “As to this claim of yours, sir, that you are Tremaine of Barham, I don’t believe in it, but I am taking no interest in it now.”
“That is very wise of you,” my lord approved. “You must allow me to compliment you.”
Mr. Markham ignored this. “For all I care, you may ape the part of Barham to your heart’s content. It’s nothing to me.”
“Positively you overwhelm me!” my lord said. “You oppress me with kindness, sir. And you come, in fact, to set my mind at rest! Believe me all gratitude.”
“I don’t come for that purpose at all,” said Mr. Markham, annoyed. “I come for a purpose, for which you may not be so damned grateful.”
“Impossible!” My lord shook his head. “The mere felicity of seeing you here in my rooms must fill me with gratitude.”
Mr. Markham broke in on this without ceremony. “Barham you may be, but there is one thing you have been which is certain!” He paused to let this sink in.
My lord did not seem to be greatly impressed. “Oh, a number of things!” he assured his guest. “Of course, there are a number of things I have not been, too. They have never fallen in my way, which is the reason, you see. But continue! Pray continue!”
“I will, my lord. You may not find it so palatable as you imagine. You have been—you may be still, for aught I know—a cursed Jacobite!”
My lord’s expression of polite interest underwent no change. “But you should tell this to my cousin Rensley,” he pointed out.
“You may be thankful I don’t, sir. It’s nothing to me: my information goes to the highest bidder. If you haggle, my lord, Rensley shall have it. But I don’t think you will haggle.”
“I’m sure I shan’t,” my lord answered. “I am not a tradesman.”
“You’re a
