“You will do it very well, my dear Thérèse,” my lord assured her. “John, saddle the horses. Waste no more time, my son: it is time you were gone. I shall see you again very shortly. Thérèse, I shall drive back to town in your curricle, and if you send a man for it tomorrow you will find it in your own stables near Arlington Street. Naturally I shall have had nothing to do with this. I have not visited you tonight. Do not forget that! Robin, farewell! When you return, remember that you bear the name of Tremaine. John, have a care to my son!” My lord arose as he spoke, received his hat and cloak from John, and with a gesture that savoured strongly of a Pope’s blessing, swept out of the room, and away.
XXIX
The Ride Through the Night
Shoulder to shoulder, galloping over silent fields in the light of the moon, Prudence and Sir Anthony passed through the country unseen and unheard. There was little said; the pace was too fast, and Prudence too content to talk. This then was the end, in spite of all. The large gentleman swept all before him, and faith, one could not be sorry. Several times she stole a look at that strong profile, pondering it; once he turned his head and met her eyes, and a smile passed between them, but no words.
It seemed she was very much the captive of his sword; there could be nothing more to say now, and, truth to tell, she had no mind to argue.
She supposed they were off to his sister, but the way was unfamiliar to her. The gentleman seemed to know the country like the back of his hand, as the saying was; he eschewed main roads and towns; kept to the solitary lanes, and ever and anon led her ’cross country, or turned off through some copse or meadow to avoid a village, or some lone cottage on the road. There would be no one to tell of this mad flight through the dark hours; no man would have seen them pass, nor any hear the beat of the horses’ hoofs racing by.
Sure, they seemed to be the only people awake in all England. The failing daylight had gone hours since; there had been a spell of darkness when they rested their horses in a walk along a deserted lane; and then the moon had risen, and there was a ghostly pale light to show them the way, and the trees threw weird shadows along the ground. There might be heard now and then the melancholy hoot of an owl, and the chirp and twitter of a nightjar, but all else was hushed: there was not so much as a breath of wind to rustle the leaves on the trees.
They saw squat villages lying darkly ahead, swung off to skirt them round, seeing occasionally the warm glow of a lamp-lit window, and reached the road again beyond. Once a dog barked in the distance and once a small animal ran across the road in front of them, and the mare shied and stumbled.
There was a quick hand ready to snatch at the bridle. Prudence laughed, and shook her head, bringing the mare up again. “Don’t fear for me, kind sir.”
“I need not, I know. Yet I can’t help myself.”
The moon was high above them when they reined in to a walk again. Prudence was helped into her greatcoat; the horses drew close, and the riders’ knees touched now and again.
“Tired, child?” Sir Anthony’s free hand came to rest a moment on hers.
Faith, it was a fine thing to be so precious in a man’s eyes. “Not I, sir. Do you take me into Hampshire?”
“Be sure of it. I’ll have you under my sister’s wing at last.”
Prudence made a wry face. “Egad, I wonder what she will say to me?”
There was a little laugh. “Nothing, child. She’s too indolent.”
“Oh, like Sir Anthony Fanshawe—upon occasion.”
“Worse. Beatrice is of too ample a girth to indulge even in surprise. Or so she says. I believe you will like her.”
“I am more concerned, sir, that she may be pleased to like me.”
“She will, don’t fear it. She has a fondness for me.”
“I thank you for the pretty compliment, kind sir. You would say you may order her liking at your will.”
“You’re a rogue. I would say she will be prepared to like you from the outset. Sir Thomas follows her lead in all things. It’s a quaint couple.”
“Ay, and what are we? Egad, I believe I’ve fallen into a romantic venture, and I always thought I was not made for it. I lack the temperament of your true heroine.”
There was a smile hovering about Sir Anthony’s mouth. “Do you?” he said. “Then who, pray tell me, might stand for a true heroine?”
“Oh, Letty Grayson, sir. She has a burning passion for romance and adventure.”
“Which Madam Prudence lacks. Dear me!”
“Entirely, sir. I was made for sobriety.”
“It looked excessively like it—back yonder in the coach,” said Sir Anthony, thinking of that shortened sword held to poor Matthew’s throat.
“Needs must when the old gentleman drives,” said Prudence, smiling. “I should like to breed pigs, Sir Anthony, I believe.”
“You shall,” he promised. “I have several pigs down at Wych End.”
The chuckle came, but a grave look followed. “Lud, sir, it’s very well, but you lose your head over this.”
“An enlivening sensation, child.”
“Maybe. But I am not fit to be my Lady Fanshawe.”
The hand closed over her wrist; there was some sternness in the pressure. “It is when you talk in that vein that I can find it in me to be angry with you, Prudence.”
“Behold me in a terror. But I speak only the truth, sir. I wish you would think on it. One day I will tell you the tale of my life.”
“I’ve no doubt I shall be vastly entertained,” said Sir Anthony.
“Oh, it’s very edifying, sir,
