So my Lady Lowestoft thought, and wondered at it. My lord waved a lofty hand. “I am Tremaine of Barham,” he said. “A lesser man might have shown meanness.”
“You are superb, Robert,” she told him.
“Certainly,” he said.
In due course my lord took possession of his house in Grosvenor Square, and travelled down to Barham for a day or two, to warn the servants there of his coming later with guests. To his friends he announced that he did but await the advent of his children to proceed in state to the Court.
If he had been sought out before he was now inundated with invitations from all sides. He spent not a single evening alone: either he went out, or he gave select card-parties in his own house. A great many mammas courted him blatantly in expectation of the arrival of his son; Mr. Devereux told his friend Belfort that since that aunt of his showed every promise of being immortal he had a good mind to try his luck with the Honourable Prudence Tremaine. Charles Belfort opined that she would have a squint, or a face scarred by smallpox. He said that with the exception of Letty Grayson all heiresses were ill-favoured. Mr. Belfort had been very much put out by the defection of Peter Merriot, and could still talk of little else. He had no interest, he said, in my Lord Barham’s children.
It was not many days before a post-chaise, piled high with baggage, came to the house in Grosvenor Square, and drew up before the door. A slight young gentleman sprang out, followed by a French valet. One of my lord’s servants opened the door to this young gentleman, and inquired politely who he might be. The young gentleman said briskly: “My name’s Tremaine. I must suppose I am expected.”
Indeed, it seemed so, for there was at once a bustle made. The numerous valises and boxes were brought into the house; a footman came bowing to inform Mr. Tremaine that his lordship was unfortunately out, but should be sent for in a trice, to White’s.
Mr. Tremaine refused this offer. Having drunk a glass of excellent Burgundy, brought by yet another footman, he announced his intention of setting forth himself in search of his father. Faith, one must face everyone sooner or later; then a’ God’s name let it be at once!
One of the lackeys at White’s escorted Mr. Tremaine to the card-room, and stood for a moment by the door looking round for my lord. Robin paused beside him, holding his hat under his arm, and his handkerchief and snuffbox in the other hand. Several people looked up, wondering who the handsome young stranger might be. Mr. Belfort, dicing with Devereux and Orton, said:—“Gad, that’s a devilish modish wig! Who is it?”
Sir Raymond looked round and met Robin’s eyes. “I don’t think I know him,” he said hesitatingly. “Yet—there’s something faintly familiar in his face.”
Mr. Devereux put up his glass. “ ’Pon my soul, Bel, that’s a monstrous pretty fashion of lacing he has to his coat! A prodigiously modish young buck, I protest!”
At the next table Mr. Troubridge said:—“Who’s the stranger? I seem to have seen that face before. A handsome boy, and carries himself well. A little arrogant, perhaps.”
Certain, Robin carried himself well, and had his trim figure well set off by a marvellously cut coat of dark blue cloth. He appeared to have been travelling, for he wore top-boots, highly polished, on his small feet, and a sword at his side. His coat was heavily laced with gold, tight across the shoulders and at the waist, and spreading them into wide skirts, silk-lined, the cuffs very large and turned back almost to the elbow to show a profusion of Mechlin ruffles. His waistcoat, a dozen men of fashion noted at once, was of the very latest style; the lace at his throat was arranged to fall in cascades down his chest, and there was a sapphire pin glinting in it. His wig, at which Mr. Belfort, an expert in these matters, had exclaimed, must have come direct from Paris; the hat under his arm was richly edged with finest point. His blue eyes were cool; his mouth, though delicately curved, was firm enough; when he turned that arrogant profile towards Mr. Troubridge that gentleman said with greater emphasis than before:—“Gad, yes! A remarkably handsome boy. A pity he is not taller.”
The lackey had perceived my lord over by the window, and pointed him out now to Robin. Robin went forward between the tables, and stood at his father’s elbow. “Sir—”
My lord was playing picquet with my Lord March. He looked round and exclaimed. “My Robin!” He threw down his cards and sprang up. “My son!” he said joyously.
Robin stood bowing deeply before his father. “I’ve but this instant arrived, sir.” His lips brushed the back of my lord’s hand punctiliously. “I found you from home, and came to seek you here. You permit?”
My lord clasped his arm. “And I am from home when my Robin arrives! My Lord March, you will allow me to present to you my son?”
“So this is your son, is it, Barham?” My lord nodded in a friendly fashion to the grave young gentleman bowing so gracefully before him. His lordship was not, after all, so very far removed from Robin’s age, but he had the manner of a man of forty. “A very pretty youth, Barham. And are you just come from France, Tremaine?”
“Just, sir.”
“I dare swear you have all the latest fashions at your fingertips then. Is it true they are wearing earrings in Paris?”
“I have occasionally seen them, sir. At balls a single earring is considered in some circles de rigueur.”
By this time nearly everyone in the
