The Masqueraders

by Джорджетт Хейер

  His hearers felt that they were not expected to venture a reply. Robin sat down astride a chair, laid his arms along the back of it, propped his chin on them, and waited patiently. My lord’s eyes swept the room. “I am not!” he said, in a tone that made my lady jump guiltily. “At the start of this episode I made my plans. They were beautifully complete. I do myself less than justice: they were perfect! I issued my orders: a child might have comprehended them. Not so my son. Did I ordain that my Prudence should embroil herself in the affair? I did not. Did I inform my son that I desired him to escort Miss Grayson home when all was done? I did not. No one possessing but the smallest knowledge of me could have supposed it possible that I should meditate such a piece of folly! My children chose to set me at naught. They meddled in a plan of my making!” The penetrating eye flashed.

  Robin sighed, and continued to watch his father; my lady blinked; John, standing still by the door, compressed his lips, and looked at my lord rather as an adult might look upon the tiresome tricks of a small child.

  My lord’s accusing gaze rested on each one in turn. “I have a forbearance passing anything one could imagine,” he said amazingly. “Did I, when this came to my astonished, my incredulous ears, give way to my very righteous indignation? I did not. Some slight reproof I may have allowed to pass my lips. Enough, one would say to warn my children that in future they must obey the very letter of my law. The thing was done; the crass error had been perpetrated. To what avail my censure? I held my peace. I said only: Do nothing without word from me. Await my instructions! When you came to this place — a measure of which I never approved — I said it. To John, my servant, I said more emphatically still: “If aught should befall my children apprise me instantly.” By John no less than by my children have I been disregarded.”

  “Ay, my lord, and I’ve been telling you for the past hour and more that I was on my way to you when I met Sir Anthony. If you would but listen — ”

  My lord flung up a hand. “You interrupt me at every turn! Allow me to speak!” The tone was not that of a request; John looked helplessly at Robin, who held up a finger. It was quite plain to Robin that his father was greatly annoyed to think that anyone but himself had had a hand in the management of the affair.

  “I have said I was disregarded,” my lord continued. “It is very true! tragically true! Do you suppose that I had not foreseen the apprehension of my daughter? It is possible you could think I had not made my plans in preparation of this?” He paused a moment. Robin, who had thought precisely this, held his piece. My lord, satisfied that he was not going to venture to speak, swept on. “It was, from the first moment of deviation from my original schemes a contingency to be expected. I expected it. It happens. My daughter is arrested; my servant, not yet lost to all sense of what is due to me, sets off to apprise me of it. He meets Sir Anthony Fanshawe. He should never have done such a thing!”

  John was moved to answer. “’Deed, and how could I help it, my lord?” he said indignantly.

  “Of course you could have helped it. In your place should I have fallen into the arms of Sir Anthony? Certainly not! Sir Anthony — I excuse him only because he has not had the inestimable advantage of being trained by me from childhood — must needs meddle — must needs put a clumsy finger into a pie of my making! And John! Does he inform Sir Anthony that it is unwise, nay, dangerous to meddle in my affairs?”

  “Yes, my lord,” said John unexpectedly. “I did.”

  “You put me out with these senseless interruptions!” said his lordship tartly. “You aided and abetted him in a flamboyant, noisy rescue! I — Tremaine of Barham — ”

  “I thought it would come,” murmured Robin.

  My lord paid no heed. “I — Tremaine of Barham — had a score of subtle schemes for Prue’s release. I shall not divulge them now. They have been overset by folly and conceit!”

  Robin straightened in his chair. “By what, sir?”

  “Conceit!” pronounced my lord. “A vice I detest! You flatter yourselves that you could carry this through without my assistance. My daughter, as I understand, is riding all over the country like a hoyden with a man who has not yet obtained my consent to be affianced to her. The impropriety holds me speechless! The Honourable Prudence Tremaine is whisked off like a piece of baggage, smuggled away to the house of a woman of whom I know nothing, as though she were in sooth a criminal flying for her life!”

  “Instead of which,” said Robin, inspecting the lacing of one of his great cuffs, “she might be lying snug in gaol. Horrible, sir.”

  “And why not?” my lord demanded. “I had an alibi for her — I should have intervened in a manner quiet, and convincing. All the dignity of my proceeding has been upset; my son is forced to escape at night, and in secrecy; a hue and cry for the Merriots must of course arise, and I — I must set all straight again! If I were not a man of infinite resource, and of resolution the most astounding, I might well cast up my hands, and abandon all. If I had not the patience of a saint I might be tempted to censure the whole of this affair as it deserves. But I say nothing. I bear all meekly. I am to set about the unravelling of a knot I had no hand in making. I have to adjust my plans to suit an entirely altered situation.” He stopped and took snuff.

  My lady preserved her air of coaxing. But she felt shattered. “It is all very dreadful, Robert,” she agreed. “Give the bon papa a glass of Burgundy, Robin.”

  Robin got up, and went to the table Marthe had set. He brought my lord a glass of the wine. My lord sipped it in austere silence, enjoying the bouquet. His manner underwent a sudden, bewildering change. With complete urbanity he said: “A very good Burgundy, my dear Thérèse. I felicitate you.”

  Robin judged it time to speak. “You crush us, sir. Believe us all penitence. Doubtless we lack finesse. But I confess I applaud Sir Anthony’s action. It seems to me masterly.”

  “Of its kind,” said my lord affably, “superb! Unworthy of me, clumsy beyond words, lacking entirely any forethought but — for any other man — worthy of applause. I applaud it. I smile to see such blundering methods, but I do not say what I think of them. Sir Anthony has my approbation.” The terrible frown was wiped from his face. He sat down beside my lady and became once more benign. “We must now consider your case, my Robin. You have my forgiveness for what is past. I say nothing about it.”

  “You can scarcely expect to find a brain like yours inside my poor head, sir,” said Robin dulcetly.

  “I realise it, my son. On that account alone I do condone all this folly. I even forgive John.”

  John received this with a grunt not exactly expressive of gratitude. My lord looked affectionately across at him. “You did very well, my John, from what I can discover. When I consider that you lacked my guiding hand, I am bound to acknowledge that you and Sir Anthony carried the affair through very creditably. But we have now to provide for Robin.” He put his finger-tips together, and smiled upon his son. “I perceive you are in readiness to be gone. I do not entirely like the lacing of that coat, but let it pass. You will proceed at once to the coast with John. He knows the place. If Lawton — you do not know him, but I have had many dealings with him in my time — if Lawton, I say, keeps to the plans he had made when I was aboard his vessel last month, he should bring the Pride o’ Rye in for cargo at about this time. If he has been already there will be others soon enough. You will show that ring. It is enough.” He handed a ring he wore on his little finger to his son. “But John will be with you. I need have no anxieties. Once in France you will proceed to Dieppe. Your trunks are with Gaston still. You will collect them, and embark on the first packet to England — under your rightful name. Remember that! You may find me in Grosvenor Square by then. John will see you safe aboard the Pride o’ Rye, and return then to me. I have need of him.”

  “Good gad, sir, I don’t need John to escort me to this mysterious place!” said Robin.

  “Certainly you need John,” said my lord. “He knows the ways of the Gentlemen. Do not p
resume to argue with me. I come now to you, Thérèse. Tomorrow you will discover the flight of Miss Merriot. You will make an outcry; you will pronounce yourself to have been imposed upon. When questions are asked it will transpire that you made the acquaintance of the Merriots at the Wells, and knew no more of them than may be gathered from such a chance-met couple. Is it understood?”

  My lady made a face. “Oh, be sure! But I do not at all like to appear so foolish, Robert.”

  “That cannot be helped,” said my lord.

  Robin caught her hand, and kissed it. “Ma’am, we treat you cavalierly, and you have been in truth our good angel. You know what I would say to you in thanks: what Prue would say.”

  “Ah, what is this?” She snatched her hand away. “Do not talk to me like that! Thank me for nothing, Robin. I will be the silly dupe. Eh, but how I will lament!”

  “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.

  Chapter 29

  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, but it’s not what the life of my Lady Fanshawe should be.”

  “Who made you judge of that, child?”

  She laughed. “You’re infatuated, sir. But I’m not respectable, give you my word. In boy’s clothes I’ve kept a gaming-house with my father; I’ve escaped out of windows and up chimneys; I’ve travelled in the tail of an army not English; I’ve played a dozen parts, and — well, it has been necessary for me often to carry a pistol in my pocket.”

  Sir Anthony’s head was turned towards her. “My dear, will you never realise that I adore you?”

  She looked down at her bridle hand; she was shaken and blushing like any silly chit, forsooth! “It was not my ambition to make you admire me by telling you those things, sir.”

  “No, egad, you hoped to make me draw back. I believe you don’t appreciate yourself in the least.”

  It was very true; she had none of her father’s conceit; she had never troubled to think about herself at all. She raised puzzled eyes. “I don’t know how it is, Tony, but you seem to think me something wonderful, and indeed I am not.”

  “I won’t weary you with my reasons for holding to that opinion,” said Sir Anthony, amused. “Two will suffice. I have never seen you betray fear; I have never seen you lose your head. I don’t believe you’ve done so.”

  Prudence accepted this; it seemed just. “No, ’tis as Robin says: I’ve a maddening lack of imagination. The old gentleman tells me it is my mother in me, that I can never be in a flutter.”

  Sir Anthony leaned forward, and took the mare’s bridle a
bove the bit; the horses stopped, and stood still, very close together. An arm was round Prudence’s shoulder; the roan’s reins lay loose on his neck. Prudence turned a little towards Sir Anthony, and was gripped to rest against a broad shoulder. He bent his head over hers; she had a wild heart-beat, and put out a hand with a little murmur of agitation. It was taken in a firm clasp: for the first time Sir Anthony kissed her, and if that first kiss fell awry, as a first kiss must, the second was pressed ruthlessly on her quivering lips. She was held in a hard embrace; she flung up an arm round Sir Anthony’s neck, and gave a little sob, half of protest, half of gladness.

  The horses moved slowly on; the riders were hand-locked. “Never?” Sir Anthony said softly.

  She remembered she had said she could never be in a flutter. It seemed one was wrong. “I thought not indeed.” Her fingers trembled in his. “I had not before experienced — that, you see.”

  He smiled, and raised her hand to his mouth. “Do I not know it?” he said.

  The grey eyes were honest, and looked gravely. “You could not know it.”

  The smile deepened. “Of course I could know it, my dear. Oh, foolish Prue!”

  It was all very mysterious; the gentleman appeared to be omniscient. And what in the world was there to amuse him so? She gave a sigh of content. “You give me the happy ending I never thought to have,” she said.

  “I suppose you thought I was like to expose you in righteous wrath when I discovered the truth?”

  “Something of the sort, sir,” she admitted.