Masqueraders (15 page)

‘Oh, play to my lead, man, play to my lead! Gad, but you’ll admit you’d try the patience of a saint with your prating of having seen that—that impostor somewhere, and not knowing where! Why can’t you think?’

My Lord Barham rose from his table across the room, and stood for a moment talking to March. One or two men gathered around them, after a moment a dice-box was produced, and March cast the dice on the table. Heads were bent over it; there was a laugh, and a murmur of speech, and my Lord Barham swept up the dice.

Mr Markham chanced that moment to look up. He saw my lord shake back his ruffles, and with eyes growing gradually wider he saw him throw the dice with a curious flick of the wrist.

Mr Markham was in the act of dealing, but his hand with three cards in it stayed poised in mid-air, and he continued to stare across at my lord, his jaw slightly dropped.

‘What’s to do now?’ demanded Rensley. ‘Gad, have you remembered,’ he added eagerly.

‘That man—why, fiend seize it, he’s no more than a common gamester! Of course I know him! Thunder and turf, he’s no viscount. He used to keep a gaming-house in Munich! The instant he cast the dice it all came back to me. Know him! I’ve played in his house a dozen times.’

It seemed the dice had been cast for some special stake only. My lord was coming slowly across the room with March and Clevedale, laughing gently at something March said in his ear. He paused a moment by the lansquenet table, and complimented Sir Anthony on his play. ‘So few people nowadays understand the art!’ he sighed. His smiling glance fell on Rensley’s face. He came to the other table, still leaning on Clevedale’s arm. ‘My cousin! I salute you!’ he said.

Mr Rensley’s chair scraped along the boards as he sprang up. ‘Damn it, don’t call me cousin!’ he said loudly. ‘You’re no more than a cursed gamester!’

There fell a sudden hush, for Rensley’s voice carried through the room. Heads were turned; there followed a buzz of whispering. One of his companions fell a little away from my Lord Barham. My lord continued to smile. ‘Oh!’ he said. ‘Who told you that?’

Markham put down the pack of cards. ‘I’ve visited the gaming-house you used to keep in Munich,’ he said.

My lord looked at him with interest. The whole room awaited breathlessly his reply. It came as a complete surprise to every man there. ‘Then that must have been where I met you!’ he said in the tone of one making an agreeable discovery. ‘I thought your face familiar from the first.’

At the lansquenet table Sir Anthony gave a low laugh. ‘Faith, I begin to have a liking for the old gentleman!’ he said.

‘You admit it, do you?’ Mr Rensley felt his words fall lamely upon expectant ears.

‘Admit what?’ said my lord, puzzled.

‘Why—damme, that you’ve kept a common gaming-house!’

My lord’s hand was raised. ‘No!’ he said emphatically, and a sigh went round the room. His next words dispelled relief. ‘Never in all my life have I kept anything that was common! You insult me by the suggestion.’

There was a low ripple of laughter. People were gathering about that corner of the room, eager to hear what might be the issue.

‘No use to play with words, fellow. That won’t serve,’ Rensley cried angrily. ‘Have you kept a gaming-house?’

The old gentleman took snuff. ‘I have kept at least a dozen, my dear Rensley,’ he said, with perfect composure. He looked again towards Mr Markham. ‘I am not entirely satisfied,’ he mused. ‘Are you sure you never had lessons in fencing from me, sir?’

There was a gasp. All play was at an end in the card-room. My Lord March burst out laughing. ‘Gad, Barham, have you been a fencing-master, too?’ he exclaimed.

The old gentleman shut his gold snuff-box with a snap. ‘My dear March,’ he said haughtily, ‘there is nothing I have not been!’ He looked again at Mr Markham. ‘Are you quite sure I did not give you lessons in fencing? Let me think a moment! Yes, I had an establishment in Rome once, and—yes, yes, another in Turin!’

‘It’s quite possible, no doubt,’ sneered Mr Markham. ‘I don’t trouble to remember all my fencing instructors.’

‘Then of a certainty you are not a pupil of mine,’ said my lord. ‘Me you could never forget. For those whom I taught are masters of fence. It goes without saying. I am incomparable. I have no equal in the art!’

Again March broke in. ‘I’d give something to hear the story of your life, Barham!’ he said, hugely entertained.

Rensley flushed. ‘His name’s not Barham!’ he said furiously. ‘He’s the impostor I always said he was!’

March froze to instant haughtiness. ‘He has at least the advantage of you in the matter of good manners, Rensley,’ he said.

Public opinion veered round in favour of the old gentleman.

‘It’s very, very deplorable,’ Mr Devereux said, with a mournful shake of the head. ‘But he might be all these damned bourgeois things and still remain Tremaine of Barham.’

‘You’re pleased to give him countenance, my lord, but you shall see him exposed!’ Rensley snapped.

‘But expose me!’ cried the old gentleman, and threw wide his arms. ‘I am here to answer you. Who then am I?’

‘Good God, am I to know who you are?’ exclaimed Rensley. ‘But you are not Tremaine! Why, you couldn’t tell me a thing about the family that’s not known to the whole world!’

‘Ay, that’s a challenge. He must answer that!’ whispered Sir Raymond Orton.

‘I can at least tell you, cousin, that a portrait of me hangs in the pink salon at Barham. A very damnable likeness of me as a child, taken with my late lamented brother,’ said my lord softly.

‘A hit!’ Mr Belfort confided to Prudence. ‘That’s a hit!’

She sat in an attitude of negligent attention, an arm flung over the back of the chair, and her calm face inscrutable. She nodded, and was conscious of Fanshawe’s eyes upon her.

Rensley banged his fist down on the table. ‘It’s not the pink salon!’ he declared. ‘There is no pink salon!’

Mr Belfort was of the opinion that this was a bad check.

‘In my day,’ said his lordship, undisturbed, ‘it was pink.’

‘Faugh, what do you know of it? You’re trying to brazen it out with a bare-faced lie!’

Mr Fontenoy spoke grudgingly. ‘There was a pink salon,’ he said. ‘Lady Barham used it.’

My lord swept round to face him. ‘Ah, you remember then?’ he said eagerly. ‘A pink salon in the west wing! There was an oriole window, and my mother’s broidery table set there!’ He became rapt in reminiscences.

This produced a sensation. Mr Belfort thought the old gentleman scored a decided hit there.

Rensley was discomfited for a moment, but recovered.

‘Oh, you’ve been in the house in your youth! That’s all there is to that. You were a groom there, I dare swear, and you got into the house!’

Mr Belfort wagged a solemn head. ‘Ay, that’s a possibility, y’know.’

My lord’s eyes glinted. Very sweet was his voice, dangerously sweet. ‘It’s more than you can claim to have done, my dear cousin,’ he said gently. ‘I’ll swear you never set foot in it till my brother died!’

Rensley’s jaw dropped; he grew purple in the face. ‘Damn your impudence!’ he spluttered.

Lord March interposed. ‘Enough of that. Did you set foot in it, Rensley?’

The old gentleman was indignant. ‘Certainly he did not!’ he said, before Rensley could reply. ‘There was never a Rensley dared show his face on our land! What had
we
to do with them?’ Almost he snorted.

His daughter’s eyes widened a little; Mr Belfort sniggered.

Rensley bit back a hot answer. Came a look of cunning into his face. ‘So you never met me when we were boys, my Lord Barham?’ he said.

‘Only once,’ said my lord. He dwelt lovingly on a pleasant memory. ‘How hard I punched your nose then,’ he said dreamily.

There was a roar of laughter, hastily suppressed. Mr Rensley strode to the door. ‘Don’t think I’ve done with you, my fine gentleman!’ he said savagely, and slammed out of the room.

The old gentleman smiled affectionately upon the assembled company. ‘Very like an encounter I had once with a Margrave,’ he said pensively. ‘I was acting as one of his lackeys at the time.’

‘Take an’ ’ouns, a
lackey?
’
gasped Clevedale.

‘Certainly,’ said my lord, with some hauteur. ‘Why not? There was a lady in the case.’ He smoothed a wrinkle from his satin sleeve. ‘She was the Margrave’s mistress,’ he remarked.

Quite a number of people drew nearer. March thrust his arm in my lord’s, and walked away with him. ‘Let’s hear that tale, Barham,’ he said. ‘Which Margrave?’

CHAPTER XIV

My Lord Barham Becomes Mysterious

The old gentleman was left undoubtedly a victor; there could be no gainsaying it. Poor Rensley came off badly from a battle of wits. The world shook its head sadly over the startling disclosures of my lord’s past history, but it was prepared to look indulgently on those shocking lapses. Had his lordship betrayed only the faintest sign of discomfiture, shown the slightest shame, the world might have decided to turn a cold shoulder on him. But my lord was far from showing either shame or discomfiture. So far, indeed, that his attitude was one of pride in his chequered career. He carried all off with a high hand. He said majestically that there was nothing he had not done, and such was the power of the man’s eye that the world began to perceive clearly that he had nothing at all to be ashamed of.

There was also the attitude of my Lord March to be considered. March seemed to be in no doubt of the old gentleman’s identity, and there were few who cared to set themselves up in opposition to my lord. If the newcomer was good enough for March, he was certainly good enough for the rest of the world, but there were one or two far-seeing people who began to realise that the new viscount had wormed himself into the graces of society so completely, and so cleverly that it would be quite extraordinarily difficult (in the event of his claim falling to earth) to turn him out without loss of dignity to oneself.

His lordship made not the smallest attempt to conceal his lamentable past: his attitude gave one to understand that whatever he chose to do must of necessity become straightway a creditable performance. In fact, not the lowest of vocations could demean this grand gentleman.

It was considered then that to be sure, if one had the good fortune to be born a Tremaine one might do most things with impunity. Certainly it was a pity to have dragged that noble name in the dust, but after all one had to take into account that the old gentleman had been cast off penniless when little more than a boy. That must stand for his excuse.

As for Rensley, his attack had been ill-judged, and he had taken many shrewder blows than he had dealt. Not a doubt of it that March was right when he said that the old gentleman had the advantage of him in good manners. A number of people remembered that they had said at the outset that there was very little breeding to Rensley, cousin to the Tremaines though he might be. Viscount or no viscount, the old gentleman had great polish, and he showed himself perfectly at ease in the politest of company.

My lord had something to say on the matter himself when he took a dish of Bohea with my Lady Lowestoft next day. He smiled benevolently upon his daughter, leaning over the back of a couch, and said triumphantly: ‘You saw me! You, my daughter, had the privilege of seeing a master mind at work! I felicitate you.’

Prudence gave her deep chuckle. ‘I knew a few moments’ dread, sir, I confess.’

He brushed that aside. ‘Never again make that mistake. I am invincible. Observe the subtlety of my methods! I achieve a miracle.’

My lady gave a piece of angel cake to the monkey nestling at her feet. ‘You told them, then,
mon cher?
You admitted the past?’

‘They hung on my lips,’ his lordship said dramatically.

‘They waited breathlessly to hear what I would say. As always I became the centre, the dominating presence.’

My lady twinkled. ‘And you said?’ she prompted.

‘I said, Thérèse, that I had kept a dozen gaming-houses. No other man alive would have dared. But I swayed them—I, Tremaine of Barham!’ His admiration of the deed held him silent for a moment, but he went on. ‘They perceived that I could play the lackey and still keep my prestige. It is true! It is very true.’

My lady gasped. ‘And they condoned it? They supported you?’

‘It was not for them to condone what Tremaine might choose to do,’ said my lord, with hauteur. ‘They applaud me now. I achieve the impossible.’

‘He
is
a great man,’ my lady said to Prudence. ‘You must admit it.’

‘Oh, I do, ma’am, believe me.’

My lord tapped the lid of his snuff-box with one polished finger-nail. ‘Even that large gentleman, that ponderous baronet, that sleepy-eyed Sir Anthony Fanshawe, who looked askance at me—even he concedes me admiration. I win all to my side. It could not be otherwise.’

‘Indeed, sir, he said he had begun to conceive a liking for you,’ nodded Prudence.

My lord accepted this with a gracious inclination of the head.

His daughter continued with a hint of seriousness in her tone. ‘Yet I think you would be well advised, sir, not to seek too great an intimacy with that same large gentleman.’