Masqueraders (24 page)

Mr Markham’s expression changed. ‘What?’

‘Yes, my friend, yes. You understand me yet again. Refuse my offer; take your letter to Rensley—What happens?’

Mr Markham was looking at him with a fascinated eye. ‘Well, what does happen?’ he asked.

‘Why, only that I am as though I had never been. There will no longer be a rival claimant to the estates. I shall have gone, and Rensley will be Viscount Barham without need of letters, or of any assistance whatsoever. You see, you must think ahead, Mr Markham; you must visualise possibilities.’

It was quite evident that Mr Markham was visualising this particular possibility. ‘You wouldn’t do it,’ he said.

‘But of course I should! I am not a fool, my dear Markham. I do not say that I have your brain, but still I am not a fool. If you walk out of this room with the paper still in that pocket of yours—you must show me how that is contrived—what can I do but fly the country? I am in the hollow of your hand, as you so aptly phrased it.’

Mr Markham began to entertain doubts of the truth of this. It had certainly seemed true enough at the outset, but things were taking an unfortunate turn. ‘I know very well you don’t mean to give up your claim. You’ll pay, safe enough!’

‘Still you follow me,’ admired my lord. ‘I have an ardent wish to pursue my claim, and certainly I will pay. But within reason, my dear Markham, within reason! I give you my paper, and—unless you are a man of very clumsy address, which I will not, nay, cannot believe—you are bound to prevail with Miss Letty. You become thus the master of the fortune you require, and I am rid of a menace. That talk of written promises—no, no, my dear sir, it’s not worthy of you! I, who am not even sure yet of the success of my claim, am to purchase your paper from you at the cost of fresh documentary evidence? You cannot, I beg you
will
not believe me to be so big a fool! Credit me with a preference for a free gamester’s life to a bound Viscount’s.’ He ended on a little laugh. His arresting eyes were glowing with a light of triumph.

There fell a silence. Bit by bit the force of my lord’s argument sank deep into Markham’s brain. He cursed himself for not having taken his paper to Rensley, and made sure of a snug ten thousand pounds. He began to see that he had snatched at a shadow. His glance fell on the paper that my lord held between his thin fingers. Involuntarily he started to form plans for its use. Certainly it had some value. Miss Letty would not be hard to terrify with threats; he could find the opportunity. She was worth more than ten thousand pounds, to be sure, if the scheme worked.

He pondered moodily, and realised that the letter and the chance it held was all that he could now hope to gain out of the affair. He began to arrive at the discovery that somehow or other it was he who seemed to be in the hollow of my lord’s hand. ‘You’re a damned trickster!’ he said.

‘You pain me,’ my lord said reproachfully.

Mr Markham relapsed into silence. If he did snare Letty—Gad, she was a dainty piece!—there might still be something to be got out of my lord. Even a verbal accusation could be unpleasant and might lead to disaster. He reflected that if he had Letty he would no longer be in need of large monetary assistance. Still, it would be useful to hold that weapon; to feel it to be within his power to squeeze my Lord Barham—if this smiling man were indeed Tremaine, though it now seemed doubtful. He perceived that his lordship had omitted to follow his own advice of looking far ahead, and smiled inwardly. He would take that letter in exchange for the one he held, and if he got Letty—well, he would be fairly satisfied, for after all, he wanted her, had always wanted her, even apart from her fortune. If he failed, if she would not be frightened by a threat to expose her father, then my lord would find he had not bought his dear friend’s tongue, though he might have bought his letter. ‘I’ll take it!’ he announced.

‘You are always so wise,’ said my lord. ‘It is a pleasure to have to do with you, sir.’

The exchange was effected. Mr Markham refused an offer of more claret brusquely, and strode off in the wake of my lord’s man.

My lord remained standing by the table, one hand resting lightly upon it, and the smile curling his lips. He heard the front door shut behind Mr Markham, and he listened to the heavy footsteps growing fainter and fainter in the distance. He raised his head then, and laughed softly to himself, in exquisite enjoyment. His man, returning to clear away the wine and the glasses, looked at him in some surprise.

‘Henry,’ said my lord. ‘You are fortunate. You serve a master of infinite resource.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Henry stolidly.

My lord looked at him, but it is doubtful whether he saw him. His gaze seemed to go beyond. ‘I am a great man,’ he said. ‘Oh, but I am a very great man!’

‘Yes, my lord,’ said Henry.

CHAPTER XXI

Proceedings of Mr Markham

The element of uncertainty made the prize not quite all Mr Markham had hoped for, but since it was all he had been able to get, he determined to make the most of it. An evening spent in plan-making restored him to satisfaction and good humour. He thought he saw his way clear. No thought of the light in which his conduct might possibly be regarded crossed his mind. Probably he held to the maxim that all was fair in love and war. Certainly no reflection of Miss Grayson’s feelings in the matter troubled his head, or abated one jot of his new cheerfulness. If he thought about the affair from her side at all, he considered that she would very soon settle down to the married state, especially since she had, not so long ago, fancied herself in love with him. This time there would be no Merriots to interfere in what was no concern of theirs; he would not even take the risk of alighting for so much as a bite of supper, until well out of reach of London, but speed on towards Scotland with no more stops than the changes of horses would necessitate.

Had Mr Markham heard my Lord Barham’s laugh, he might not have felt quite so sanguine; and had he heard my lord giving sundry instructions to a respectable middle-aged servant he might have entertained serious doubts as to my lord’s good faith. My lord said quite a lot to this man on the subject of coaching stages, and at the close of that interview the unresponsive servant had orders to keep an eye not only on the movements of Miss Grayson, but also to discover what horses were ordered at the first stage on the North Road, for what date, and by what gentlemen. The servant received these instructions impassively, and seemed to foresee no difficulties ahead of him. The truth was that he had performed far harder tasks for my Lord Barham. It would not have appeared from his demeanour that he either understood or approved his orders, but he had nothing to say beyond a resigned: ‘This is more of your devilry I suppose, my lord.’

Far from resenting this familiar form of address, my lord was flattered, and admitted the impeachment, adding a rider to the effect that it was a positive masterpiece of subtlety, whereupon the servant grunted, and went off.

But Mr Markham had no knowledge of this transaction, and he had no suspicion of foul play. All the foul play in the business was to be performed by himself, though it is doubtful whether he phrased if quite so candidly.

He foresaw few obstacles: this time there should be no hitch. The only difficulty, and that a small one, was to gain a hearing with Miss Grayson, and a little careful espionage soon disclosed an opportunity. Miss Grayson was to be present at a ball in town for which Mr Markham might quite easily procure an invitation. With the help of a friend this was contrived, and midway through the evening, Mr Markham was presented to Miss Grayson by a kindly hostess.

There was no aunt to play dragon, for the elder Miss Grayson had joined the rest of the dowagers in the card-room. Even Miss Merriot was away at the other end of the long room, flirting outrageously with Sir Anthony Fanshawe. Letitia, unskilled in the dealing of snubs, blushed fiery red, hesitated, stammering over a refusal to dance, and found that the kindly hostess had gone away to supply other young ladies with eligible partners. Very cross, Letty blurted out: ‘I do not want to dance with you, sir!’

It seemed that Mr Markham had no desire to dance either. He wanted to talk to Letitia.

‘You know very well I don’t want to have anything to do with you,’ said Letty, still very red.

‘Don’t be so unforgiving,’ Mr Markham said. ‘I have something of very great importance to say to you. It can’t be said here. It is a secret and a dangerous matter.’

That sounded prodigious exciting to be sure, but Letty was still suspicious. ‘You will lure me out and abduct me,’ she said.

‘All I ask of you is that you should come into the little ante-room, across the passage, with me. How could I abduct you here? If you don’t come you will regret it all your life. You do not know how weighty a matter it is I have to disclose.’

Letty reflected that Mr Markham would indeed find it hard to carry her off from a crowded ball against her will, and rose undecidedly to her feet. Anything in the nature of a mystery intrigued her at once. She intimated graciously that she would hear what Mr Markham had to say. Unobserved of the Merriots or of Sir Anthony Fanshawe, she went out with Mr Markham.

She had leisure to repent her action when Mr Markham made his startling disclosure. He allowed her but a glimpse of her father’s incriminating letter, and sat back in his chair watching her with a satisfied smile.

Her big eyes grew round in horrified wonder. ‘B-but my papa is not a Jacobite!’ she exclaimed.

‘Do you suppose anyone will believe that if I show this letter?’ Mr Markham inquired.

‘But you won’t, sir! You won’t, will you?’

Mr Markham leaned forward. ‘Not if you will marry me, Letty,’ he said softly.

She recoiled instinctively. ‘No, no!’

‘What, you had rather see your father’s head adorning London Bridge?’

Letty’s cheeks grew pale at that, and she shuddered. It was impossible not to feel sick horror at the thought. All who lived in London had seen those ghastly sights in the past months. The picture conjured up was terribly real to her. ‘You would not! You would not do such a cruel, wicked thing!’

‘I would do anything to win you, Letty!’ Mr Markham said, with fine lover-like ardour.

‘Papa will never let me marry you!’ cried Letty, cowering away.

‘But could you not fly with me again? We set out once, did we not, my little Letty? It can be done again—this time with a difference.’

‘No, no, I won’t!’

‘Not even to save your father?’ persuaded Mr Markham.

Miss Letty’s bosom rose and fell quickly. ‘If you forced me—if you did such a wicked thing, sir—I should hate you all the rest of my life! Do you want a wife who loathes you?’

Mr Markham laughed indulgently. ‘You’ll soon get over that when we are married, my dear. Won’t you care for me a little when I give you this letter to burn?’

She stretched out her hand. ‘Give it to me now, sir, and indeed, indeed, I shall never think hardly of you again!’

‘On our wedding day,’ said Markham. ‘Not before, but just as soon as my ring is on your finger.’

‘It will never, never be there,’ she declared, bursting into tears.

It took Mr Markham twenty minutes to convince her that she was sending her papa to the gallows-tree by such unreasonable behaviour. She struggled and wept; she cried that she would tell papa all about it, and he would talk to my Lord Bute, and all would be well. Mr Markham said that it would not be in my Lord Bute’s power to assist Sir Humphrey, even if he wanted to, which was hardly possible. Sir Humphrey had written treasonable matter in this letter. Surely Letty knew what that meant?

She did; the very thought of it drove the blood from her face. Desperately she cast around in her mind for some source of help.

Mr Markham thought it well, since she struggled so, to extemporise a little. ‘When I leave this ball to-night,’ he said, ‘this letter goes into a friend’s keeping. If anything were to happen to me it would be published at once, and if, in a week from now you and I are not on the road to Scotland I myself shall take it to the proper quarters. You will be sorry then that you would not lift a finger to save your father!’

It seemed she was a monster of selfishness. Where, oh where was the Unknown in the Black Domino, who had said that he would come again in her hour of need? Nothing but a dream. Here was herself only, and Gregory Markham, who had become hateful to her. She could see no road out of the trouble, saving the one he pointed out to her. Almost she went down on her knees to him, imploring his mercy. He used some endearing terms in his reply, but she could see that behind all his soft address he was quite adamant.

She declared she would tell papa; Mr Markham pointed out the immediate and evil consequences of such an action. She saw them; she was induced to believe that to tell anyone would bring disaster upon the house of Grayson. She capitulated, and while he outlined a plan of flight to her, she sat wondering whether she would have strength enough, and courage, to stab him on the road to Scotland. She thought if there were pistols in the coach she could brave the dreadful explosion and shoot her lover, and steal the letter from his person. What would happen to her after that she had no notion, but she expected it would be all very awful.

Something of these murderous designs Mr Markham read in her face: he saw enough in those brown eyes, ordinarily so soft, to make him decide to have no pistols placed anywhere within his bride’s reach on the journey to Scotland.