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  ‘He could scarcely have less,’ said Prudence dryly.

  There was a heavy footstep behind her. By an evil chance Mr Rensley had entered the room at that instant, and was bearing down upon the group by the fire. He came fresh from a gloomy interview with his lawyer; he was conscious that everywhere his chances were being discussed. And now he entered White’s to hear a young upstart from the country pass disparaging remarks upon himself. He strode therefore straight up to Prudence, and with a look in his eyes not at all pleasant, rapped out: ‘Who could not have less of what, my fine sir?’

  It was evident that Rensley had heard all. Mr Devereux coughed and gazed at the ceiling, reflecting that it was like Rensley to choose a suckling for his prey.

  Prudence turned a little to face Mr Rensley. There was danger confronting her, as well she knew. She said quietly: ‘I spoke to Mr Devereux, sir, I believe.’

  ‘Your words were not meant for my ears I make no doubt,’ said Rensley evilly.

  Prudence bowed. ‘You apprehend the matter correctly, sir.’

  There was a certain air of tense expectation in the room. Prudence felt that she was on her trial. God knew how it would end!

  Mr Rensley might well let be now. He looked sullenly at Prudence, and thought that he heard a whisper in the group behind her. There had been too much whispering of late; very badly did Mr Rensley want to avenge himself on someone. He was not ill pleased to take Prudence for a scapegoat. This young ruffler gave himself insufferable airs: it was time he was taught a lesson. Mr Rensley spoke more offensively still. ‘I see, Mr Merriot, that you don’t care to repeat your words.’

  There fell a sudden stillness. ‘I do not, Mr Rensley.’

  ‘On what grounds, Mr Merriot, I wonder?’

  ‘On the grounds, Mr Rensley, of good manners.’

  Rensley flushed. ‘In which you think me lacking, eh?’

  ‘I have not told you so, sir.’

  ‘And you don’t think it?’

  There was a slight pause. Prudence realized, dismayed, that the group behind her was awaiting curiously her challenge. To conciliate this angry, red-faced man, meant the loss of every man’s good opinion; in a word, it meant social ostracism. A challenge was offered, and it seemed it must be accepted. Pride could not be swallowed. She spoke deliberately. ‘That question, Mr Rensley, I prefer to leave unanswered.’

  ‘Afraid, eh?’

  Egad, was she afraid? She thought she was too much her father’s daughter. A cold anger took her in its hold; she looked Rensley full between the eyes. ‘You become insulting, sir. I take leave to tell you, since you will have it, that your manners belong to the taproom.’

  It was out, and did she regret it? She became aware of Mr Belfort at her elbow, and was conscious of the approval of him and of the others in the circle. No, come what might, the thing had to be, and she regretted nothing.

  Mr Rensley flushed darker still. Sure, the man would have an apoplexy one of these days. ‘I shall send my friends to wait upon yours, Mr Merriot.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’ She looked towards Mr Belfort, who nodded encouragingly. Mr Devereux smiled wearily, and stepped forward a pace. ‘Mr Belfort will act for me, and Mr Devereux,’ she said, and turned to resume her conversation with them.

  Mr Rensley bowed stiffly and went out. Belfort clapped Prudence on the shoulder. ‘Well said, my boy!’ he declared. ‘I knew you’d never swallow that! Gad, it’s a good six months since I’ve acted for anyone. We’ll see some sport now!’

  Prudence, her anger evaporating fast, could have found another name for it. ‘I don’t desire this to come to my sister’s ears, Charles,’ she said. ‘I needn’t warn you, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh, not a word, my dear Merriot, trust me!’ promised Mr Belfort. ‘He’ll name Markham and Jessup his seconds, I dare swear. You’ll choose swords, I take it? We’ll have the whole affair fixed up as snug and quiet as you please.’

  Mr Molyneux spoke disapproval. ‘Rensley must have taken leave of his senses,’ he said in an undertone to Sir Raymond Orton. ‘A man of his years to challenge a boy to fight! It’s child murder!’

  ‘Oh, it won’t come to that, Molyneux,’ was Sir Raymond’s comfortable belief. ‘He’ll pink him easily enough, and Merriot will lie up for a week or so. Rensley knows better than to make it a killing matter. People are getting damned strict over these duels, you know.’

  It was Prudence’s own belief as she walked back to Arlington Street: she had not much fear of death, but the thing as it stood was bad enough. It was true she had considerable knowledge of sword-play, but she knew very well that it was one thing to play with foils and quite another to fight in good earnest a man who was one’s declared enemy.

  He was a strong man too, by the looks of him. Maybe she might have something of an advantage in the matter of quickness; sure, she had been taught a trick or two not many knew. The affair was not hopeless, she believed, but she admitted she had small relish for it.

  One might tell Robin, of course. Ay, and be swept off to France, or see him throw off his disguise and take her place in the encounter. He was quite equal to it; he lacked her cautiousness. Against flight she resolutely set her face. One would leave a sullied name behind; the large gentleman – well, what of him? She considered the point, and found herself blushing. Oh, she must needs stand well with him? The more fool she!

  There was the old gentleman, to be sure, but she could not see how he might be expected to help in this. He could whisk her off, doubtless, as Robin would, and then what lay before? She saw a dark road that way, and turned from it. There was little enough to hope for in staying here in England, when one came to think of it, but – Lord, what ailed her that she must still cling to this masquerade?

  She reflected that she had steered her craft into a whirlpool; and discovered an ambition in herself to steer it out again, without assistance. To take Robin into her confidence was to overset all their plans: it was to become, in fact, a nuisance.

  It was possible she might be unmasked in this encounter: that had to be considered. A wound, the apothecary – Lord, what a pretty scandal! If the worst came to the worst, and her wits failed her, she believed Mr Belfort might be taken into her confidence. She had a feeling she could trust him. He could arrange matters so as to preserve her secret. She might appeal to his love of adventure. It was not what she liked, but if no better scheme presented itself it might serve. And one must not forget that there was always the possibility of vanquishing Mr Rensley.

  She came home in mood somewhat silent, and Robin railed gaily at her for dreaming of her mountain.

  Sixteen

  Unaccountable Behaviour of Sir Anthony Fanshawe

  Sir Anthony was partaking of a solitary breakfast when Mr Belfort was announced. He looked up genially from a red sirloin as the Honourable Charles came in, and offered him a share of the meal.

  ‘Breakfasted an hour since,’ said Mr Belfort briskly. ‘But I don’t mind taking some of that ale.’

  Sir Anthony pushed it towards him. ‘You’re very energetic, Charles,’ he remarked. ‘Why this ungodly hour for a visit?’

  ‘Well, I’ve had business to attend to, y’see,’ said Mr Belfort, nodding mysteriously. ‘But that’s not what I’m come upon. It’s about that grey mare, Tony.’

  ‘My dear Charles, I really cannot talk horse flesh so early in the morning.’

  ‘Oh, come now!’ protested Mr Belfort. ‘It’s past nine, man! The fact of the matter is, Orton offers me a hundred guineas for her, but I told him she was more than half promised to you. But if you think she’s not up to your weight –’

  ‘I have a fancy for her,’ said Sir Anthony. ‘I’ll give you Orton’s price.’

  ‘Good God, man, no! If you want the mare she’s yours at the figure we named!’ cried Mr Belfort, horrified. ‘Burn it, I’m not a dem