The Masqueraders Read online

  But Sir Raymond Orton leaned casually against the door. ‘Now and then being when there’s a fight brewing, eh, Rensley my buck?’

  ‘Really, Orton! Is it a jest belike?’

  ‘The most famous one, Rensley, and spreading all over the town.’

  Sir Anthony spoke to Galliano. ‘We’d a mind to have the foils out, Gally, but I suppose you have Mr Merriot coming to you?’

  ‘I do not know any Mistaire Merriot,’ said Galliano positively. ‘I am at Saire Anthony’s disposal. Why should I have an appointment wiz a Mistaire I don’ know?’

  ‘Oh, I thought ’twas a new fashion to take a lesson before a meeting!’ said Sir Anthony idly twirling his eye-glass. ‘Now I see it is only Mr Rensley’s fashion. But what a disappointment for him to have this new pass withheld! Can’t you teach him your Baiser, Gally?’

  The Italian looked quickly from one face to the other. Some mischief he could smell in the air, and all his sharp little brain was on the alert. ‘I do not try to teach him Baiser. You – yes, I will show. But I do not show Mr Rensley, nor you, milor, nor Saire Raymond eizer.’

  ‘You’ve no heart, Gally; positively you’ve none,’ Sir Anthony told him. ‘Have a little pity on poor Rensley!’

  Mr Rensley stood still beside Sir Raymond. He had shut his mouth hard, but his eyes smouldered. Mr Molyneux was looking curiously at Fanshawe, but my lord, by the window, watched Rensley and chuckled. It was a jest he could appreciate.

  ‘You don’t apprehend the matter,’ Sir Anthony went on persuasively, still twirling his glass. ‘Here’s Rensley feels he must let some blood – not his own, of course – and hits on the very man. That’s to say, it seemed so – one of your youthful sprigs from the country. Ideal, you perceive. But the devil was in it that the sprig was held to have some cunning tricks of fence – possibly your Baiser, Gally; who knows? Naturally poor Rensley’s monstrous put out over it, and what else should he do but fly to our friend Galliano? And you fail him, Gally! It’s unkind in you, upon my word it is. Poor Rensley will be forced to withdraw from the engagement, I fear me.’

  The chuckle died on my Lord Kestrel’s lips; Sir Raymond looked round quickly. Mr Rensley took two steps towards Sir Anthony, and spoke in a voice barely controlled. ‘Will you be good enough to explain these remarks, Sir Anthony?’ he demanded.

  Sir Anthony turned slowly to face him. Mr Rensley was by no means a small man, but the lazy eyes looked down at him. Sir Anthony stopped twirling his glass, and though he smiled still it was not his usual genial expression, but on the contrary a smile rather disdainful, and with the hint of sternness behind it. ‘Certainly, Mr Rensley. But I should have thought my meaning was plain enough. No doubt you have your reasons for not wishing to comprehend it.’

  Rensley reddened. ‘This is not the first time you’ve sneered at me, Sir Anthony!’

  ‘Nor the last, Rensley, unless the colour of your coat should change.’

  ‘You make your meaning quite plain, I thank you, sir! You choose to think me a coward because I chance to take an hour’s practice here to-day.’

  ‘You have it quite wrong, my good Rensley,’ said Sir Anthony imperturbably. ‘I choose to think you a coward because you forced a quarrel on a man well nigh young enough to be your son.’

  Under his breath Sir Raymond gave the dueller’s ‘Sa-sa!’ The jest had of a sudden taken an ugly turn, and what in the fiend’s name ailed Fanshawe to be picking a quarrel in this fashion?

  Rensley spoke between shut teeth. ‘May I ask what concern it is of yours, sir?’

  Sir Anthony’s eyes were hard and scornful. ‘Make no doubt, sir, I can readily understand your anxiety for me not to make it my concern.’

  Troubridge laid his hand on Sir Anthony’s arm. ‘Tony –’ he began, expostulating.

  His hand was removed. ‘In a moment, Troubridge.’

  Mr Rensley’s fingers sought the hilt of his sword. ‘I know how to take that, Sir Anthony. You shall have all the taste of my mettle you require, and maybe some more beside. Be pleased to name your seconds.’

  Sir Anthony looked round the room. ‘Why, here are enough for us both,’ he said. ‘I will take Mr Molyneux and Mr Troubridge for mine. I make no doubt my Lord Kestrel, and Orton there will be charmed to serve you.’

  Mr Molyneux jumped. ‘Good Gad, Fanshawe, what’s this?’

  ‘I’ll choose my own friends, I thank you, sir! You shall hear from them.’ Mr Rensley strode to the door but was checked by Sir Anthony’s voice.

  ‘Not so fast, not so fast! It is for me to name the time and the place. What place could be better than this, and what time half so suitable as the present?’

  Kestrel’s eyes danced. Fanshawe had undoubtedly taken leave of his senses, but this promised to be a rare morning’s work. ‘You can count on me, Rensley,’ he struck in.

  ‘Nothing, be sure, would please me more, Sir Anthony,’ Rensley answered, ‘but I have a meeting with your protégé to-morrow and your quarrel must wait on his.’

  ‘Really, Tony, you must –’

  ‘Give me leave, Molyneux.’ A hand was raised to enjoin silence. ‘I don’t wait on young Merriot’s pleasure, Rensley.’

  ‘In this instance, sir, you will find you must.’

  Sir Anthony smiled. ‘You must think me a much bigger fool than I am, Mr Rensley.’

  ‘I doubt it, sir!’ There was a bite to the words.

  ‘Oh, but you do, my good Rensley, if you suppose that I do not perfectly understand the meaning of this refusal of yours to meet me now.’

  ‘And what is the meaning, sir?’

  Sir Anthony pointed his long cane at Rensley, and answered in a voice of indulgent scorn. ‘Oh, you will prove your mettle on young Merriot to the satisfaction of the world, and I shall hear next that you sustained some slight hurt in that encounter for which the surgeon prescribes a foreign clime.’ He shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘No, no, Rensley, it won’t serve!’

  Mr Rensley’s hand shook on his sword hilt, but it was not from fright. ‘To hell with your insinuations!’ he cried. ‘You’d say I fear to meet you, eh?’

  ‘I say, Mr Rensley, that you dare not meet me now or at any time,’ Sir Anthony replied, to the astonishment of his friends. His hand came up, and he struck Mr Rensley lightly across the mouth with the glove he held.

  There was a choked oath, and the rasp of steel scraping against the scabbard. Mr Rensley’s sword was out.

  Galliano leaped in with his foil raised. ‘Ah, ah! Put up ze sword! Put up, I say! You go to make a scandal of me, ze pair of you!’ he cried.

  ‘I will fight you here and now, Sir Anthony!’ thundered Mr Rensley, and flung his hat and cane aside.

  There came a gleam into the grey eyes. ‘Give us house-room, Gally,’ said Sir Anthony. ‘What a pity neither of us had time to acquire the Kiss!’

  ‘Anthony, you’re surely mad!’ Mr Molyneux’s voice was urgent in his ear.

  ‘I was never more sane, believe me,’ Sir Anthony assured him, coming out of his coat. ‘Lock the door, Gally.’ He tucked up his ruffles. ‘There’s a letter in my desk, Molyneux, in case –. You’ll find it.’

  ‘Fanshawe, I do beseech you –’

  ‘Pray don’t, my dear fellow; it’s quite useless. Gally, my friend, help me to pull off these boots, of your compassion.’

  The Italian pulled them off for him, but he looked up with a worried face. ‘What comes to me over zis, hein? You make me a scandal, Saire Anthony!’

  ‘Have no fear, Gally; there will be no scandal.’

  Sir Raymond Orton came punctiliously forward to meet Mr Molyneux, and swords were measured. Mr Molyneux said, over the business: – ‘It should be stopped, Orton. Fanshawe’s mad.’

  ‘Stark mad!’ agreed Orton cheerfully. ‘But it’s famous sport, after all, and th