hey were left to stare at one another. My lady showed an inclination to laugh. ‘Well, my children? Well?’ she demanded.

‘I’m glad you think so, ma’am,’ bowed Prudence.

‘Oh, what’s to be done with the man?’ Robin said impatiently.

Prudence walked to the window, and stood looking out into the sunny street. Her voice held some amusement. ‘My dear, I take it the question is rather what he will do with us.’

‘Can you make head or tail of it?’

‘Not I, faith.’

‘Ay, you preserve your placidity, don’t you?’ Robin said.

She laughed. ‘What else? If we fall, why then, we must. I see no way of preventing it. Alack, I haven’t the trick of coaxing the old gentleman into sense.’

‘There is no way. We’re treading another of his mazes, and the devil’s in it that we’ve no choice. For myself, if the old gentleman would be a little plain with us I’m willing enough to play this game out. But I would know where I stand. We ply him with questions, and what answer have we? Why, that he’s a Tremaine of Barham, forsooth! What to do with a man who can say naught but what is assuredly a lie?’

‘I think he believes it,’ Prudence remarked, twinkling.

‘Of course he believes it! He always believes in his own inventions. I’ll swear therein lies his success. Lord, it’s a wonderful old gentleman!’

My lady brushed her hand lightly across the table’s polished surface. She looked curiously at her young friends. ‘But you—you do not believe it?’

‘Hardly, ma’am.’ Robin shrugged. ‘Do you?’

‘Me, I know nothing. Would he embark on it, do you think, if there were not some truth behind?’

‘Ma’am, you’ve heard him. He believes himself omnipotent.’

‘There’s the motto.’ Prudence spoke reflectively.

‘I don’t set great store by that. He may have had this in mind many a long day.’

‘How?’ She turned her head.

‘We don’t know when he came by these documents he holds,’ Robin pointed out. ‘As I see it he may have met the real Tremaine any time these forty years. When did Tremaine die? Or if he lives yet when had the old gentleman those papers from him? I believe this may have been deep laid.’

‘Ah, so do not I!’ Prudence came back into the room. ‘His genius lies in grasping opportunity at a moment’s notice. I’ll swear this was not in his mind when he swept us into the Rebellion.’

Robin was silent, puzzling over it. Came the page to announce Sir Anthony Fanshawe. Sir Anthony had called to fetch Mr Merriot to ride out past Kensington with him. Prudence went off, and my lady’s black eyes twinkled merrily.

‘That is a romance, not?’ she said.

Robin caught back a sigh. ‘I don’t see the happy ending, ma’am.’ He got up and began to pace the room. ‘I wish I saw my way,’ he said, pausing. He bit one finger-tip, frowning.

Her ladyship watched him. ‘You stand by the bon papa, yes?’

‘It seems likely. I see no other hope of a fair conclusion. This is to risk all for the slim chance of gaining all. Well, it has ever been our way. I might be off to France, taking Prue with me. That’s the safe road. I can fend a path for us both. But it’s the end to her romance.’

‘And to yours, mon enfant,’ said her ladyship softly.

‘Perhaps. That does not signify so much. I was, after all, born to this game. But Prue’s not. She hankers now after the secure life, wedded to the mountain, I suppose. It’s a pretty coil.’ He resumed his pacing. ‘I’ve thought on all this, ma’am. I don’t see the way to compass it, for the mountain’s a respectable gentleman, and we—well, to be plain, we’re adventurers. Now comes the old gentleman, in a preposterous guise, and—egad, it’s a forlorn hope, but the only one that I can perceive. If he can brave it out—why then, the Honourable Prudence becomes a fitting bride for an even greater man than the great Sir Anthony.’

She nodded. ‘That’s certain. Me, I do not see so very much to fear.’

‘I see a multitude of things, ma’am, and one more clearly than all the rest. He admitted himself there was somewhere a document bearing his name. If I but knew who holds it!’ He broke off, and compressed his lips.

‘You think you could obtain it, my child?’

There was a confident little laugh. ‘Let me have but wind of it!’ Robin said.

‘I shall see you yet as the heir of Barham,’ my lady prophesied, and went off to send out the cards for her next evening party.

Along the road to Kensington Prudence rode by Sir Anthony’s side, and talked idly of this and that. Sir Anthony rode a big raw-boned chestnut, and sat his horse well. The brute had tricksy manners, but he seemed to know his master, and responded to the slightest movement of the strong hand on the bridle.

Prudence herself had horsemanship. The bay mare from my lady’s stable chose to curvet all across the road, in a playful endeavour to throw her off. She swayed gracefully to the mare’s buckings, humoured her a little, and brought her up alongside her chestnut companion.

Sir Anthony sat easily in the saddle, watching her, a hand laid lightly on his hip. ‘She’s a little fresh,’ he remarked.

Prudence leaned forward to pat the mare’s neck. ‘Playful. There’s no vice.’

The mare reared up as though to protest against this reading of her character, and of a sudden all the indolence left Sir Anthony. He bent swiftly forward, and caught the mare’s bridle close to the bit before Prudence knew what he would be at. The mare was brought down by a man’s iron hand, but her rider sat unshaken.

Now, what possessed the man to do that? ‘She doesn’t throw me so easily, sir,’ Prudence said gently.

‘As I see.’ Sir Anthony pricked onward. ‘In all, you puzzle me, boy.’

Prudence studied the road ahead. ‘I do, sir?’ she said. ‘I don’t know why I should.’

The heavy-lidded eyes rested on her profile for a minute. ‘Don’t you?’ said Sir Anthony.

A pulse began to beat rather fast in her throat. She waited.

‘You are,’ Sir Anthony said, ‘a curious mixture. You’d no suspicion of it?’

She laughed. ‘None, sir, upon my word.’

‘A babe in our midst,’ he remarked thoughtfully. ‘And yet—not a babe.’

‘I told you, sir, that I have been about the world a little.’

‘It may be that. Was all this junketting about by yourself, I wonder?’

She was being cross-examined. One must step warily. ‘There was usually a friend with me,’ she answered indifferently.

‘You must have spent a prodigious time touring Europe,’ he said pensively.

‘I don’t know why you should think so, sir. I made the Grand Tour.’

‘You must have made it a very extended one to have seen so much,’ Sir Anthony pointed out gently.

‘You forget, sir, a great part of my life was spent abroad with my parents.’

‘Ah, to be sure!’ he nodded. ‘No doubt many of your experiences were gained then.’

‘Yes, Sir Anthony.’

There was a slight pause. The gentleman was looking straight between his horse’s ears. ‘What a very tender age at which to have seen so much!’ he remarked blandly.

The mare bounded forward under a spur incautiously driven home. ‘Sir,’ said Prudence, ‘for some reason I don’t guess you seem to hold me in suspicion.’ It was a daring move, but she could see no other.

Up went the straight brows, in sleepy surprise. ‘Not at all, my dear boy. Why should I?’

‘I have no notion, sir.’

They rode on in silence for a little while. ‘Shall we have the pleasure of seeing your respected father in town?’ inquired the tiresome gentleman.

‘I believe not, sir.’

‘Why, I am sorry.’ said Sir Anthony. ‘I confess I have an ambition to meet the begetter of so worldly-wise a youth.’

‘No doubt my father would surprise you, sir,’ said Prudence, with truth. ‘It’s a remarkable old gentleman.’

‘No doubt he would,’ agreed Fanshawe. ‘I find that life is full of surprises.’

For a moment grey eyes met grey. ‘The sudden appearance of the lost Viscount, for instance,’ said Prudence lightly.

‘Precisely. And the no less sudden appearance of the Pretender not so long back.’

So that was the gist of the matter, was it? Prudence drew in her breath.

The lazy voice continued. ‘And—when one thinks of it—the sudden appearance of the Merriots.’

‘Oh, that! Sudden to you, I make no doubt, but believe me it was not sudden to us. My sister was in a fever of anticipation for weeks before.’

The danger point seemed to be past. Sir Anthony preserved a thoughtful silence.

‘You did not go down to your house at Wych End after all, sir,’ remarked Prudence at length.

‘No, little man. I changed my mind since your company was denied me.’

She flushed, and looked up frankly. ‘I wonder that you should so greatly desire my company, Sir Anthony.’

He stroked the chestnut’s neck with the butt of his whip, and smiled a little. ‘Do you?’ he said, and turned his head. ‘Now why?’

Faith, when he let one see them the gentleman had most understanding eyes.

‘Well, sir’—Prudence looked demure—‘I have a notion you think me an escaped rebel.’

‘And if you were,’ said Sir Anthony, ‘must I necessarily deny you my friendship?’

‘I believe you to be a good Whig, sir.’

‘I hope so, little man.’

‘I took no part in the late Rebellion, sir.’

‘I have not accused you of it, my dear boy.’

The horses dropped to a walk. ‘But if I had, Sir Anthony... What then?’

‘You might still rest assured of my friendship.’

There was a warm feeling about her heart, but he did not know the full sum of it, alack.

‘You are very kind, Sir Anthony—to an unknown youth.’

‘I believe I remarked to you once that I have an odd liking for you, little man. One of these strange twists in one’s affections for which there is no accounting. If I can serve you at any time I desire you will let me know it.’

‘I have to thank you, sir.’ She could find no other words.

‘You may perhaps have noticed, my dear boy, that my friends call me Tony,’ he said.

She bent to fiddle with her stirrup leather, and her reply was somewhat inarticulate. When she sat straight again in the saddle she showed a heightened colour, but it might have been due to the stooping posture.