Джорджетт Хейер - The Masqueraders

People flocked to offer their congratulations to my Lord Barham, and to tell him how delighted they were that his claim — which they had always felt to be true — had been successfully proved. He received these visitors with his usual smile, and deprecated the suggestion that he had made a most handsome settlement on his cousin Rensley. How this news got about no one knew, for certainly Rensley said nothing about it. Rensley went abroad almost immediately, for his health. He cherished no kind feelings whatsoever towards my lord: he even talked wildly of bringing an action against him. Mr Clapperly dissuaded him from so foolish a proceeding, and ventured to say that my lord had behaved towards the usurper with positive magnificence.

So my Lady Lowestoft thought, and wondered at it. My lord waved a lofty hand. “I am Tremaine of Barham,” he said. “A lesser man might have shown meanness.”

“You are superb, Robert,” she told him.

“Certainly,” he said.

In due course my lord took possession of his house in Grosvenor Square, and travelled down to Barham for a day or two, to warn the servants there of his coming later with guests. To his friends he announced that he did but await the advent of his children to proceed in state to the Court.

If he had been sought out before he was now inundated with invitations from all sides. He spent not a single evening alone: either he went out, or he gave select card parties in his own house. A great many mammas courted him blatantly in expectation of the arrival of his son; Mr Devereux told his friend Belfort that since that aunt of hisshowed every promise of being immortal he had a good mind to try his luck with the Honourable Prudence Tremaine. Charles Belfort opined that she would have a squint, or a face scarred by small-pox. He said that with the exception of Letty Grayson all heiresses were ill-favoured. Mr Belfort had been very much put out by the defection of Peter Merriot, and could still talk of little else. He had no interest, he said, in my Lord Barham’s children.

It was not many days before a post-chaise, piled high with baggage, came to the house in Grosvenor Square, and drew up before the door. A slight young gentleman sprang out, followed by a French valet. One of my lord’s servants opened the door to this young gentleman, and inquired politely who he might be. The young gentleman said briskly: “My name’s Tremaine. I must suppose I am expected.”

Indeed, it seemed so, for there was at once a bustle made. The numerous valises and boxes were brought into the house; a footman came bowing to inform Mr Tremaine that his lordship was unfortunately out, but should be sent for in a trice, to White’s.

Mr Tremaine refused this offer. Having drunk a glass of excellent Burgundy, brought by yet another footman, he announced his intention of setting forth himself in search of his father. Faith, one must face everyone sooner or later; then a’ God’s name let it be at once!

One of the lackeys at White’s escorted Mr Tremaine to the card room, and stood for a moment by the door looking round for my lord. Robin paused beside him, holding his hat under his arm, and his handkerchief and snuff-box in the other hand. Several people looked up, wondering who the handsome young stranger might be. Mr Belfort, dicing with Devereux and Orton, said: — “Gad, that’s a devilish modish wig! Who is it?”

Sir Raymond looked round and met Robin’s eyes. “I don’t think I know him,” he said hesitatingly. “Yet — there’s something faintly familiar in his face.”

Mr Devereux put up his glass. “’Pon my soul, Bel, that’s a monstrous pretty fashion of lacing he has to his coat! A prodigiously modish young buck, I protest!”

At the next table Mr Troubridge said: — “Who’s the stranger? I seem to have seen that face before. A handsome boy, and carries himself well. A little arrogant, perhaps.”

Certain, Robin carried himself well, and had his trim figure well set off by a marvellously cut coat of dark blue cloth. He appeared to have been travelling, for he wore top boots, highly polished, on his small feet, and a sword at his side. His coat was heavily laced with gold, tight across the shoulders and at the waist, and spreading them into wide skirts, silk-lined, the cuffs very large and turned back almost to the elbow to show a profusion of Mechlin ruffles. His waistcoat, a dozen men of fashion noted at once, was of the very latest style; the lace at his throat was arranged to fall in cascades down his chest, and there was a sapphire pin glinting in it. His wig, at which Mr Belfort, an expert in these matters, had exclaimed, must have come direct from Paris; the hat under his arm was richly edged with finest point. His blue eyes were cool; his mouth, though delicately curved, was firm enough; when he turned that arrogant profile towards Mr Troubridge that gentleman said with greater emphasis than before: — “Gad, yes! A remarkably handsome boy. A pity he is not taller.”

The lackey had perceived my lord over by the window, and pointed him out now to Robin. Robin went forward between the tables, and stood at his father’s elbow. “Sir.”

My lord was playing picquet with my Lord March. He looked round and exclaimed. “My Robin!” He threw down his cards and sprang up. “My son!” he said joyously.

Robin stood bowing deeply before his father. “I’ve but this instant arrived, sir.” His lips brushed the back of my lord’s hand punctiliously. “I found you from home, and came to seek you here. You permit?”

My lord clasped his arm. “And I am from home when my Robin arrives! My Lord March, you will allow me to present to you my son?”

“So this is your son, is it, Barham?” My lord nodded in a friendly fashion to the grave young gentleman bowing so gracefully before him. His lordship was not, after all, so very far removed from Robin’s age, but he had the manner of a man of forty. “A very pretty youth, Barham. And are you just come from France, Tremaine?”

“Just, sir.”

“I dare swear you have all the latest fashions at your fingertips then. Is it true they are wearing earrings in Paris?”

“I have occasionally seen them, sir. At balls a single earring is considered in some circles de rigueur.”

By this time nearly everyone in the card room had realised that the modish stranger must be my lord’s long looked-for son. Sir Raymond Orton said that it accounted for the familiarity of his face, and went to be introduced.

My lord presented his son with justifiable pride, and had the satisfaction of seeing him borne off to dice at Orton’s table. Mr Belfort and Mr Devereux received him with kindness, and made him welcome. He protested that he had no right to be in the club at all, but was told that that was nonsense. In a day or two he would of course be made a member. He was found to be well-versed in the ways of the world, and could tell an entertaining tale. Mr Belfort enrolled him promptly in the numerous ranks of his intimates.

On his way out of the room Mr Troubridge paused to lay a hand on Robin’s arm. “Barham’s son?” he said. “To be sure, we have all been most anxious to see Robin Tremaine.”

Robin rose to his feet, a hand on the back of his chair. “You are very kind, sir.”

“And have you brought your sister?” smiled Mr Troubridge.

Robin’s brows rose. “My sister came over some time before me, sir. She is the guest of my Lady Enderby, at Dartrey.”

Mr Molyneux, overhearing, gave a soundless whistle. So that was the charming visitor Tony had written about? Gad, but Tony had all the luck!

Robin very soon left the club in company with his father. My lord had presented him to everyone: several people said that they had thought his face vaguely familiar from the first, and were sure it must have been his likeness to his father. Robin bowed, and suppressed an inward smile.

Once outside the club my lord became more rapturous still. “You are perfect, my Robin! Perfect! There is not a soul will suspect. You had no trouble?”

“None, sir. And you?”

“How should I, my son? Need you ask?”

“I suppose not. Am I to understand, sir, you are in very sooth Tremaine of Barham?”

My lord smiled. “My Robin, confess you have doubted me!”

“Yes, sir. I do not know that I am to be blamed.”

“Certainly you are to be blamed. You who have known me from your cradle!”

“For that very reason, sir, I doubted.”

“Ah, you should have had faith in me, my Robin!”

“I had, sir — in your ingenuity.”

My lord shook a finger. “I saw from the outset that you doubted. I might have convinced you. I chose rather to confound you, as I do now.”

Robin blinked. “Let me have a plain answer, sir. Is this all a trick, or are you Tremaine?”

“Of course I am Tremaine,” said his lordship, with a calmness more convincing than all his heroics.

Robin turned his head to stare. He drew a deep breath. “Give me time, sir. You have certainly confounded me. I confess, I thought it a trick.”

My lord laughed in gentle triumph. “I am always an unknown quantity, my Robin. You should have thought of that. But if I were not in very truth Tremaine of Barham — which I am — I should stand precisely where I stand today. Therein lies my greatness. Believe it!”

“Oh, I do, sir. I’m of the opinion you might be King of England if you choose.”

My lord considered this. “It is possible, my son,” he said seriously. “I do not say that it would be altogether beyond my powers. But there would be difficulties — great difficulties.”

“Lord, let’s remain content as we are!” said Robin, alarmed. “I’m satisfied, sir.”