At White’s in St James’s my Lord Barham played at faro, and informed my Lord March genially that he hoped to give the pettifogging lawyers all the proofs they needed of his identity at the end of the week.
In the big house in Grosvenor Square Mr Rensley nursed his wound and speculated on the results of the meeting to be held in this very room, a few days hence.
At Richmond Robin drove out with my lady to drink a dish of Bohea, which he detested, that Prudence might be alone to receive Sir Anthony Fanshawe when he arrived.
She sat in the library, overlooking the river, and tried to interest herself with a book. But the book could not hold her attention; she must ever be harkening for the sound of coach wheels.
It came at last. She was woman enough to cast a glance at the big mirror hanging over the fireplace. The mirror showed a handsome young gentleman in a powdered wig. A slightly disordered neckcloth had to be adjusted; Prudence bent her eyes once more on the book.
A lackey opened the door; she looked up and saw a scared expression on his face, not unmixed with curiosity. She kept her finger in the book; she was at once on the alert, completely mistress of herself.
‘Sir – two men!…’ The lackey did not seem to know what next to say.
Prudence’s eyes went past him, and rested inquiringly on the two soberly clad individuals who had entered the room. Leisurely she crossed one booted leg over the other; inwardly she was thinking fast, but no signs of it appeared in her face.
She knew what these visitors had come for; it did not need for them to show her the warrant they held. She looked at it with raised brows, and then at the two men. She seemed to be faintly amused, and slightly at a loss. ‘What a’God’s name is all this?’ she asked.
‘Warrant for arrest,’ said one of the men succinctly. ‘Alleged murder of Gregory Markham, Esquire, of Poynter Street, Number Five.’
The grey eyes widened in surprise, and travelled on to the second man, who seemed apologetic. ‘Dooty!’ he said, and stared at the ceiling, and coughed.
Prudence wondered where John was. Obviously she was to be taken to town under arrest, and something must be done to liberate her, and that speedily. Egad, who would have thought it? This bade fair to mean her unmasking, and then what? Lord, but the old gentleman had bungled this! Or had he? To be honest, her presence at the duel had not been a part of his plan. Nor, if one thought of it had he planned the bringing of Miss Letty back to town. Well, this was what came of deviating from his orders by so much as a hair’s breadth. And what to do now? If John had seen these harbingers of disaster, he would be off to my lord at once, and – faith, one had trust in the old gentleman!
‘Am I to understand I’m supposed to have killed Mr Markham?’ she inquired.
The leader of the two pointed silently to the warrant. It was not for him to elucidate these mysteries.
‘Good God!’ said Prudence. ‘Well, what do we do now, gentlemen?’
‘If you’ll send for your hat and coat, sir, we’ll be off to London,’ said the spokesman.
‘Must do our dooty!’ said his fellow hoarsely. ‘However unpleasant!’
‘Certainly, gentlemen,’ agreed Prudence. She turned to the waiting lackey. ‘Fetch my hat and coat, Stephen. And apprise my lady and Miss Merriot upon their return of this ridiculous mistake. You will tell Miss Merriot to be in no anxiety on my account. I shall be back again almost at once, of course.’
The lackey went out; the apologetic gentleman whispered diffidently the word ‘Sword!’ The spokesman nodded. ‘Not wishing to offend, your honour, but it won’t do to wear a sword.’
‘I am not wearing it, gentlemen.’
They perceived that this was so. ‘Thank you, sir. And of course, pistols…’
Prudence got up. ‘Pray search me. It’s not my habit to carry pistols on my person.’
She was assured again that no offence was intended; a perfunctory hand felt her pockets; the gentlemen professed themselves satisfied, and the hoarse member begged pardon, and resumed his study of the ceiling.
Prudence remained standing by her chair, awaiting her hat and cloak. The officers of the Law stayed by the door, sentinel fashion. Prudence looked meditatively out of the window that gave on to the garden and the river.
Her eyes were indifferent, and returned to the contemplation of her captors. But there was hope in her breast, for she had seen John.
The lackey came back with her hat and cloak, and beribboned cane. Out of the corner of her eye Prudence saw that John had disappeared. Unhurriedly she repeated her message to Robin, and laid the coat over her arm. She shook out her ruffles, put on her point-edged tricorne, and professed herself in readiness to start. She was conducted into the hall, past peeping servants, and out to the waiting coach. She entered it, and seated herself in the far corner, perfectly at ease. The two officers got in after her, and sat down, one beside her, and one opposite. The two steps were drawn up, the door shut. The coach moved ponderously forward. God send Robin did nothing foolhardy.
In my lady’s stables, in desperate haste, John was buckling the saddle-girths of a fine chestnut mare. She was saddled and bridled in a space of time that would have made my lady’s coachmen gasp, and led out into the yard. A groom coming out of the harness-room, with a straw between his teeth, stared, and wondered where John might be off to. John said curtly he had a message to deliver, and was off before the groom could utter another word. That stolid person was left gaping. One moment John was there, in the yard, with a mettlesome mare under him; the next, he simply was not. He had vanished out of the gate before one was aware of him moving at all. The groom thought that he must be in a hurry, and continued to chew, ruminatively, his straw.
Twenty-seven
Violence on the King’s High Road
Having caught a glimpse of the sober coach’s equally sober pace, John had little doubt of reaching London far ahead of it. The mare was fresh; she desired nothing better than a good gallop. John left the road for the fields, and gave her her head.