Free Masqueraders by Georgette Heyer

was she? There was no saying, but ‘rogue’ might serve as a general term. Cast off the old gentleman, and all his wiles. A shabby trick, that: she would never hear of it. Nor would they be in much better case. A girl must have some parentage, after all.
    They came back to Arlington Street to find Sir Anthony himself paying his duty to my lady. It appeared he had come to fetch Mr Merriot to White’s, hard by in St James’s. He bore Prudence away with him; she felt herself powerless to resist.
    There was quite a sprinkling of people gathered at White’s, and amongst them was Mr Markham in conversation with a sandy-haired gentleman of some forty years. Prudence caught the sound of a name, and looked again with some interest. So the sandy gentleman was the new Lord Barham, of whom Lady Lowestoft had warned them? Certainly there was no great good to be observed in the heavy jowled face. She remembered some snatches of Belfort’s talk that morning. There was a suspicion, so the Honourable Charles hinted, that Barham’s methods of play were not quite impeccable.
    Mr Molyneux came in, and had a pleasant greeting for Sir Anthony and his companion. After a moment Lord Barham walked across to say something to Mr Molyneux, who made Prudence known to him.
    My lord stared upon the stranger and slightly inclined his head. It was evident that his lordship had no intention of wasting civilities upon an unknown gentleman; he turned a broad shoulder, and made some idle observation to Sir Anthony.
    Fanshawe looked sleepily through his eyeglass: it was wonderful what an air of lazy hauteur the large gentleman could assume. ‘You lack finesse, Rensley,’ he said in a bored voice. ‘I see my friend Devereux by the window, Merriot. Let me present you.’
    My lord flushed angrily. As she followed in Fanshawe’s wake Prudence heard him say to Markham:—‘Who’s that cockerel Fanshawe’s befriending?’
    Mr Markham’s reply was lost to Prudence, but she had seen the scowl on his face when he had first perceived her. But a little while later he came up to her, and exchanged a greeting, and a smile had taken the place of the scowl. Prudence liked it no better; she had a notion Mr Markham meant mischief. There was not a word spoken of the disastrous meeting on the road to Scotland; all was politeness and affability. Upon the approach of Sir Anthony, however, Mr Markham fell back.
    Prudence came through the ordeal of this visit to White’s with flying colours, and through a dozen other such ordeals, as the days passed. At Sir Anthony’s card party she played at faro, and cast dice, and her luck held. She had to witness the gradual collapse under the table of more than one gentleman, but her host maintained a perfect sobriety. Prudence admired the hard head of the man. The Honourable Charles could still stand, but his legs were uncertain under him, and he showed a disposition to tell a long and obscure story to anyone who could be got to listen. Prudence walked back to Arlington Street in the dawn, accompanied part of the way by Mr Devereux, who hung affectionately on her arm, and professed, between hiccups, an everlasting friendship.
    There were other card parties to follow this; a visit to Ranelagh Gardens; a rout party, and later, my lady Dorling’s masked ball. My lady had sent cards to Mr and Miss Merriot for this event: it promised to be one of the largest parties of the season.
    ‘Do you go, Sir Anthony?’ Prudence asked, at Belfort’s card party.
    ‘I suppose I must,’ Sir Anthony answered. ‘These balls are a plaguey nuisance. I’ve a mind to go down to my house at Wych End after this one. Do you care to bear me company?’
    She was at a loss for a moment, but her wits never deserted her for long. ‘Why, sir, it would give me much pleasure, but I believe my sister has some claims on my company.’
    ‘She might be induced to spare you for a week,’ Sir Anthony suggested.
    ‘You tempt me, sir, but no, I think I must