Free Masqueraders by Georgette Heyer Page A

refuse. There are some engagements binding me besides.’
    Sir Anthony raised his eyebrows a moment. ‘You’re very positive about it,’ he remarked.
    She looked up. ‘I offend you, sir,’ she said directly.
    ‘By no means. But I wonder why you will not come?’
    ‘It is not will not, Sir Anthony. I would like above all things to join you, but as I have said——’
    ‘To be sure: those engagements,’ nodded Sir Anthony, and turned away.
    Prudence was left to stand alone in the middle of the room. She felt curiously forlorn, for it was evident Sir Anthony was not pleased.
    Belfort called to her to come and throw a main with him. She moved across to his table, and out of the corner of her eye saw Sir Anthony sitting down to faro by the window. There was no getting near him after that; she became a prey to Lord Barham, who deigned to recognise her, and was conscious of a protective influence withdrawn. She was forced to play with my lord, and she lost rather heavily, and knew the reason. Escaping at length, she engaged on a hand at picquet with the optimistic Jollyot, and presently took leave of her host, complaining of the headache. The serious grey eyes travelled towards the faro table somewhat wistfully; Sir Anthony looked up.
    There was a hard look on his face; he met the grey eyes coolly, and Prudence saw the fine mouth unsmiling. She turned aside to the door, and heard his deep voice speak. ‘Oh, are you off, Merriot? Stay a moment, I’ll bear you company.’
    Five minutes later they were descending the steps into the street, and Sir Anthony drawled:—‘How came you out of that bout with Rensley, my fair youth?’
    ‘Badly,’ Prudence replied evenly. She misliked the ironic note in the gentleman’s voice.
    ‘The pigeon lost some feathers, eh?’
    ‘At least the pigeon played fair, sir!’ said Prudence rather tartly.
    ‘Softly, softly, my child! Do you say that Rensley cheated?’
    Prudence flashed a glance upwards into that inscrutable face. ‘Do you think he would not cheat a pigeon, sir?’
    ‘No, little man, I thought that he would.’
    She bit her lip. ‘You’re scarcely just to me, sir.’
    ‘What, because I would not scare away an ogre from the nursling? Experience harms none, child.’
    ‘I think you wanted to show me, sir, that I was at the mercy of all once away from your side,’ said Prudence plainly.
    ‘And are you not?’ Sir Anthony inquired.
    ‘There is perhaps a trick or two up my sleeve yet, sir. But why should you desire to demonstrate thus to me?’
    ‘A further step in your education. You should thank me.’
    The imperturbable voice exasperated one. Was there no coming to grips with the man?
    ‘I think you are not entirely honest with me, Sir Anthony.’
    ‘Expound, my sage. Wherein am I dishonest?’
    She said steadily:—‘You are angry with me for refusing to go with you to Wych End. I don’t complain that you left me to Lord Barham. Indeed, I had rather you stood aloof, for I have no claim on you, and I believe I may take care of myself. But when you say that what you did was to educate me, sir, you are at fault.’
    ‘What I did, then, was done out of spleen, you think?’ Quite unruffled was the voice.
    ‘Was it not, Sir Anthony?’
    There was a slight pause. ‘I have an idea I don’t suffer from an excess of spleen,’ Fanshawe said. ‘Shall we say that my rendering you up to the wolf was a punishment for churlishness?’
    This was coming to grips with a vengeance. Decidedly it was not well to cross the large gentleman. One felt something of a midget.
    ‘I am sorry that you should think me churlish, sir.’ She discovered that her voice sounded small, and rather guilty, and made an effort to pull herself together. ‘I think you misunderstand the reason of my refusal to go to Wych End.’ That was no sooner said than she wished it unsaid. God knew where it might lead.
    ‘I don’t consider myself omniscient,’ said Fanshawe, ‘but I am under the