The Polite World Receives Mr and Miss Merriot
My Lady Lowestoft made no idle boast when she declared that all the world might be seen at her rout that evening. The world, as she knew it, was the Polite Society of the day; and Polite Society chose to venerate her ladyship. She had the felicity of seeing her salons filled to overflowing. Downstairs there were refreshments laid out in the dining-room; angel cakes, and ratafie; strange French concoctions and some of the late Sir Roger’s best Burgundy; sweetmeats of every known variety and French champagne, sparkling in the glasses, to go with them. There was a card room also, spacious enough to hold some few tables with comfort. Those who wished might escape from the chatter and the scraping of the fiddles in the saloons above, to seek a little quiet diversion here with a dice-box. My lady was fond of all games of chance herself, but her duties as hostess kept her tonight in the main rooms, where people came and went, gathered into knots for conversation, separated again to greet a new arrival, or lent an indulgent ear to the fiddlers scraping away at the back of the room.
Robin, in his character of Miss Merriot, was kept near my lady. He had chosen to array himself in shades of rose pink. A necklace lay on the white skin of his chest, and a bracelet enclasped one rather sinewy arm. If there could be found aught whereat to cavil in his appearance it must be those arms. They lacked the dimpled roundness necessary for beauty. Elsewhere no fault could be detected. The fair hair was piled up on top of his head, lavishly powdered, and decorated with a jewelled ornament; the face below was pink and white as any girl’s, with blue eyes dreamy under delicately pencilled brows, and a nose many a reigning toast mighty envy. A black riband round the throat served to emphasise the creamy whiteness of the skin; the waist, thanks to John’s lacing, was trim enough, and the foot peeping from beneath the hem of a flowered petticoat sufficiently small to escape notice. Maybe it was fashioned on the large size for so dainty a lady, but a high heel disguised a possible fault.
There could be no fault found either in his deportment. Standing a little back from the crowd, Prudence watched him with a critical eye. He had several times before donned this woman’s garb, but never for so long a stretch. She had coached him to the best of her ability, but well as she knew him could still fear some slip. She had to admit knowledge of him was deficient yet. Sure, he might have been born to it. His curtseys were masterpieces of grace; the air with which he held out a hand to young gallants so consummate a piece of artistry that Prudence was shaken with silent laughter. He seemed to know by instinct how to flirt his fan, and how to spread his wide skirts for the curtsey. Apparently he might be left safely to his own devices. His sister withdrew her gaze from him, reflecting that she would give much to hear what he was saying to the beautiful Miss Gunning standing beside him. If the spirit of mischief did not carry him away there was naught to be feared in his bearing. Prudence turned away, and came upon my Lady Lowestoft, in gay talk with Mr Walpole, who, since he lived so close, was naturally a late comer.
My lady manoeuvred the elegant Mr Walpole away from Prudence’s vicinity, and disposed of him at length to his dear friend Gilly Williams, who, with Mr Selwyn, seemingly but half awake, stood talking by the fire.
My lady came rustling back to the door, for there were guests still ascending the stairs. To Prudence, under her breath, she said: “I take him away, so! Of an inquisitive disposition, my cabbage! You would not believe! I feared he might pry too close... Ah, madame!” She curtseyed to a new arrival, and, a moment later, was exchanging witticisms with my Lord March, that saturnine peer.
A gentleman but lately introduced to Prudence suggested a hand at picquet. She looked calmly at this gentleman and professed herself all readiness. It took her no more than a minute to reach the conclusion that she was to be a lamb for the fleecing. Well, the gentleman should see.
There were several men in the card room, some few dicing, some talking idly beside, and one party engaged in a hand of lansquenet. Prudence sat down with Sir Francis Jollyot at a table away from the door, and assented placidly to his proposed stakes. They seemed large, but she had played for larger, and was in no wise perturbed.
“’Tis a game I’m devilish partial to,” Sir Francis observed. “You play it much, eh?”
“A little, sir,” Prudence said and displayed hesitation over the question of her discard. Across the table Sir Francis smiled in infinite good humour. He had played with young gentlemen from the country before, and foresaw a profitable evening. When the game was over he condoled with Mr Merriot on his ill-fortune, and proposed a fresh one. Prudence accepted most cordially. She perceived a greater skill at picquet in herself than in her smiling opponent. Played carefully this game of turning the tables on the wolf would be amusing. With no less hesitation in her demeanour, but with much less folly in her discards, she won the game. She was complimented on the cards she had held, and embarked upon the third encounter.
“A reverse!” commented Sir Francis gaily. “I hardly thought you would keep a guard to that Queen in the last hand, throwing the King of Hearts.”
The crease showed between Prudence’s brows. “Did I throw my King? You played out your cards so fast, you see, I scarcely...” She left the end of her sentence to be understood. Sir Francis thought that he did understand, and sorted his hand with a smile ill concealed.
There came a fresh arrival into the room, and paused a while in the open doorway. This gentleman was very large, with wide shoulders under a coat of maroon velvet, and a strong, handsome face. Under heavy lids his eyes fell on Prudence and rested there.
“Why, Fanshawe! I had thought you were out of town. Someone told me you had gone down to Wych End.” Mr Troubridge, standing nearby, stepped closer to Sir Anthony, and offered his snuff-box. “What are you looking at? Oh, my Lady Lowestoft’s protégé! By name Merriot, and seemingly a pleasant youth. That face should captivate the ladies.”
“It should,” Sir Anthony replied. “Jollyot wastes no time, I see.”
Mr Troubridge laughed. It was after all, no concern of his. “Oh, trust Jollyot! By the way, young Apollo has a prodigious fine sister. Have you seen her? One of your fair beauties. She’s above stairs in the withdrawing room.”
“I’ve been presented.” Still Sir Anthony’s eyes dwelt on the unconscious Prudence. “Up from the country, are they? Now, neither has the look of it. Our young gentleman yonder” — very slightly he indicated Prudence with a movement of his quizzing-glass — “has all the air of a town beau.”
“Very modish, to be sure. He’ll have need of keen town wits if he plays with Jollyot.” Mr Troubridge smiled a little, and looked towards the picquet table.
Prudence sat sideways at it, an arm laid along it, and one shapely leg stretched out before her. She wore a coat of dull gold brocade, with the skirts very full and stiffly whaleboned, and the great cuffs turned back to the elbow. There was much foaming lace at throat and wrists, and a jewelled buckle was placed above the black riband that confined her powdered locks in the nape of her neck. She was looking at the cards held in one hand, her face expressionless. There was a patch set at the corner of the firm mouth, and one high up on the cheek-bone. Her other hand, with a glowing ring on it, lay lightly on the arm of her chair. As though conscious of the gaze upon her, she looked up suddenly, straight at Sir Anthony. A tinge of colour rose in her cheeks; involuntarily she smiled.
“Oh, do you know him?” asked Troubridge, surprised.
“We were introduced above stairs,” Sir Anthony answered, with a fine disregard for the truth, and went across the room to Prudence’s side. “Well met, my dear boy.” His hand pressed on Prudence’s shoulder to prevent her rising. “No, do not permit me to interrupt.”
At the sound of that lazy, pleasant voice a faint frown crossed Sir Francis’ face. He acknowledged Sir Anthony’s greeting only by a curt nod, and declared a point of five.
Sir Anthony stood still behind Prudence’s chair, and in silence watched the play through his eye-glass. The stakes had been raised at each new game; at the end of this one Sir Francis was most strangely a heavy loser. Either the young sprig from the country had played the game a-many times before, or else the Providence who guides the hands of novices had exerted herself most prodigiously on Mr Merriot’s behalf. Sir Francis was disinclined to believe Mr Merriot an adept: he had not the manner of it.
Sir Anthony moved at last, and spoke before Jollyot could suggest yet a fourth game, “Will you take a hand with me, Merriot?”
“I should be pleased, sir,” Prudence swept the little pile of guineas to one side.
There was nothing for Sir Francis to do but to go elsewhere. He gave up his seat to Fanshawe, and trusted he might have an evening with Mr Merriot some time in the near future.
“Why, sir, I shall count myself fortunate,” said Prudence.
Sir Francis moved away to a group of men by the window. Prudence turned to find Sir Anthony shuffling the pack. “Will you name the stakes, sir?” she said.
“What you will,” Sir Anthony replied. “What were they with my friend, Jollyot?”
She told him indifferently enough.
“Do you make it a rule to play for so large a sum?” blandly inquired Sir Anthony.
“I make it a rule, sir, to play for whatever sum my opponent suggests,” was the quick answer.
The heavy lids lifted for a moment, and she saw the grey eyes keen. “You must needs have faith in your skill, Mr Merriot.”
“In my luck I have, Sir Anthony.”
“I felicitate you. I will play you for the half of Jollyot’s stakes.”
“As you please, sir. Will you cut?”
It would not do to show a change of front now that the large gentleman had watched her at play with Sir Francis. Prudence fumbled a little at the cards, and displayed a beginner’s uncertainty. Sir Anthony seemed to be engrossed with his own hand, but as she hesitated once more over the five cards of her discard he glanced up, and drawled: “Oh, spare yourself the pains, my dear boy! I am no hawk.”
Prudence fenced cautiously; she was not quite sure what the gentleman would be at. “The pains of what, sir?”
“Of all this dissimulation,” said Sir Anthony, with a disarming smile. “I must suppose you were taught to play picquet in your cradle.”
Almost she gasped. It seemed as though John had reason when he said that large gentleman was awake for all his sleepiness. She laughed, and forbore to evade, judging her man with some shrewdness. “Nearly, sir, I confess. My father has a fondness for the game.”
“Has he indeed?” said Sir Anthony. “Now, what may have induced you to play the novice with my friend Jollyot, I wonder?”
“I have been about the world a little, Sir Anthony.”
“That I believe.” Leisurely Sir Anthony looked at the three cards that fell to his minor share. “It seems you lost no feathers in that bout.”
She laughed again. “Oh, I’m an ill pigeon for plucking, sir! I declare a point of five.”
“I concede it you, my fair youth.”
“A quarte may perhaps be good?”
“It depends, sir, on what heads it.”
“The King, Sir Anthony.”
“No good,” Sir Anthony said. “I hold a quarte to the Ace.”
“I am led to believe, sir, that three Kings won’t serve?”
“Quite right, my dear boy; they must give way to my three Aces.”
This was all in the grand manner. Prudence chuckled. “Oh, I’ve done then! My lead, and I count six, sir.”
The hand was played. As the cards were gathered up Sir Anthony said: “I take it so shrewd a youth stands in no need of a friendly warning?”
Certainly the enigmatic gentleman was developing a kindness for her. “You’re very kind, sir. I do not know why you should be at this trouble for me.” It was spoken with some warmth of gratitude.
“Nor I,” said Fanshawe indolently. “But you are not — in spite of those twenty years — of a great age, and there are plenty of hawks in town.”
Prudence bowed. “I shall take that to heart, sir. I have to thank you.”
“Pray do not. Plucking pigeons has never been a favourite pastime of mine... Well, I concede your point, but I claim a quinte and fourteen Queens, besides three Kings. Alack for a spoiled repique! Five played, sir.”
The game came presently to an end. “Very even,” said Sir Anthony. “Do you care to honour me at a small card party I hold on Thursday evening?”
“Indeed, sir, mine will be the honour. On Thursday and in Clarges Street, I think?”
Sir Anthony nodded. He beckoned to a lackey standing near, and sent him to fetch wine. “You will drink a glass with me, Merriot?”
“Thank you, a little canary, sir.”
The wine was brought; one or two gentlemen had wandered towards the table, and stood now in converse there. Sir Anthony made Mr Merriot known to them. Prudence found herself pledged to ride out next morning in the Park with a chubby-faced young gentleman of a friendly disposition. This was the Honourable Charles Belfort, who combined a passion for dice with almost phenomenal ill-luck, but managed to remain cheerful under it.
“Well, Charles, what fortune?” Sir Anthony looked up in some amusement at the young profligate.
“The same as ever. It always is.” Belfort shook his head. “Bad, very bad, but I have a notion that my luck will turn tomorrow, at about eight o’clock.”
“Good Gad, Bel, why at eight?” demanded Mr Molyneux.
The Honourable Charles looked grave. “Angels told me so in a vision,” he said.
There was a shout of laughter.
“Nonsense, Charles, they were prophesying your entry into a spunging house!” This was my Lord Kestrel, leaning on the back of Fanshawe’s chair.
“You see how it is, sir” — Belfort addressed himself plaintively to Prudence. — “They all laugh at me, even when I tell them of a visitation from heaven. Irreligious, damme, that’s what it is.”
There was a fresh outburst of mirth. Through it came Sir Anthony’s deep voice, full of friendly mockery. “You delude yourself, Charles: no angel would visit you unless by mischance. Doubtless a sign from the devil that he is about to claim his own.” He rose, and picked up his snuffbox. “Well, Merriot, I must do myself the pleasure of making my bow to your sister. Upstairs, when I was there, she was surrounded.”
“I’ll lead you to her, sir,” said Prudence readily. “At nine in the morning, Mr Belfort: I shall be with you.”
Sir Anthony went out on Mr Merriot’s arm. Halfway up the broad stairway he said: “It occurs to me you may be in need of a sponsor at White’s, my dear boy. You know you may command me. May I carry your name there?”
So she was to become a member of a club for gentlemen of quality? Egad, where would it all end? No help for it: the large gentleman overwhelmed one. She accepted gracefully, and then with a hesitancy not unpleasing in a young man looked up into the square face, and said diffidently — “I think you go to some trouble for me, Sir Anthony. From all I have heard I had not thought to find so much kindness in London.”
“There are any number would do the same, boy — my friend Jollyot, for instance. But you had better take me for sponsor.”
“I do, very gladly, sir.”
They came into the withdrawing room, where the crowd had dwindled somewhat. Robin was easily found, talking to an exquisite of advanced years. From the looks of it he was receiving some extravagant compliments. Prudence could not but applaud inwardly the pretty modesty of the downcast eye, and the face slightly averted.
Over his fan Robin saw them. He rid himself of his elderly admirer with some adroitness, and came rustling forward. “My dear, I vow I am nigh to swooning from fatigue!” he told Prudence. He swept a curtsey to Sir Anthony, and flashed him a dazzling smile. “Give you good even, sir. I saw you a while back, but there was such a press of people then!”
Sir Anthony’s lips just brushed Robin’s hand. “All gathered about Miss Merriot,” he said gallantly.
“What, with the beautiful Miss Gunning in the same room? Fie, sir, this is flattery! Peter, of your love for me, procure me a glass of negus.”
Prudence went away to execute this command; Robin sat down with Sir Anthony upon a couch. When Prudence returned with the wine it seemed as though a good understanding had been established between them. Robin looked up brightly. “Sir Anthony tells me he is to steal you from me on Thursday, my Peter. Thus are we poor sisters imposed upon!”
“I want also to sponsor your Peter at White’s, ma’am,” Sir Anthony said, smiling. “Thus still more are you imposed upon.”
“Oh, these clubs! This means I shall see nothing of the creature.” Miss Merriot put up her fan to hide her face from Sir Anthony, in feigned indignation. So, at least, it appeared, but behind the fan that mobile eyebrow flew up for Prudence’s benefit, and the blue eyes brimmed with laughter. It was done in a trice, and the fan shut again with a snap. “Your kindness to Peter is much greater than your consideration for his poor sister, sir!” she rallied Fanshawe.
“Why, as to that I offer my apologies, ma’am. I stand somewhat in both your debts.”
“Ah, let’s have done with that!” Prudence said quickly. “There is no debt that I know of.”
“Well, let us say that what you are pleased to call my kindness is naught but a seal to what I hope is a friendship.”
“I’m honoured to have it so, sir,” Prudence said, and felt the colour rise, to her annoyance.
The large gentleman had a mind to befriend her, and there was no help for it. And was one glad of it, or sorry? There was apparently no answer to the riddle.