than probable; she could almost persuade herself that it was an
accomplished fact. But it looked less certain, now her blood ran cool,
and her high spirit flagged in the darkness and silence of night. Her
faith in his courage and resource could not entirely resist the
paralyzing touch of fear, and even her confidence in the value of the
pledge she had extracted from the duchess was shaken by the unmistakable
coolness of the queen, who had listened in silence to the explanations
of her former favorite and reserved all her praises and expressions of
satisfaction for Prue, to whom she had been cordiality itself.
Toward morning she slept so long and heavily, that Peggie came and went
a dozen times before the long lashes lifted and the sweet blue eyes
smiled drowsily up at her. And even when she woke she was loath to
rise, and fain to rest more than once during the tedious process of her
toilet, interrupted as it was by an obsequious procession of mercers and
modistes, eager to make their peace with the restored favorite by the
most pressing and disinterested services.
But a curious change had come over the wilful beauty, and instead of
throwing herself heart and soul into the entrancing discussions of hoops
and pouffes, sarsenet and tabbinet, plumes and perfumes, she declined
the counsel of this one and the coaxing of that one, and sent the
sycophant crowd away wondering what had happened to turn the most
extravagant of court butterflies niggardly. The most bewitching "head,"
the richest farthingale, won but a passing glance and a word of careless
criticism, and when Peggie, almost as dissatisfied as the rejected
tradesfolk, remonstrated against such a blind neglect of opportunity,
Prue lay back wearily in her chair and dropping her arms loosely at her
side, said impatiently:
"Cousin, Cousin—I am sick to death of it all!"
"All of what?" cried Peggie briskly. "All you have lost for a whole
year and won back in less than a week?"
"Aye, all that and more; sick of court and courtiers, sick of idle men
and vapid women, sick of myself most of all—"
Then she sprang to her feet and burst out laughing. "What a fool I am,
Peg, and what a fool you look standing there, open-mouthed, drinking in
my vaporings as though you never had heard me grumble before! Did you
think I was in earnest? Why, I was never so happy in my life. Did not
the queen kiss me on the cheek, and the duchess swear to give me
whatever I might ask of her; even the first choice of the places she has
no longer to dispose of and the royal favors that she can no longer
influence? Am I not invited to Windsor as lady-in-waiting on probation
and lauded to the skies as a heroine by—"
"Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert wishes to know if your ladyship will receive
him."
The voice of James at the door produced a silence so profound that after
a short pause he repeated his message in a louder tone. "Sir Geoffrey
Beaudesert is below, my Lady, and wishes to see your ladyship most
particularly."
"You had better see him," said Peggie, in response to Prue’s startled
and questioning glance.
"I will see Sir Geoffrey," said Prue. "Tell him I will be down
immediately."
"Shall I come with you?" asked Peggie.
"Oh, no, no. I can play my little comedy better to an audience of one;
besides, _you_ know the truth!" she cried, and ran to the mirror to see
if the battery of her charms was in order for the fray.
Sir Geoffrey, his face set in a mechanical smile, met her with a deep
bow and pressed a ceremonious kiss upon her extended hand.
"Permit your slave to offer his humble congratulations, my dear
Prudence," he said; "I hear that you have distinguished yourself with
even more than your usual brilliancy."
"You allude to the fortunate accident that enabled me to return the lost
necklace to Her Majesty, I presume?" Prue replied, seating herself and
negligently pointing with her fan to a sufficiently distant chair. "I
assure you I deem myself most happy in rendering a service, which has
been only too highly appreciated, but I can not lay claim to brilliancy,
for I was but a passive instrument."
"The brilliancy I refer to, dear Viscountess, was not so much the
’fortunate accident’ as the ready wit by which you turned so
compromising an adventure to such good account," said Sir Geoffrey
significantly.
The challenge of his tone and words was unmistakable and Prue responded
with more spirit than wisdom.
"You must speak more plainly if you wish to be understood," she
answered. "Compromising adventures, you know very well, are not rare in
my experience—or yours"—she laughed rather maliciously—"but I seldom
turn them to good account. Now, the accident that gave the queen’s
necklace into my hands—"
"Was the happy result of a little visit to Newgate," interposed Sir
Geoffrey, with veiled insolence. "Why beat about the bush with me,
dearest girl? I know who gave you the necklace—when he was warned, by
you, of the danger of keeping it! and how it came about that he was
lucky enough to escape before the soldiers arrived to arrest him."
"What in the world are you talking about, Sir Geoffrey?" she cried, with
rather over-acted bewilderment.
"What is every one talking about to-day, but the madcap viscountess, who
coaxed the highwayman out of the stolen necklace, and being caught in
the trap that was limed for Robin Freemantle, circumvented the soldiers,
cozened the Duchess of Marlborough and beguiled the Queen’s Majesty. Am
I not right in congratulating you on such a brilliant series of
achievements?"
"My dear Sir Geoffrey, you have mistaken your vocation," she laughed.
"With such an imagination you ought to have been, not a member of
Parliament, but a poet! I am quite interested in this romance; surely
there is more of it?"
"Considerably more," he went on, lowering his voice and drawing his
chair closer to her. "There are those who saw the beautiful shepherdess
in close conversation with a masker in red, at the ball; and who now
know that he was no other than Robin Freemantle in the borrowed plumes
of Beachcombe. You have enemies, fair Prudence—men you have jilted and
women you have excelled in wit and beauty—and by some of these you were
seen, in company with the Red Domino, very near the queen’s tiring-room,
from which the necklace was stolen. Can you wonder that when a story is
bruited about that Lady Prudence Brooke, in dead of night, was
discovered with the necklace in her possession, in the place where Robin
Freemantle was looked for, these good people should compare notes about
her ladyship’s latest exploit, and place their own construction upon
it?"
"And you, Sir Geoffrey?" she asked, her thoughtful eyes upon his, "what
construction do you place upon this curious rodomontade?"
"Oh!" he laughed softly; "I hold all the clews, so it seems less of a
rodomontade to me than, perhaps, to others. I alone know of the little
ceremony in Newgate, which explains all."
"Oh! it explains all, does it?" she repeated reflectively. "I should be
glad to hear the explanation, now you have propounded the conundrum."
"’Tis simple enough. When Barbara Sweeting told the story of the
necklace, you instantly jumped at the same conclusion as the rest of
us—namely, that Robin Freemantle, secure in his disguise, had made the
use of his opportunity that a robber naturally would, and had stolen the
most valuable thing he could lay his hands on—"
"Oh! then you don’t give me the credit of the robbery?" she exclaimed
with a pout. "It would have added so much to the interest of the
romance if I—"
"You? Oh! Lady Prudence, can you ask me such a question?" he
interrupted, in a tone of vehement reproach. "I only give you credit
for hastening to warn your—_husband_ of his danger and carrying away the
incriminating proof of his guilt; and I admire your courage and
generosity though I deplore its object."
"Have you quite finished this romantic story, Sir Geoffrey?" queried
Prue, dismissing his personal opinion with a disdainful toss of her fan.
"The preface only, but the rest will wait," he replied, with a sinister
smile.
"Then perhaps you would like to hear what really happened? It would be
useless for me to deny—even if I wished—that I spoke with Captain
Freemantle, at the ball—"
"Quite so," Sir Geoffrey agreed blandly.
"Not that I wish to deny it," she went on petulantly; "at a masquerade
everything is permitted, and you, my dear Sir Geoffrey, know better than
any one else, this gentleman’s claim upon my attention. Still, I fail
to see any connection between Captain Freemantle’s presence at the ball
and the disappearance of the necklace—about which, you must acknowledge,
that I know more than any one else, since I found—and restored it."
Sir Geoffrey bowed his acquiescence, but his smile was not reassuring.
"We all know what an admirable _raconteuse_ Barbara is, and I was
naturally much worked up by her story of the lost necklace; in fact I
could scarcely restrain my impatience to hear a more authentic account,"
Prue proceeded, recovering her self-confidence, which for a moment had
wavered under Sir Geoffrey’s attack. "So the moment my visitors left
me, I sent for a chair and started for Marlborough House, to get my
information at first hand. At a short distance, however, I was
interrupted by a person who thrust this paper into my hand."
She drew from her bosom the crumpled document which had already played
an important part in her version of the affair, and handed it to him.
Sir Geoffrey read it carefully, refolded it, and meeting her eye, bowed
gravely, as though to intimate that he was too much interested to break
the thread of the narrative, even by a word.
"You know my love of adventure too well to doubt that I instantly
decided to risk everything and follow this clue. It took me to a dismal
old house—empty, I believe, except for an old hag, who, keeping her face
concealed, thrust the casket into my hands and at the first sound of the
soldiers’ approach, disappeared."
Sir Geoffrey softly clapped his hands, as though in applause.
"Capital! excellent!" he cried. "My dear Prue, with shame I confess
that I never before have done justice to the vast resources of your wit.
I actually dared to wonder how you had managed to forestall suspicion
and snatch safety out of the jaws of peril. You have surpassed
yourself! To plan so subtly; to execute so promptly! To omit
nothing—even the written proof—and to crown it all with a guileless
frankness that might disarm the most captious, and certainly would have
deceived me, if I had not been close beside you from the moment you
emerged from your own door until that of Robin Freemantle hid you from
my jealous eyes!"
Then suddenly, without giving her time to disguise the startled dismay
that sprang to her eyes, he bent forward and seized her two hands in
his.
"Why treat your faithful lover so harshly, sweet Prue?" he went on
passionately. "Have I not proven my love again and again in the defense
of your reputation and in unquestioning submission to your caprices?
Have I not endured your coldness and yielded my just claims before the
scruple that prompted you to deny your future husband the smallest
favor, while the phantom of a vow linked you to a felon? And am I to
have no reward, not even enough of your confidence to enable me to give
the lie to your traducers?"
"My traducers!" she cried impatiently. "Who are they? At present the
only person who has dared to cast a doubt on my veracity is—Sir Geoffrey
Beaudesert!"
"And how long do you expect to escape the pack of ’damned good-natured
friends’ who have been accustomed to feed upon the choice morsels of
scandal you have liberally provided for them?" he demanded. "Before
to-night every gossip in town will be in possession of the story of your
adventures, and each one who recounts it will put his own construction
upon it."
"’Tis true," she murmured. "I have often assisted at such feasts of
reason. They are highly entertaining, and every one is eager to add a
dash of spice or vinegar to the witches’ broth. And there is nothing I
can do to stop those busybodies." She glanced resentfully at Sir
Geoffrey, yet there was inquiry in her eye.
"Certainly there is something," he replied, answering the unspoken
question. "You can give them something else to talk about that will
throw the escapade of the necklace into the shade. The shade, do I say?
Rather into utter oblivion." An ironical smile began to dawn upon her
face, but he did not leave her time to speak. "You can give them a
wedding to talk about, a subject that eclipses every other; if you
prefer it, an elopement; indeed, I think that would be more dramatic.
Say but the word, dearest, and in an hour, a post-chaise—"
"Oh! Sir Geoffrey," she exclaimed, bursting into a hearty laugh. "Can
you really seriously propose such an absurdity to _me_? An elopement? a
post-chaise? Methinks I should be like a man who jumps into a river to
avoid being wetted by a passing shower! We should indeed give the town
something to talk about; and not only talk, but laugh at."
"Let them laugh," said Sir Geoffrey doggedly. "So can I; and he laughs
longest who laughs last."
"With me for the butt of your hilarity? Thanks, I am always pleased to
have my friends—and my enemies—laugh _with_ me, but to have them all
laughing _at_ me is scarcely to my taste. Besides, for you, Sir
Geoffrey, to suggest such a thing to me—you who know that I am already
another man’s wife and can not therefore legally become yours—for you to
make such an offer is an insult—no less."
"My dearest Prue, spare me these reproaches. I grant that yesterday,
while this man lived, you were—in a sort of way—his wife. But why
should you, who were on the spot, pretend to be ignorant of what the
whole town knows this morning, that Robin Freemantle was killed last
night, and that consequently you are, as you naturally wish to be—his
widow? I congratulate you—and myself."
All Prue’s forebodings revived at these words, uttered with an air of
triumphant security that struck a chill to her heart. "I—I do not
understand you—" she stammered, trying to appear unconcerned.
"Oh! I think you do," he replied, "only you love to torment me by
playing the inexorable prude. You were at Robin’s house and
witnessed—nay, possibly connived at his escape. You were still there
when the soldiers overtook the boat in which he and his band were
attempting escape, and shot the fugitives and sank their boat. The news
in to-day’s _Courant_ can not but confirm your own hopes of regaining
the joys of freedom, with all the advantages for which you married
Captain—_de Cliffe_."
As she remained silent, he drew the _News_ sheet from his pocket and,
with a great show of searching out the item, handed it to her. She
waved it away with a careless gesture and when he offered to read it to
her, she merely bent her head slightly, never moving her eyes from his
face.
"’At a time when the whole country is terrorized by highwaymen and
footpads, singly and in bands, news of the extermination of the
notorious gang of robbers under the leadership of Robin Freemantle
(recently condemned to be hanged at Tyburn for his crimes and later
mysteriously released) will be highly gratifying to the traveling public
who go in constant fear of their lives because of the boldness of these
marauders, who infest the very streets of the metropolis. No longer ago
than last Monday L—d B—ch—e was attacked by these very miscreants,
robbed and held in captivity (doubtless for ransom) while Robin
Freemantle, disguised in his captive’s domino, attended the masquerade
at Marlborough House and robbed the duchess’ guests—not even sparing, if
rumor may be credited, the queen’s most sacred Majesty!!
"’But for this piece of shameless audacity, the ruffians might still be
at large and the hangman still looking forward hopefully to his fees.
We have it on unimpeachable authority that a certain beautiful
v-sc-t-ss, renowned equally for her lively adventures and her
incomparable charms, determined to avenge this outrage upon her
sovereign mistress, and with undaunted courage and marvelous shrewdness,
tracked the robber to his lair and actually recovered the stolen
jewels!!! Then, at a preconcerted signal, soldiers surrounded the
house, and when the robber-band attempted to escape by the river, sank
the boat with all the fugitives on board. The exact number is not
known, but must assuredly have been large—probably a dozen or a score.
One thing only is certain—none remained in the house and none can
possibly have escaped—’
"There is more about the affair, but nothing that will interest you as
much as that last paragraph," said Sir Geoffrey, folding the sheet.
"It is certainly most interesting to hear that there were twenty
miscreants in the house," cried Prue, who had had time during the
reading (which was impressively deliberate and pompous) to recover her
self-command. "My exploit is vastly enhanced by the large number of
human lions and tigers I bearded in their den. I begin to feel myself a
heroine indeed!"
"There could be but one opinion as to that," said Sir Geoffrey, with a
profound bow that scarcely accorded with the cold irony of his smile.
"Pray keep my counsel, and do not tell any one that I never saw any of
the twenty robbers, and in fact had no idea that there were any in the
place," said Prue. "You don’t know how much I am indebted to you, Sir
Geoffrey, for all the information you have given me about my little
adventure!"
"I am indeed happy in being the first to assure you of its fortunate
ending," said Sir Geoffrey, rising. "Surely you will now permit me,
dearest, to urge my suit"—he dropped upon one knee before her, and had
pressed several passionate kisses upon her hand before she made any
attempt to repel him.
"That will do for the present, Sir Geoffrey," she said at last. "Please
get up and be rational. You do not expect me, I presume, to send for a
parson and marry you offhand? I _may_ be a widow again; but I must have
surer proof of it than a mere rumor, such as this, before I wed again.
I have yet to be convinced that Captain de Cliffe left that house—that
he ever was in it! ’Tis strange you should insist upon that—methinks
that for a suitor so eager to press his own claims, you are over-ready
to accuse me of keeping tryst with another—husband!"
"Accuse, sweet Prudence! You mistake me altogether. Too well, alas! do
I know the coldness of your heart and the inaccessible distance from
which your adorers are expected to admire you. Surely, you do not think
me capable of a doubt?"
"You were capable of spying on me and following me, by your own
showing," she retorted sharply.
"For your own sake, dearest; merely to be ready in case you needed a
strong arm and a skilled sword to defend you. And all I ask now is that
you will accept that protection for life and give me the right to
silence every malicious tongue with the public announcement of our
approaching marriage. Who will dare," Sir Geoffrey went on, in his most
grandiloquent manner, "to defame the lady of whom I am ready to say,
’This is my promised wife; her honor is mine?’"
"A truce to your braggadocio, my good friend," laughed Prue; "your
tragic tones and frowning looks almost persuade me that I need
protection! Believe me, you are in a far worse case than I; you stand
greatly in need of a disinterested adviser, who would counsel you to
leave me before too late, or at least take time—a year or two, we will
say—to think it over."
"Was there ever a lover that listened to such counsel? Not if he loved
as I do, dear one. So far from waiting a year, I swear that a week is
too long, and that if you do not marry me to-morrow—"
He hesitated and Prue took him up sharply. "What if I do not marry you
to-morrow? Pray finish your threat, so that I may know what fate awaits
me, since I shall certainly not marry to-morrow, neither next week, nor,
perchance, next year!"
"And does your ladyship imagine that I, Geoffrey Beaudesert, will swell
the ranks of those whom the beautiful Viscountess Brooke has left
lamenting at the church-door?" demanded the suitor, giving way at last
to his long-suppressed fury. "No, no, you can not play with me as you
did with Beachcombe, O’Keefe, Sutherland and a dozen others. To-day I
love you to distraction; you may bend me to your lightest caprice with a
kind word. But scorn me, and to-morrow you will have an enemy with the
will, as well as the power, to cover you with shame. Aye, shame, Lady
Prudence Brooke!" as she sprang to her feet with blazing eyes. "Where
will you hide your head when all the world knows how and why you became
the wife of an outlaw and a felon—the thief who stole the queen’s
necklace, for a nuptial gift to his bride! Ha, ha! that will be a feast
indeed for the scandal-mongers of London Town!"
"And Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert—how will he appear in the affair?" she
retorted. "This is not the first time to-day that you have threatened
me, Sir Geoffrey, but I advise you to let it be the last, for I warn you
that if you drive me to do so, I may tell the story myself; and my
version of it will not leave you entirely unscathed. How could I have
done this thing—this _shameful, scandalous_ thing, as you truly call
it—if you had not helped; nay, pushed me into it? Who bought the ring
and license, and hired the parson? He was an ordained Church-of-England
clergyman, was he not? If I am not mistaken, it was you who ordered him
to make the marriage-service ’brief and binding,’ and bade him keep his
own counsel until his evidence was needed to prove me Captain de
Cliffe’s widow? If the scandal-mongers of London Town feast at my
expense, they will certainly banquet at yours! And if you talk of
enemies—but no, we are not silly children to wrangle over trifles, and
scratch and slap each other’s face because we can not have our own way
all the time. Let us forget this folly and talk of pleasanter things."
"No subject is pleasant to me but one—yourself," said Sir Geoffrey, with
an effort to resume his ordinary manner. "Believe me, however impatient
I may appear as a lover, as a husband you will find me a pattern of
indulgence. But do not, I entreat you, try my patience much longer."
"No doubt, Sir Geoffrey, I ought to be flattered by your persistence,"
replied Prue petulantly, "but if you have so little delicacy as to press
one husband upon me before the other is in his grave, you surely are not
anxious to inflict upon me the possible fate of a bigamist? If,
perchance, one of these twenty highwaymen escaped, and that one proved
to be the one you helped me to marry, your hasty wooing might cause poor
Prudence Brooke to blossom on Tyburn Tree or, worse still, to end her
days on a cotton plantation. ’Tis strange how much more anxious you are
to wed me since I became a wife, than you were when I was _really_ a
widow! Then I heard nothing about post-chaises and elopements—"
"Because then, dear Prue, I had not known the torture of Tantalus, the
anguish of seeing you within reach of my arms, yet held at an
inaccessible distance by the accursed phantom of a husband, who was no
husband and never could be one. Pardon me if I am unable to restrain my
jealous ardor, and believe me, if you will but set a time for rewarding
my devotion, I will endeavor, however difficult the task, not to offend
again."
Prue reflected a few moments. Then she rose, with an air that left Sir
Geoffrey no choice but to follow her example.
"Sir Geoffrey," she said, "I am invited to accompany the queen to
Windsor, whither she intends to go this week for a few days’ rest, and
perchance to be out of hearing of the wrangling of Whigs and Tories for
a season. When I return, if you are still in the same mind, I promise
to be ready with an answer, with which I shall hope to satisfy you. In
the meantime, I shall not take it amiss if you reflect seriously upon
the many defects of my character and the great disadvantages you will
bring on yourself by marrying penniless me, instead of seeking out some
charming heiress—of whom I could point out several, both maids and
widows—to whom your many noble qualities—and your title—would be
irresistible."
She made him the deepest of curtseys, preserving all the time a
countenance so grave and dignified that he was completely silenced, and
was withdrawing without further remonstrance, when the door was flung
open, and James, in his most impressive; manner, announced:
"Lord Beachcombe."
*CHAPTER XXI*
*AN AFFAIR OF FAMILY*
There was a momentary pause of embarrassment. Lord Beachcombe’s last
visit to Lady Drumloch’s house had been under circumstances that made
the present one quite unforeseen. Also he had not met Sir Geoffrey
since their hostile encounter in Hyde Park, therefore a meeting in the
presence of the woman who had been so disturbing an element in both
their lives, was mutually disconcerting.