Galliano skipped into the middle of the room. “Bravo, bravo!” he exclaimed. “I taught you zat pass! I, Girolamo Galliano!”
“Curb your enthusiasm, my friend,” Sir Anthony advised him.
Galliano tossed up his arms. “Ensusiasm! Bah, it was bad, bad — all of it! You English you do not understand ze art! But just once or twice zere was a pass I might myself have make! Do not flatter yourself! You cannot fence: not even you, Saire Anthony!”
Chapter 17
Sad Falling Out of Friends
By the afternoon the news was all over town that Fanshawe had wounded Rensley in a duel that had taken place that morning in Galliano’s rooms, of all places in the world. Every sort of tale was told. Fanshawe had taken leave of his senses and struck Rensley across the face with his glove: no, it was Rensley struck Fanshawe; faith, it must have been that way, for everyone knew that it was not like Fanshawe to pick a quarrel. The affair had sprung up out of a clear sky: there had been some raillery which Rensley took exception to, and Fanshawe had carried it too far.
Mr Belfort heard it from my Lord Kestrel, and was thunderstruck. My lord told it him between chuckles and with many embellishments, and described, with gesture, the thrust that had put Rensley out of action for many weeks to come. Mr Belfort went hurrying off to confer with Mr Devereux, whom he found writing execrable verse to a lady of uncertain morals, and bore him off straight to Arlington Street.
My lady laughed when the message was brought to Prudence, but Robin looked queerly, and showed a desire to inquire further into the need for a private conference. Prudence said lightly that it was some matter concerning a horse, and escaped before Robin could read the trouble in her face. He had the uncanny knack of it.
She found Mr Belfort looking portentous, and Mr Devereux melancholy. “Why, Charles, what ails you?” she asked. It seemed to her that there was no one but herself had the right to look solemn.
“My dear fellow, it’s the devil of a business,” Belfort said severely. “A most disgraceful affair, ’pon my soul!”
Mr Devereux shook his head. “Very, very disgraceful,” he echoed.
“Lud, sir, you horrify me! What’s toward?”
“Rensley,” said Belfort, “has committed a — damme, a cursed breach of etiquette! You can’t meet the man, Peter. Can he, Dev?”
Mr Devereux was of the opinion that it would be impossible.
A flush sprang up in Prudence’s cheeks. It was of sudden, overwhelming relief, but Mr Belfort took it to betoken anger. “Ay, Peter my boy, I knew you’d take it hard, but positively you can’t meet the man after such a slight.”
“Very shocking business,” Mr Devereux said mournfully. “Can’t understand it at all.”
Prudence had command of herself again. If she must not fight it seemed safe enough to protest a little, as was proper. “But pray let me hear what it is!” she said. “I don’t draw back from an encounter, Charles, be sure.”
“It’s Rensley has drawn back,” Mr Belfort said, still with awful solemnity.
“Not drawn back, Bel. You couldn’t say he had drawn back,” protested Mr Devereux.
“It’s the same thing, Dev. He can’t meet Peter tomorrow, and I say it’s a cursed insult. I shall tell Jessup our man won’t fight.”
“Has Rensley fled the country?” demanded Prudence.
“Worse, my dear boy!”
“Not worse, Bel! Hardly worse! Plaguey unfortunate happening.”
Mr Belfort laid an impressive finger on Prudence’s shoulder. “He’s offered us a damned slight, Peter. It can’t be swallowed. Take my word for it, there can be no meeting.”
“Why, Charles, you mystify me! Let me know what this slight is I beg of you.”
“He has fought another man this morning,” said Mr Belfort, and stood back to observe the effect of this terrific pronouncement.
Prudence was all honest incredulity. “You tell me he has met some one else in a duel?” she cried. It seemed to be a positive dispensation of a kindly Providence, but it would not do to let the gentleman suspect she felt this. She affected anger. “He sets me aside, you would tell me! It’s for some later quarrel? You call it a slight! You’re moderate, Charles!”
“Devilish irregular,” said Mr Devereux. “I was monstrous shocked when I heard of it, give you my word. They say there’s a tendon cut in his sword arm that won’t heal this many a day. Quite impossible to meet him.”
“But apart from that, Dev — apart from that, mind you, I would not have our man swallow such a cursed piece of rudeness,” Mr Belfort reminded him. “Our quarrel came first, demm it!” A frown marred the cherubic look in his face. “And what’s more, Dev, Fanshawe knew it!”
“Fanshawe!” the exclamation broke from Prudence, who stood staring.
“Fanshawe himself,” nodded Belfort. “And I saw him this morning, and somehow or other the thing slipped out, and I told him you were to meet Rensley.”
“But — you say Fanshawe is the man who fought Rensley?”
“You may well ask, Peter. Fanshawe it was. Found our man at Galliano’s, and forced a quarrel on him.”
“Carslake tells me it all began as a jest, Bel,” pleaded Mr Devereux.
“Jest or no, Dev, the man had no business to meet Fanshawe till our little affair was settled. And so I shall tell Jessup.”
“But why did Sir Anthony — ?”
“Ah, that’s the question,” nodded Belfort. “I don’t know, but they do say he told Rensley he was a poltroon, and struck him in the face with his glove. Kestrel — he was there, y’know — will have it Tony was out for a fight from the first, but Orton thinks it all sprang up out of naught.”
An idea struck Mr Devereux. “’Pon my soul, Merriot, you might call Fanshawe out, so you might!”
Prudence laughed, and shook her head. “Oh, hold me excused! I count Sir Anthony very much my friend, in spite of this day’s work.”
Mr Belfort pondered it. “I don’t see that, Dev. No, I don’t see that he can do that. But as for meeting Rensley after this, it’s not to be thought of. Mind that, Peter! Not to be thought of!”
Prudence assumed an air of hesitation, and made some demur. It seemed safe. She was sternly over-ruled, but Mr Devereux said it did her credit. He went off with Mr Belfort to wait upon Mr Rensley’s seconds.
Prudence was left to make what she might of it. On the face of it, it looked as though the large gentleman had once more scared away the wolf. But why? That gave food for serious reflection. What did he suspect, forsooth? Or had he merely a mind to interpose on behalf of a boy for whom he had some kindness? She could not think he had pierced her disguise; faith, it was too good for that, surely! She went upstairs to Robin, and gave him the full sum of it.
Robin threw her a straight look under his lashes. “I’m to understand you had it in mind to meet Rensley with never a word to me?”
“Just, child. Don’t eat me!”
“I’m more likely to beat you. You must be mad indeed!”
She perceived him to be in something of a rage, and made haste to divert him. “I’ve to thank Sir Anthony, for my deliverance. What have you to say to that?”
“You’re of opinion he has your secret? You must have been mighty indiscreet!”
“Not a whit. I’ve given not the smallest reason for him to suspect me, I swear. Unless — ” She broke off, frowning. “There was the little matter of staying with him at Wych End. No more.”
Robin shrugged that aside. “I hold to my opinion. But if he suspects — why, it seems he’s a mind to keep his counsel.”
“It’s a comfortable belief, child. Give you joy of it. I dine with him tomorrow. Be sure, I step warily.”
In another part of the town there was a gentleman quite as shocked as Mr Belfort over the morning’s happenings, and infinitely more enraged. Mr Markham went off to Grosvenor Square, and found his friend Rensley abed, and very sore.
Mr Markham broke out with a “What’s to do now, a’ God’s name?”
Rensley lay staring at the bedpost, and said only: — “Fanshawe forced the quarrel on to me.”