Masqueraders by Georgette Heyer Page A

‘Thanks, child. I would you had seen my sword play. I am sure it did you credit.’ She paused and looked at the guttering candles. Her tone changed, and became serious. ‘I have a notion they were creatures of Markham’s set on to beat me.’
    ‘Markham’s?’ Robin set down the ointment.
    ‘I know of no one else with a grudge against me. They were not common Mohocks.’ She told him what she had heard.
    He strode to the window and back again, frowning. ‘I think this is where we make our bow,’ he said at last.
    ‘Devil a bit!’ was the cheerful response. ‘For the future I shall remember to take a chaise; that’s all there is to it.’
    ‘I had rather see you safe in France.’
    ‘I won’t go.’
    He raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh, do you turn stubborn?’
    ‘As a mule. We go down to Richmond with my lady to-morrow, and the Markham may think that I’ve gone into retirement on account of my mauling. He should be satisfied. I await the old gentleman, for I’ve a curiosity to see what his game is.’ She got up, and stretched her long limbs, wincing at the pain of her bruised shoulder. ‘Get you to bed, Robin.’ She went out, yawning.
    They were gone on the morrow down to my lady’s house at Richmond. My lady was loud in her exclamations of horror at what had befallen Prudence, but Prudence could chuckle now that all was over, the while Robin sat in frowning silence. His petticoats began to irk him.
    Mr Markham heard of the affair at White’s, from the lips of Mr Belfort. He professed himself all concern, but his friend Lord Barham, drawing him aside, said with a snigger: ‘So that’s a score settled, eh, my buck?’
    ‘It’s not,’ said Mr Markham curtly, and scowled.
    ‘Gad, I’d give something to know what you have against the young sprig!’ said his Lordship. ‘It’s a conceited puppy, ecod! I’ve a mind to give it a trouncing myself.’
    Mr Markham saw Sir Anthony Fanshawe, idly twirling his quizzing-glass, and rather testily requested his noble friend to guard his tongue. Sir Anthony continued blandly to survey the pair. Mr Markham strode off, rather red about the gills.
    Sir Anthony turned to Mr Belfort, standing in a circle of his acquaintances. ‘Well, Charles, have you been fighting with the devil’s emissaries?’ he said genially. ‘What’s this I hear of Mohocks?’
    ‘Three of them, right in the middle of town, if you please!’ said Mr Belfort. ‘Thunder an’ turf, but it’s a crying disgrace! I’m saying to Proudie here that measures ought to be taken.’
    Sir Anthony took out his snuff-box, and shook back the ruffles from his hand. ‘Oh, were you attacked?’ he inquired.
    ‘Not I. ’Twas young Merriot they set upon, as he came off from Devereux’s last night.’
    The strong hand paused for a moment in the act of unfobbing the snuff-box. The sleepy eyes did not lift. ‘Indeed?’ said Sir Anthony, and awaited more.
    ‘Three to one, the ruffians, and lucky I chanced along, for the lad’s not over strong in the sword arm, I take it. Game enough, but he was soon blown.’
    ‘He was, was he?’ Sir Anthony took snuff in a leisurely fashion. ‘And—er—was he hurt?’
    ‘A blow on the shoulder. It seemed to knock him pretty well endways. But he said something of an old wound there, which would account for it,’ said Belfort, feeling that some excuse was needed.
    ‘Ah, an old wound?’ Sir Anthony was politely interested. ‘Of course. That would, as you say, account for it.’
    ‘There’s naught to be said against the lad’s courage,’ Belfort assured him. ‘Game as a fighting cock, pledge you my word. I was all for taking him off to my lodgings to attend to his shoulder, but no, he’d none of it!’
    ‘He refused to go with you, did he?’ Sir Anthony nicked a speck or two of snuff from his sleeve.
    ‘Oh, wouldn’t hear of it! Naught I could say was to any avail. He would be off home, and have no fuss made.’
    ‘Very creditable,’ said Sir Anthony,