Masqueraders by Georgette Heyer Page B

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 to-morrow, 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