Part 14

"’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.

Sir Geoffrey was the first to recover himself, greeting the new arrival with exaggerated politeness and inquiring after his health with a solicitude that Lord Beachcombe did not attempt to reciprocate. The wound he had received from Sir Geoffrey’s sword was slight enough to be patched up with a few strips of court-plaster; the wound to his vanity still gaped. He looked on with a sardonic smile while Sir Geoffrey, pressing several impassioned kisses upon Prue’s reluctant hand, bade her "a brief adieu," and slowly backed himself to the door.

"I trust I am not driving Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert away," said Beachcombe stiffly.

"By no means," cried Prue with alacrity. "Sir Geoffrey was taking his leave when you entered. Sir Geoffrey, farewell. No doubt we shall meet at Lady Rialton’s, or elsewhere, later in the day; our world is so small, we can not get away from one another even for an hour; don’t you find it sometimes grows monotonous, Lord Beachcombe?"

As the door closed upon the parting guest, Beachcombe approached her with an air of distant respect, bowing profoundly, with his hand upon his breast.

"Pardon this intrusion, Lady Prudence, and permit me to lay my homage at your feet," he said.

Prue curtsied again. "Pray, my Lord, do not wound me by apologizing for a friendly visit," she returned, with a sweet smile. "Be seated, and let me offer you a cup of chocolate."

The little torment had jumped quickly to the conclusion that some motive of strong personal interest had brought her old lover to the house he had never entered since, scarcely a year ago, their troth had been broken with bitter words and thinly veiled insults on both sides. Her quick intuition warned her that his visit might, very possibly, add another snarl to the tangle in which she felt herself becoming hopelessly enmeshed. So she exerted all her tact and skill to keep him on tenter-hooks, and give herself time to gather her forces, while she discussed frothy scandals and airy nothings, pretending not to notice his lack of response and ill-repressed impatience, until suddenly she turned full upon him her clear and dazzling glance and changed her tactics without a moment’s warning.

"But I had forgotten," she said, "how little you care about scandal and poetry, and I can scarcely flatter myself that my frivolous conversation can be very entertaining to you. My tongue runs away with me sadly, doesn’t it? I dare say you remember of old what a chatterbox I am. Well," with a sudden change of tone, "now tell me what really brought you to see me?"

Her abrupt question had the intended effect of confusing her visitor and throwing him off his guard, while her ingenuous smile disarmed him.

"Your conversation is delightful at all times, Lady Prudence," he began hurriedly; "so much information—such—ah—intimate knowledge of society—and literature is as rare as it is agreeable. Nothing should I enjoy so much, if I did not have my head so full of a subject which—a—private family affair—which—which—"

He trailed off helplessly, and she let him flounder until his embarrassment ceased to amuse her. Then she said quietly:

"How can _I_ be of any assistance to you, Lord Beachcombe, in a private family affair? That seems quite out of my province."

"Alas! I am but too well aware that I have forfeited all right to ask favors of you, Viscountess," he pleaded, "but I know your generous nature so well that I am emboldened to cast myself upon your mercy."

"You flatter me!" she cried, with her dazzling smile. "What can my generosity and mercy do for Lord Beachcombe?"

"I scarcely know. ’Tis but an idea; a mere catching at a straw. Still, I have been credibly informed that you were decoyed last night to the den of Robin Freemantle, the highway-robber, whence, with unparalleled courage, you rescued the queen’s necklace—"

"Surely," she interrupted, with some impatience, "Her Majesty’s necklace can not be your private family affair?"

He laughed explosively. "Is nothing sacred to you, Lady Prudence? I only wished to felicitate you upon your most remarkable adventure, and its brilliant result, and to implore you to tell me if you found any papers or documents in the—the place where the necklace was hidden."

"Was the necklace hidden anywhere?" she inquired, in a tone of surprise. "I did not find it; it was given to me—"

"By Robin Freemantle—is it not so?" he eagerly interrupted.

"Robin Freemantle! What could make you imagine that he gave it to me?" she cried, in an accent of intense astonishment.

"My dear Viscountess, surely you are aware that this rascal, disguised in my mask and domino, followed you the whole evening of the masquerade-ball—"

"Is it possible?" cried Prue, with the prettiest imaginable air of incredulity. "La! what strange things happen at a masquerade!"

"Possible? ’Tis a fact," replied Beachcombe; "and ’tis easy to understand that having fallen madly in love with you—"

"The outrageous monster!" shrieked Prue.

"Even monsters are human, dear Viscountess, and who can wonder that the beauty that has wrought such havoc in my—in our—-in all beholders, should have smitten this fellow, who is reported to have shadowed your footsteps all Monday night, disguised in a red domino and mask. That mask and domino were mine, and he robbed me of them in the same house by the river-side where you were taken last night. A den of thieves, Viscountess, from which your escape unharmed was hardly less than a miracle."

"My escape? Nobody attempted to detain me. In fact I saw no one, and the only danger I escaped was of being taken prisoner by the soldiers who came to search for—rebels, I understood them to say."

"Rebels! Ha! ha! ’tis true, this jailbird has the audacity to mix himself up with Jacobite plots and claim that he only steals purses on the chance of their containing papers of value to the Pretender’s cause! Speaking of papers brings me back to my own affairs. When this villain stole my domino, he also robbed me of a packet of papers. He returned the domino—after putting it to the use you wot of—but the papers, of great value, he refused to give up. Is it possible, dear Lady Prudence, that while you were in this robber’s den, you saw such a packet?"

Prue shook her head. "The soldiers took everything they could find in the place," she said reflectively. "If I were you, I would make inquiries of them."

"I have done so," he said; "but they brought away no such packet."

"Perhaps it was opened and they have the contents."

"I have reason to think that unlikely," replied Beachcombe, biting his lips and scowling.

"Or destroyed?" she suggested.

"No, indeed; if I could hope for that—!"

"What, hope for the destruction of valuable private papers? It is not to you, then, that they are valuable?" she cried shrewdly.

He started and eyed her suspiciously for a moment. "To no one else," he replied emphatically; "but you can surely understand, Lady Prudence, that some family documents would be better destroyed than in the hands of—an enemy."

"Was Rob—Captain Freemantle—your enemy?" she asked ingenuously. "It seems to me that some one—who can it have been?—said he was your relative. He calls himself De Cliffe, doesn’t he?"

Lord Beachcombe looked at her again with growing mistrust. "Did he have the impudence to call himself De Cliffe, when he addressed you at the ball, Viscountess?" he demanded.

"La! no; and if he had—people can say anything behind a mask, without fear of being believed," she retorted, laughing. "I recollect now that ’twas Barbara Sweeting, when she told us of the loss of the queen’s necklace. She told us how you had obtained his pardon when condemned to be hanged, and afterward set the soldiers upon him—"

Beachcombe bent his sullen glance upon the carpet, tracing out its faded pattern with his Malacca cane. "Every family has its painful secrets, Lady Prudence," he began, "and this packet contains one of the De Cliffe family secrets—a painful one, but not important—oh—not at all important. Had the soldiers found it, it would have been an easy matter to recover it—a few guineas at most—but if it is still in his possession—"

"What like was it?" Prue inquired listlessly, for she was growing weary of a subject that had so little of personal interest for her.

"The packet? Oh! a small thing, about the size and appearance of a letter—a _billet-doux_"—he forced a laugh—"sealed and addressed to Mistress—Mistress—the name has escaped me for the moment, but ’twas in care of the Hostess of the _Fox and Grapes_."

A sudden glow of color swept across Prue’s face. In her joy at finding that the source of many a jealous pang was not Robin’s after all, it is to be feared that she quite overlooked the gravity of Lord Beachcombe’s accusation. What did it matter to her, whose letter it was—if it were not Robin’s—written to another woman? She had an impulse to return it, and her hand involuntarily rose to the laces about her neck, where she had kept it concealed except when she thrust it under her pillow, where it lay all night pervading her dreams.

She checked herself quickly, though not quite unobserved. Beachcombe, of course, did not suspect anything so preposterous as that Prue could be interested in the highwayman, beyond the fact that he had made her the heroine of a successful escapade, but her change of countenance, slight as it was, and her gesture, though instantly diverted to a readjustment of the rose at her breast, did not escape his keen eye.

"You recognize the superscription?" he suggested insinuatingly. "You saw the packet in his hands, perhaps? If—so—"

"If so," she interrupted quickly, "you have little chance of recovering it, since ’tis said he was drowned last night."

"If I could only believe that true!" he exclaimed fiercely. "But no! he escaped; there can be no doubt of that; in fact I have reason to know—"

"To know that he is safe!" she cried, in a thrilling accent of unmistakable joy. "Oh! Heaven—" then suddenly she remembered that this man was his enemy and desired his death. She stopped short and then went on hurriedly, conscious that she had betrayed herself—"Is it possible that this—this miscreant is still alive and at liberty?"

He looked at her dubiously, but although a growing suspicion that she was acting a part disturbed him, it did not yet enlighten him with any ray of the truth.

"I am as sure of it, as I am that he pursued you at the ball, under cover of my domino—and, for his punishment, fell in love with you," he said boldly.

"Fell in love with me!" cried Prue disdainfully. "Again, sir? How dare you suggest such presumption!"

"The fellow certainly does not lack presumption," replied Beachcombe, "and as to his having fallen in love with you, did he not prove his infatuation by surrendering his priceless booty for the sake of seeing you once more, even at the peril of his life? Believe me, dear Viscountess, the man who will risk so much, will risk still more; you have not seen the last of Captain Freemantle."

"You think not?" cried Prue. "What do you suppose he will do next?"

"Probably he will repeat the tactics that he has already pursued with such enviable success," said the earl, with a scarcely perceptible sneer, "and send one of his followers to your ladyship to beseech another interview; or perhaps he will come to you himself."

"Heaven forbid!" cried Prue. "I trust he will not attempt anything so—so audacious."

"On the contrary, my dear lady," replied Beachcombe blandly, "if you will be guided by me, I think we can turn this fellow’s impudence to our mutual advantage. _I_ most sincerely trust that he will come or send to you, because now he has been routed out of his house by the river-side, we no longer know where he is in hiding. He is not like to return there, but gentlemen of his profession have many haunts, and having induced your ladyship to visit one of them, he will, no doubt, try another."

"You seem to forget that there is only one queen’s necklace," she cried incautiously. Then, conscious of her indiscretion, she added with too eager precipitation, "Besides, Robin Freemantle had nothing to do with my visit to that house; I was guided there—"

"By a messenger sent by him, as I understand," interrupted Beachcombe. "’Tis no secret that your ladyship was induced by means of a letter—"

"Secret! I should think not!" she cried petulantly, tossing the letter upon the table beside him. "All the town seems talking about it, and all the world may read it, for aught I care! I defy the most ingenious scandal-monger to make anything out of it."

Lord Beachcombe took it up, and slowly unfolding it, read it carefully, and then looked up with a smile of triumph, that struck a sudden chill to Prue’s heart. From his breast he drew a letter addressed to "The Right Honorable Lord Beachcombe. At Rodney House, Saint James’ Park, London," and placing the two papers side by side, contemplated them with vindictive satisfaction.

"There can be no further doubt," he said. "See for yourself, Viscountess, the writing is identical."

She looked, and had some difficulty in maintaining her indifference. Furious at herself for having given Beachcombe an opportunity to confirm his suspicions, she had just enough self-command left to see that it was a case of _qui s’excuse s’accuse_, and that any attempt at explanation would only plunge her into an inextricable tangle of falsehood. So she merely remarked, in as casual a tone as she could assume, "La me! how curious!" and stretched out her hand for her own document.

Beachcombe withheld it. "Pray permit me to retain this, Lady Prudence," he entreated. "It is an important piece of evidence."