Джорджетт Хейер: The Masqueraders

My lord was to meet the lawyers and his cousin at Grosvenor Square, and he would give conclusive proof of his identity.

Mr Rensley, with his arm still in a sling, awaited the issue with not unjustifiable impatience. The family lawyers, Clapperly and Brent, were the first to arrive: young Mr Clapperly brought old Mr Clapperly, long since retired from the lists; and Mr Brent brought a grave clerk, and many documents.

Mr Brent rubbed his hands together and murmured over a list he held. He desired to know whether a Mrs Staines, and a Mr Samuel Burton had arrived.

Mr Rensley stared at that. “Burton?” he echoed. “Do you mean my lodge-keeper?”

Mr Brent coughed. “Let us say, sir, the lodge-keeper at Barham. You know we said we would not be — er — controversial.”

Mr Rensley said something under his breath, at which Mr Clapperly frowned. “Why should he arrive?” he asked brusquely.

“The claimant, sir, desired it. Also Mrs Staines, who is, I believe, Burton’s sister.”

“I know nothing about her,” Rensley answered. “Has that impostor bribed them to recognise him?”

Young Mr Clapperly, a man of some forty years, begged Mr Rensley to moderate his language. Mr Brent assured Rensley that my lord had not set eyes on either Burton or his sister since his arrival: both brother and sister were as mystified as he was himself.

Shortly after this the couple arrived, and were ushered into the big library.

Burton was a stockily-built man of middle age, sandy-haired and blue-eyed; his sister was rather older, a respectable-looking woman, who dropped a shy curtsey to Rensley, and another to the lawyers. She was given a chair by the table, and sat down on the extreme edge of it, with her brother beside her.

“Three o’clock,” said young Mr Clapperly, consulting a large watch. “I think we said three, sir?”

A coach was heard to drive up, as though in answer. In a few minutes the door opened to admit my Lord Barham, my Lord Clevedale, and Mr Fontenoy.

My lord swept a magnificent leg to the assembled company. “I am late!” he exclaimed. “I offer a thousand apologies!”

“No, sir, no, almost to the minute,” Mr Brent told him.

Mr Rensley was looking with dislike upon my lord’s companions. My lord addressed him at once. “You scowl upon my friends, cousin. But you must remember that I have the right to bring whom I will to this interview.” He turned to Mr Clapperly. “Is that not so?”

“Oh, perfectly, sir! There can be no objection. Pray, will you not be seated, gentlemen?”

They were grouped about a table that stood in the middle of the room. My lord sat at the end of the table, with old Mr Clapperly opposite to him. My lord produced his snuff-box, and unfobbed it. “And now my cousin Rensley wants to put some questions to me,” he said gently. “There is no reason why I should answer any of them. I stand proved already Tremaine of Barham. You have tried to find that I stole my papers, and you have failed, gentlemen. I condole with you. Let me hear your questions; I shall endeavour to satisfy you.”

There was an uncomfortable air of strain in the room; my lord was too much master of the situation. Rensley sat on Mr Clapperly’s right hand, and scowled at the table. Mr Clapperly had begged him to leave all to his men of business, and he had agreed to hold his peace. He did not look at my lord; the sight of that smiling countenance enraged him to the point of desperation.

Mr Fontenoy preserved his prim severity; my Lord Clevedale lounged beside the old gentleman, and was frankly agog with curiosity. Burton and his sister sat together on one side of the table, and appeared to be rather bewildered.

Mr Brent signed to his clerk, who brought forward a leather case. Mr Brent opened this, and produced a slip of paper. It seemed to have been cut from a letter, for it was closely written over. “Perhaps, sir, you would be good enough to tell us if you recognise this writing,” he said courteously, and gave the slip to the clerk, who carried it to my lord.

My lord put out a white hand to receive it. He glanced at it, smiled, and gave it back. “Certainly,” he said. “It is my father’s hand.”

Mr Rensley shot a quick look at him, and bit his lip.

“Thank you, sir,” bowed Mr Brent. “And these?”

My lord took three other such slips. One he handed back at once. “My brother. Pray take it away.” He frowned over the second and shook his head. “I have not the smallest notion,” he said calmly. “I doubt whether I have ever seen it before.” He turned to the third, and spent some time over it. “I am inclined to think that this must be my Aunt Susanna,” he said.

“Inclined, sir?”

“Inclined,” nodded my lord. “I never received a letter from her in my life that I can remember. But I perceive the word Toto. My respected aunt, when I knew her — and I do trust she’s dead? — had a small dog of that name. A yapping, petted little brute of a spaniel. Mr Fontenoy would remember.”

Mr Fontenoy nodded. The lawyers exchanged glances. If this were indeed an impostor he knew a deal about the family of Tremaine.

“But the second letter, sir?”

My lord raised his brows. “I told you, did I not? I do not know the hand at all.” He put up his glass and looked at it again. “Very ill-formed,” he remarked. “No, I know no one with such an undistinguished hand.”

Mr Rensley reddened angrily and opened his mouth to speak. Mr Brent put up a hand to silence him. “Is it not a little strange that you should not know the writing of the man you claim as cousin, sir?” he asked.

My lord was aghast. He looked at Rensley. “Good gad, cousin, is it yours indeed? I have been guilty of a breach of manners! I am desolated to have passed such a stricture on your hand.”

“You do not answer me, sir,” Mr Brent pointed out.

My lord turned to him. “I crave your pardon. But does it need an answer? I thought I had made the situation between the Tremaines and the Rensleys clear to all. It is not in the least strange that I should not recognise the hand. I had never seen it before.”

Mr Brent bowed in a non-committal manner, and drew a miniature from the case before him. “Do you know this face, sir?”

“I ought to,” said my lord. “But do put it away again, dear sir! I’ve not the smallest wish to gaze upon my late brother’s image.”

Old Mr Clapperly gave a dry cackle of laughter. Young Mr Clapperly looked reproachful, and said: “I believe, gentlemen, we cannot regard that as conclusive. The late Viscount was well known. Show him the other one.”

My lord held a miniature of a dark lady at arm’s length, and surveyed it critically. “When was this done?” he inquired. “It quite fails to convey an impression of her charm.”

“You know the face, sir?”

“Dorothea,” said my lord. “At least, so I suppose, but it is very bad. More like my aunt Johanna. There is a far better portrait of her in the gallery of Barham.” He showed the miniature to Mr Fontenoy. “You knew my sister, sir. Do you agree that this does her less than justice?”

“Miss Tremaine had certainly more animation than is shown here,” Mr Fontenoy answered.

My lord gave back the miniature. There was a gleam in his eye. “But why not produce a picture of myself?” he suggested.

Mr Fontenoy, and old Mr Clapperly looked sharply. Rensley said triumphantly: — “You make a slip there, my clever gentleman! There is no picture of you!”

My lord smiled. “No? And does my friend Mr Fontenoy agree with that?”

Mr Fontenoy said nothing. My lord tapped the lid of his snuff-box. “What of the sketch that was taken of me when I was eighteen?” he asked softly.

It was plain Rensley knew nothing of this; equally plain was it that my lord had impressed the two eldest people present. “It is true that there was once such a portrait, sir,” said old Mr Clapperly. “But it exists no longer.”