False Colours

by Джорджетт Хейер

  “No, of course he’s not! You can’t suppose that I believed the fustian nonsense Mrs Alperton talked, about his leaving Clara to starve! As for his having seduced her, I should think it very much more likely that it was Clara who seduced him! Kit, I know it is most improper of me to ask you, but who was the Marquis?”

  “My dear, I haven’t the least notion, and dared not inquire! I only know that he provided her with outriders, and stocked her cellars with wine from his own.”

  “And a carriage drawn by cream-coloured horses! I did venture to inquire, but she said he was a Duke now, and turned respectable, and that she bore him no grudge, and so wouldn’t take his character away.”

  “What a pity! I dare say we shall never know now.” He sat frowning for a moment or two. “I wonder if Evelyn did go after Silverdale? He has a place somewhere in the north, I collect. No, I don’t think he would have done so without telling Mama.”

  “He didn’t. Sir Bonamy was talking about Silverdale yesterday, to Mr Cliffe—that is to say, he was talking about Brighton, and the people staying at the Pavilion. He mentioned Lord Silverdale: I heard him. Kit, cannot you think of any place where Denville might be? I do feel you ought to make a push to discover what has happened to him. You can’t maintain this hoax for ever!”

  “Oh, I shan’t be obliged to!” he replied. “He’ll come back! Yes, I know it must seem odd in me not to be in flat despair: I think so myself, whenever I consider every appalling possibility; but I find, after conjuring up nightmares, that I don’t believe one of ’em. Evelyn could not be dead, or in distress, and I not know it. And when he does come—Lord, we shall still be in the suds! This is the very devil of a hobble, Cressy!”

  “But why? Of course it is bound to be a little awkward, but must it be so very bad? No announcement of my engagement to Denville has been made, and that horrid piece of printed gossip might just as well refer to you as Denville. Surely we must be able to contrive so that only our families need ever know that Denville made me an offer? Or if not that—I was forgetting that unfortunate dinner party—at least my aunts and uncles need never know that, you played that hoax on us all. We can tell the truth: that I met you, and found I liked you better!”

  He smiled a little, but shook his head. “That’s not it. We are deeper in the suds than I think you know, love. Even assuming that your father would give his consent—”

  “He will: Albinia will take good care of that!”

  “I daren’t assume so much. He must think me a poor exchange for Evelyn! I have neither his title nor his possessions, remember! His fortune is handsome; mine is merely genteel!”

  “Well, Papa can scarcely take exception to that, for my fortune is merely genteel too. Of course, he may be disappointed when he learns that I am not going to be a Countess after all, so let us immediately decide what title you mean to adopt when you are raised to the peerage, like your uncle! That should reconcile him, don’t you think?”

  “To be honest with you,” he said apologetically, “no, I don’t! I can’t help feeling that he might even doubt my ability to achieve such a distinction.”

  “Papa is not very clever, but he’s not such a goose as that! You may not be as wealthy as Denville, but I haven’t the shadow of a doubt that you will make a much greater mark in the world than he will. Perhaps I ought to tell you that in preferring your suit to his I am governed by ambition. You, in course of time, will become the Secretary for Foreign Affairs—”

  “In a year or two!” interpolated Mr Fancot affably.

  Her lips quivered, but she continued smoothly: “—and I shall go down to history as a great political hostess!”

  “That’s much easier to picture! Do you think you could be serious for a few moments, little love?”

  She folded her hands demurely in her lap. “I’ll try, sir!” Then she saw that although he smiled there was trouble behind the smile, and she became grave at once, unfolding her hands to tuck one into his, warmly clasping it. “Tell me!”

  His long fingers closed over her hand, but he did not immediately answer her. When he did speak it was to ask her an abrupt question. “What did Evelyn tell you, Cressy? You said that he had been very frank with you: how frank?”

  “Perfectly, I believe. I liked him for it—for not pretending that he had fallen in love with me, which I knew he had not. He did it charmingly, too! Well, you know his engaging way! He explained to me how uncomfortably he was circumstanced, and that Lord Brumby would wind up the Trust if he entered into a suitable marriage. I thought it very understandable that his present situation should chafe him beyond bearing.”

  “That was all he told you?”

  “Why, yes! Was there some other reason?”

  “Not precisely. His object was certainly to wind up that confounded Trust, which has irked him more than I guessed. But I know him, Cressy!—oh, as I know myself!—and I am very certain that he would never have proposed such a cold-blooded marriage merely to rid himself of shackles which fretted him. As I understand the matter, he was forced into this by the urgent need to get possession of his principal.”

  “Do you mean that he is in debt?” she asked, considerably surprised. “Surely you must be mistaken! I had thought, from what Papa told me, that the income he enjoys is very large indeed? Could he have run so deep into debt that he must broach his principal?”

  He shook his head. “No. Not Evelyn: Mama!”

  She gave a gasp, but said quickly: “Oh, poor Lady Denville! Yes, I see—of course I see! I should have known—that is,—Pardon me, but I have heard gossip! I discounted the better part of it. You must be as well acquainted with tattle-boxes as I am! Detestable creatures! I was aware too, that Godmama was—was a little afraid of Lord Denville; and of course I know that she is amazingly expensive! She told me herself that she was so monstrously in the wind that her case was desperate—but in such a droll way that I thought she was funning. And when your father died I supposed—I don’t know why—that her affairs had been settled.”

  “They were not. In justice to my father, I believe he didn’t know in what case they stood. She never told him the whole—dared not! The blame for that must lie at his door!”

  “Indeed it must!” she said warmly. “Pray tell me the whole! You may trust me, I promise you! I love her too, remember! Is it very bad?”

  “Do you think I would have breathed one word of this to you if I didn’t trust you? I do, most implicitly, but I can’t tell you how bad it may be until I’ve seen Evelyn. It would be useless to try to discover the answer from poor Mama, for I don’t think she has the smallest notion how much she owes. It’s plain enough it must be a larger sum than any of us suspected.”

  She said diffidently: “Would not Lord Brumby see the propriety of discharging her debts?”

  “Yes, I think he would, but—” He paused, frowning. “That was the thought that occurred to me. Not that she should have applied to my uncle, but that Evelyn might do so. But something she said to me—my uncle does not like her, you know—made me realize why Evelyn would not do that—or I either! It would be a betrayal.” He glanced up, with a twisted smile. “We couldn’t do it, you see. She would never betray us, and—well, we love her dearly! So you see why I said we are in the suds.”

  She nodded. “Very clearly! It is most awkward, and I don’t immediately perceive by what means we are to come about. Unless your brother would consent to offer for some other eligible female?”

  “That’s the only solution I can think of,” he admitted. “Unfortunately, my dear, you are, in my uncle’s eyes, the most eligible of all females! He certainly knew that Evelyn meant to offer for you, and it may well be that Evelyn, or Mama, told him that he had done so, and had been accepted—subject to your grandmother’s approval! Whatever his opinion of Evelyn may be, he’s very full of starch, you know, and would find it impossible to believe that she would not approve of a marriage with the head of his house! He would be far more likely to think Evelyn incurably volatile,
and by no means to be trusted with the control of his fortune. And even if he could be won over—No, I’ll have no hand in thrusting my twin into a marriage of convenience! I wouldn’t have furthered his engagement to you if I hadn’t known he was committed already. So—so there we are, my darling! At Point Non-Plus!”

  She nodded, and sat thinking, quite as troubled as he was. After a pause, she turned her eyes towards him, and said: “You can do nothing till Evelyn comes back, can you? I understand that. And then?”

  “Between us we must be able to come about. If I knew just how badly scorched Mama is—but even if I did I couldn’t turn tail at this stage! Only think what a dust there would be if I were suddenly to announce that all this time I’d been hoaxing everyone! I can readily imagine your grandmother’s delight at receiving such tidings: I should be ruining myself as well as Evelyn!”

  “You might,” she conceded. “One never knows, with Grandmama. She likes you, so that it’s possible she would think it a very good joke. She will have to know the truth in the end, after all!”

  “Yes, but not until Evelyn is here to explain why he was compelled—as I know he must have been—to behave so abominably.”

  She thought this over. “No. I was wondering if we might not make up some tale—but we should very likely be bowled out if we did. And I can’t help feeling that it would be very much better if the Cliffes never do know that they were hoaxed.”

  “Very much better! And how they are to be got rid of presents us with another problem. I have an uneasy suspicion that they mean to spend the rest of the summer at Ravenhurst.”

  She laughed. “Yes, but I am very sure Godmama won’t allow them to do so! Kit, how many persons know the truth?”

  “Besides those I’ve mentioned, only my old nurse, and Ripple. What made you find me out? Did I betray myself? Ripple, who has known me all my life, wouldn’t have done so if I hadn’t done something he knew Evelyn would never do.”

  “Oh, no! You didn’t betray yourself in any way you could help. I hardly know how it was—except that you are not quite like Evelyn, however much you appear to be his image. It puzzled me, when I first met you, but I thought you were perhaps a man of several moods. I might not have found you out if I hadn’t seen that portrait, and if I hadn’t been present when Godmama started to say Kit, and changed it suddenly to Kind Evelyn!”

  “I thought you hadn’t noticed that slip. I yield to none in my devotion to Mama, but a more caper-witted creature I hope I may never encounter! Let me tell you, my love, that her latest brilliant notion—a gem of high value, this one!—is that if Evelyn should suddenly return to us he must pretend to be me!”

  That sent her off into another fit of laughter. “Oh, she is so superb! Do you mean to tell her about this? I think we should, don’t you?”

  “No—emphatically!” said Kit, drawing her back into his arm. “We’ll keep our secret until Evelyn comes home!”

  14

  The following day was not destined to be ranked amongst Mr Fancot’s happier memories. It included a picnic, arranged by Lady Denville for the entertainment of Cressy, Ambrose, the young Thatchams, the Vicar’s elder daughter, and Kit himself; a singularly unsuccessful dinner-party; and a letter from Lord Brumby.

  This was addressed to Evelyn, and it did nothing to raise Kit’s hopes of being able to solve the problem which had kept him awake for a considerable part of the night. It was written in an amicable spirit, but it made Kit’s heart sink. Lord Brumby had seen the paragraph in the Morning Post, and, while he expressed himself austerely on the impropriety of it, he was glad to learn from it that his nephew’s affairs were prospering so well. He had received from his old friend, Stavely, a gratifying account of the excellent impression Evelyn had made in Mount Street; and he entertained no doubt that this must be strengthened during Miss Stavely’s stay at Ravenhurst. His congratulations might be premature, but he believed he need not hesitate to offer them, since it would be strange indeed if his dear Denville, who (as he was well aware), possessed the gift of being able to make himself very agreeable, when he chose to do so (underscored), should fail to win a lady already favourably disposed towards his suit.

  That made Kit grin appreciatively, but the next sheet, however acceptable it might have been had it been addressed to himself, lowered his spirits still more. It was devoted to praise of Miss Stavely. No one, in Lord Brumby’s opinion, could be a more eligible bride. Her fortune was not large, but it was respectable; her lineage was impeccable; and from all he had seen and heard of her she was eminently fitted for the position offered her. His lordship ventured to predict for his nephew a future of domestic bliss, unattended by such youthful volatility as he had been obliged, in the past, to deprecate.

  He ended this missive with a brief paragraph which, under other circumstances, might well have encouraged optimism in Mr Fancot’s breast. I must not conclude, my dear Denville, without informing you that I have received a very comfortable account of your brother from Stewart, who writes of him in such terms as must, I know well, afford you as much gratification as they afford me.”

  Mr Fancot, reading these lines in unabated gloom, put up his uncle’s letter, and went off to superintend the final preparations for an expedition of pleasure to Ashdown Forest.

  This, being attended by all the ills, including a shower of rain, which commonly beset all fresco entertainments, was spoilt for Kit from the outset by the inability of the Vicar’s daughter to ride. She was driven to the rendezvous in the landaulet, which also carried the picnic-hampers; and Miss Stavely, the doyenne of the party, bore her company: a graceful act of self-abnegation which would have confirmed Lord Brumby in his high opinion of her excellence, but which won no encomiums whatsoever from Mr Fancot.

  The dinner-party, which followed hard upon his return from this expedition, sent him to bed in a state of exhaustion. Lady Denville, in her praiseworthy desire to make the Dowager Lady Stavely’s visit to Ravenhurst agreeable, had been inspired to beg the pleasure of Lord and Lady Dersingham’s company to dinner; and this couple, whom she described to Kit as antiquated fogies who belonged to the Dowager’s set, had felt themselves obliged to accept her invitation. In the event, her inspiration was proved to be far from happy, as Sir Bonamy, when he learned of the high treat in store, correctly prognosticated. “Maria Dersingham?” exclaimed that amiable hedonist, his eyes starting from their sockets. “No, no, my pretty! You can’t be serious! Why, she and the old Tartar here have been at outs these dozen years and more!”

  The truth of these daunting words was confirmed within five minutes of the Dersinghams’ arrival. Nothing could have been more honeyed than the civilities exchanged between two elderly and redoubtable ladies of quality; and nothing could have struck more terror into the bosoms of the rest of the company than the smiling remarks each subsequently addressed to the other. The only person to remain unaffected was Mrs Cliffe, whose unshakeable conviction that her sole offspring would shortly succumb to an inflammation of the lungs, contracted in Ashdown Forest during a shower of rain, occupied her mind to the exclusion of all other considerations; and the only two persons who derived enjoyment from the party were the contestants themselves, who showed signs of alarming revivification at every hit scored.

  It was in a state of prostration (as he informed Cressy, when he contrived to snatch a brief moment or two alone with her) that Kit retired to bed shortly after eleven o’clock. He was certainly very much too tired to tease his brain by trying to hit upon a solution to the problem that confronted him; and, in fact, fell asleep within a very few minutes of Fimber’s drawing the curtains round the enormous four-poster bed, and leaving the room.

  He was dragged up, an hour later, from fathoms deep, by a hand grasping his shoulder, and shaking it, and a voice saying: “Oh, do wake up, Kester! Kester!”

  Only one person had ever called him that. Still half-asleep, he responded automatically, murmuring: “Eve... !”

  “Wake up, you gudgeon!”


  He opened his eyes, and blinked into the laughing face of his twin, illuminated by candlelight. For a moment he stared; then a slow smile crept into his eyes, and he said, a little thickly, and stretching out his hand: “I knew you couldn’t have stuck your spoon in the wall!”

  His hand was taken by his twin’s left one, and strongly grasped.

  “I thought you would,” Evelyn said. “What brought you home? Did you know I’d damned nearly done so?”

  “Yes. And that you were in some kind of a hank.”

  The grasp tightened on his hand. “I hoped you wouldn’t guess that. Oh, but, Kester, it’s good to see you again!”

  “Yes,” agreed Kit, deep, if drowsy, affection in his smile. “Damn you!” he added.

  “I’m sorry: I’d have sent you word if I hadn’t been knocked senseless,” said Evelyn penitently.

  Emerging from the last clinging remnants of sleep, Kit became aware of some awkwardness in the clasp on his hand. He then saw that it was being held by Evelyn’s left one, and that his right lay in a sling. “So you did suffer an accident!” he remarked. “Broken your arm?”

  “No: my shoulder, and a couple of ribs. That’s nothing!”

  “How did you do it?”

  “Took a corner too fast, and overturned the phaeton.”

  “Cawker!” said Kit, sitting up. He released Evelyn’s hand, yawned, stretched, cast off his nightcap, vigorously rubbed his head, and then, apparently refreshed by these activities, said: “That’s better!” and swung his legs out of bed.

  Evelyn, lighting all the candles with which Lady Denville lavishly provided every bedroom in the house, said: “You must have made a pretty batch of it tonight! It took me five minutes to waken you.”

  “If you knew what sort of an evening I have been spending, or just half the things I’ve been yearning to do to you, you skirter, you’d take damned good care not to set up my bristles!” said Kit, shrugging himself into an elegant dressing-gown. “When I think of the bumble-bath I’ve been pitched into, and what I’ve endured, all for the sake of a crazy, rope-ripe—”