False Colours

by Джорджетт Хейер

  “Very well, ma’am, but—but can you repay the sum?” asked Cressy diffidently.

  “Yes,” Lady Denville replied, “All my debts—all of them!” She rose, and picked up the offending letter, and carried it to her tambour-topped writing-desk, and put it away in one of the drawers. She said, in a constricted tone: “I have quite made up my mind to it. I ought to have done so when Denville died, but I could not bring myself to it. But now I can, and I will, because however bad a mother I have been there is nothing I wouldn’t do for my beloved sons! Now, pray, Cressy, don’t tell Kit that I cried a little!”

  Cressy got up from her knees. “I won’t tell him anything you don’t wish me to, Godmama, but won’t you tell me how you mean to pay your debts, and—and why it makes you so unhappy?”

  “Well, to own the truth, dearest, it utterly sinks my spirits only to think of going to live abroad, with a sensible female companion—but I dare say I shall soon grow accustomed!” said her ladyship, gallantly smiling.

  “Going to live abroad with a—But why?” demanded Cressy, in bewilderment.

  “Henry will insist on it. I know he will! Once before, when the twins were babies, he and Louisa—his sister—persuaded Denville that that was the only thing to be done with me, because—Oh, there were so many reasons, but it is a long time ago now, and it never happened, because the continent became quite unsafe, on account of Napoleon, which is why I never could dislike him as much as others did! But now the war is over, and people who find themselves run off their legs, like poor Brummell, go and live at horridly cheap places, where there are no parties, or gaming, or races, or anybody one knows!”

  Cressy said indignantly: “Lord Brumby couldn’t be so inhuman!”

  “Yes, he could,” answered her ladyship. “Either that, or the Dower House here—and very likely he won’t even offer me the Dower House, because he will think it is situated too close to Brighton, or that he couldn’t stop me going up to London, once my debts were paid.”

  “Well, one thing is certain!” said Cressy, her eyes kindling. “Neither Evelyn nor Kit would countenance such an arrangement!”

  “No,” agreed her ladyship. “Not if they know about it, and that is a very comforting thought! But I shall say that I would like to go abroad for a time, when Evelyn is married. And perhaps I shall be able to visit you and Kit, so it won’t be so very bad!”

  After a slight pause, Cressy said slowly: “I think it would be very bad. Not at all the thing for you, Godmama! You would find living with a respectable female a dead bore.”

  “I know I shall,” sighed Lady Denville. “And if it has to be my sister Harriet, it will be worse than a bore!”

  “Oh no, that wouldn’t do at all!” Cressy said decidedly. She glanced at her ladyship, and gave a little laugh. “You mustn’t live with any female, ma’am! Consider, you have been used always to live with a gentleman! I know myself that one can’t easily accustom oneself to female companionship when that has been the case. That was why I was ready to accept Evelyn’s offer, even though I didn’t love him.”

  “Yes, but—” Lady Denville broke off, an arrested expression on her face. Watching her, Cressy saw the mischievous look creep into her eyes. Suddenly she gave a tiny gurgle of laughter, and turned, and impulsively embraced Cressy. “Dearest, you have put a—a notion into my head! It is too absurd, and I am not at all sure—or even if—Well, I must think! So go away now, dear child, and don’t say a word to anyone about the talk we’ve had!”

  “No, I won’t, I promise you,” Cressy said. “I am going to drive out with Grandmama for an hour. Papa’s letter has wonderfully restored her! She is aux anges, and is even prepared to forgive Albinia for having married him. I am strongly of the opinion that now is the moment to tell her that Kit is Kit, and not Evelyn, and if she continues in this benign humour I mean to do it!”

  19

  Sir Bonamy, waking from his afternoon nap, yawned, sighed, and refreshed himself with a pinch of snuff. He then picked up the Morning Post, which Norton, tiptoeing into the room, had laid on a table at his elbow, and cast a lacklustre eye over its columns. The only items of interest to him were contained on the page devoted to the activities of the ton; and, since London, in July, was almost deserted, these consisted mostly of such arid pieces of information as that Lady X, with her three daughters, was visiting Scarborough; or that the Duchess of B—was taking the waters at Tunbridge Wells. Brighton news occupied most of the space; and Sir Bonamy read, nostalgically, that His Royal Highness the Prince Regent had entertained a party of distinguished guests at the Pavilion, dinner, to which a select company had been invited, having been followed by a brilliant soirée, with music. Sir Bonamy could not have been said to have shared his royal crony’s taste for music, but he would have enjoyed the dinner, to which he would most certainly have been bidden. Then he read that His Royal Highness the Duke of York was expected to arrive at the Pavilion at the end of the week; and this so painfully sharpened his nostalgia that he decided that the end of the week should also see the return of Sir Bonamy Ripple to the Pavilion.

  He had responded without hesitation to Lady Denville’s summons, flattered by it, and willing, in his good-natured way, to do her least bidding. He had looked forward to some agreeable tête-à-têtes with his hostess; he knew that her cook was second only to his own; and he vaguely supposed that the rest of the company would consist of congenial persons with whom he would be able to play whist for high stakes every evening. His devotion to her ladyship had become so much a habit that he would not have refused her invitation even if he had known that his fellow-guests would be unfashionable people with whom he had nothing in common; but he had been as much daunted as surprised when he discovered that one of the ton’s most successful hostesses had invited to Ravenhurst such a small and dull collection of guests.

  Sir Bonamy was no lover of the pastoral scene, in general confining his visits to the country to several weeks spent during the winter at various great houses, where he could be sure of meeting persons who were congenial to him, and of being amused by such diversions as exactly suited a grossly fat and elderly dandy of his sedentary disposition; and a very few days spent at Ravenhurst had been enough to set him hankering after the delights of Brighton. There had been few opportunities for elegant dalliance with Lady Denville; playing indifferent whist for chicken-stakes bored him; and the discovery that he had unwittingly stepped into a masquerade made him feel profoundly uneasy. There was no saying what devilry the Fancot twins might be engaged in, and to become involved in what bore all the appearance of a major scandal was a fate which he shuddered to contemplate.

  He had laid aside the Morning Post, and was wondering what excuse he could offer Lady Denville for bringing his visit to an end, when the door was softly opened, and she peeped into the room.

  As soon as she saw that he was awake, she smiled, and said: “Ah, here you are! Dear Bonamy, do let us go for a stroll together! I don’t believe I’ve had as much as five minutes alone with you since the day you arrived.”

  As he hoisted himself out of his chair, she came across the room with her light, graceful step, looking so youthful that he exclaimed: “Upon my word, Amabel, you don’t look a day older than you did when I first saw you!”

  She laughed, but said wistfully: “You always say such charming things, Bonamy! But, alas, you’re offering me Spanish coin!”

  “Oh, no, I’m not!” he assured her, kissing her hand. “Never any need for that, my pretty! Not an hour older!”

  “So many years older!” she sighed. “I daren’t reckon them. Do you care to come into the garden with me? Cressy has driven out with her Grandmama, so at last I am free to do what I choose! My dear, how prosy and dreadful Cosmo has become! Thank you for bearing with him so nobly! I don’t know what I should have done without you!”

  “Oh, pooh, nonsense!” he said, beaming fondly down at her. “Always a joy to me to be able to serve you! As for Cosmo—well, thank you for ridding me of h
im!” He rumbled a laugh. “Scarlet fever indeed, you naughty puss! I thought you were pitching it a trifle too rum, but, lord, he’s the biggest flat I ever knew, for all he thinks himself up to everything!” He drew her hand through his arm and patted it. “If he knew you as well as I do, my pretty, you’d have been gapped!”

  “But he doesn’t,” she pointed out. “I don’t think anyone does.”

  He was so much gratified by this that he could only heave an eloquent sigh, squeezing her arm, and growing pink in the face. Lady Denville guided him out of the house, and disengaged her hand to open her frivolous parasol. She then slipped it back within his crooked arm, and walked slowly along the terrace with him to the shallow steps, saying: “How delightful this is! I have been so much harassed that it is a struggle to support my spirits, but it always does me good to talk to you, my best of friends.”

  “It does me good only to look at you, my love!” he responded gallantly, but with a slightly wary look in his eye.

  “Dear Bonamy!” she murmured. “Such a detestably dull party to have invited you to! I knew you wouldn’t fail, too, which makes it quite shameless of me to have made such a demand on your good nature! I do beg your pardon!”

  “No, no! Happy to have been of assistance to you!” he said, quite overcome.

  “I expect you are longing to get back to Brighton,” she sighed. “I don’t wonder at it, and only wish I were going there too, for I do not like the country, except for a very little while!”

  “Come, come, Amabel, what’s this?” he expostulated. “Of course you are going to Brighton! Why, you told me yourself that Evelyn had hired the same house on the Steyne which you had last year!”

  “Yes, and doesn’t it seem a waste? But Evelyn cannot go there until his shoulder has mended—he was in an accident, you know, which is why Kit was obliged to take his place—and he says he shall go to Leicestershire, to Crome Lodge, and only think how dismal for him, poor lamb, at this season! I must accompany him. Besides, he is in low spirits, because—but I don’t mean to burden you with my troubles!”

  “Never a burden to me! There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, Amabel, but the thing is that Evelyn wouldn’t like it if I were to meddle in his affairs. Better not tell me what sort of a scrape he’s got himself into, for you know he don’t like me above half, and I’ll be bound he’d fly up into the boughs if he got to know you’d taken me into your confidence!” said Sir Bonamy firmly.

  “I am afraid that even you couldn’t unravel this tangle,” she agreed, with another sigh.

  “I’m dashed sure I couldn’t! You leave it to Kit, my pretty! He don’t want for sense! In fact,” he said, with a sudden burst of candour, “it’s surprising how longheaded he’s grown to be! Never thought there was a penny to choose between ’em, your boys, but I shouldn’t wonder at it if Kit turns out to be a sure card.”

  It was on the tip of her ladyship’s tongue to utter a hot defence of her beloved elder-born son, but she bit back the words, and replied meekly that Kit had always been the more reliable twin. They had crossed the lawn by this time, to where a rustic seat had been placed in the shade of a great cedar, and she now suggested that they should sit down there, out of the sunshine. Sir Bonamy hailed this with relief, for he was already uncomfortably hot, and had grave fears that his rigid shirt-points were beginning to wilt. He lowered himself on to the seat, beside her ladyship, and mopped his brow. Lady Denville, looking deliciously cool, shut up her parasol, and leaned back, observing that there was nothing so exhausting as walking in such sultry weather. She then fell silent, gazing ahead with so much melancholy in her expression that Sir Bonamy began to feel perturbed. After a long pause, he laid one of his pudgy hands on hers, and said: “Now, my pretty! You mustn’t let yourself get into the hips! Depend upon it, Kit will make all tidy!”

  She gave a little start, and turned her head to smile at him. “I wasn’t thinking of that. I was—oh, remembering! Do you ever look back over the years, Bonamy? It does sink one’s spirits a little: so long ago! so many mistakes! so much unhappiness! But there are happy memories too, of course! Do you recall the first time we met?”

  “Ay, as if it were yesterday, and so I shall to the end of my life! All in white, you were, my lovely one, with your glorious gold hair glinting under just a light powder, and your eyes like sapphires! I fell in love with you the instant I saw you—swore I’d win your hand, or remain a bachelor! Which I have done! And, what’s more, I was never tempted to break that oath! For no man, my pretty, that loved you,” said Sir Bonamy earnestly, conveniently forgetting the several articles of virtue whom he had subsequently maintained at enormous expense, “could ever feel the smallest tendre for any other female!”

  Lady Denville, recalling one veritable Incognita, and at least three high-flyers, who had enjoyed Sir Bonamy’s protection, stifled a giggle, and said soulfully: “And Papa married me to Denville! We danced together, didn’t we? And the next day you sent me a bouquet of white and yellow roses—so many that there was no counting them! That should be a happy memory, but it makes me want to cry. Not that I mean to do so,” she added, with one of her dancing gleams of mischief, “for there is nothing so tedious as a female who turns herself into a watering-pot! I’ve never done that, have I?”

  “Never!” he declared, raising her hand to his lips. “Well, I hope it will be set down in my favour in the judgement-book, and I do feel it may be, for I haven’t had a happy life. One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, and I perfectly realize that poor Denville had as much to bear as I had—well, almost as much! The truth is that we were each of us deceived in the other, and should never, never have been married!” She wrinkled her brow. “I’ve often wondered why he believed himself to have fallen in love with me, for he disapproved of me amazingly, and he was so cold—so formal—that even now it makes me shiver to remember it!”

  “Ah, my poor pretty!” said Sir Bonamy, much moved. “If you had married me, how happy we should both have been!”

  Her eyes quizzed him laughingly. “Well, I might have been, but perhaps you would have been as much provoked by me as Denville was! Consider my shocking want of management, and economy, and my fondness for gaming, and my dreadful debts!”

  Sir Bonamy snapped his fingers in the air. “That for such fiddle-faddle! Your debts? Pooh!—an almond for a parrot! Let me settle them! Over and over I’ve told you I’m able to stand more of the nonsense than you ever dreamed of, my lovely one. It don’t do to be prating like some counter-coxcomb, but I’m no chicken-nabob. Well, I’m not a nabob at all, of course: I inherited my fortune, and how much I’m worth I can’t tell you, for it don’t signify: even you couldn’t spend the half of it!”

  “Good gracious, Bonamy, you must be rich!” she countered.

  “I am,” he said simply. “Richest man in the kingdom, for I fancy I have a trifle the advantage of Golden Ball. Much good it does me! I had as lief be living on a mere competence, for I’ve not a soul to spend it on, Amabel, and it didn’t win me the only thing I wanted. You may say it’s of no consequence—no consequence at all!”

  Since she was well aware that he lived in the height of luxury, maintaining, in addition to his mansion in Grosvenor Square, establishments at Brighton, Newmarket, York and Bath (to which slightly outmoded resort he occasionally retired, when his constitution demanded rehabilitation); stabling teams of prime cattle on no fewer than five of the main post-roads; and gaming for preposterous stakes either at Watier’s, or at Oatlands, the residence of his extremely expensive crony, the Duke of York, she had no overmastering desire to avail herself of this permission. But, although her lips quivered, and there was just the suspicion of a choke in her voice, she responded, with a shake of her head: “No, indeed! How very sad it is, my dear friend! How empty your life has been! How lonely!”

  “Ay, so it has!” he agreed, struck for the first time in many years by the truth of this sympathetic remark. He took her hand again, pressing it in his own very warm and slight
ly damp one, and said with great earnestness: “All the use I ever had for my wealth was to bestow it upon you, my dear! It’s yours for the asking, and always will be. Only let me take your debts on my shoulders! Let me—”

  She interrupted him, raising her beautiful eyes to his face, and saying: “Bonamy, are you—after all these years—asking me to marry you?”

  There was a stunned pause. Sir Bonamy’s round eyes stared down into hers. They were never expressive, but they were now more than ordinarily blank; and the rich colour faded perceptibly from his pendulous cheeks. Twenty-six years earlier he had been a suitor for her hand; during the years of her marriage he had been her constant and devoted cavaliere servente, and very agreeably had those years slipped past. She was indeed the only woman he had ever wished to marry; but although the disappointment he had suffered when the late Lord Baverstock had preferred the Earl of Denville’s offer to his had been severe it had not been very long before his cracked heart had mended sufficiently for him not only to appreciate the advantages of his single state, but to offer a carte blanche to a charming, if somewhat rapacious, ladybird, universally acknowledged to be a dasher of the first water. But throughout this left-hand connexion, and the many which had succeeded it, he had maintained his devotion to the lovely Countess of Denville, earning for himself the envious respect of his less favoured contemporaries, and, in due course, the reputation of being a man who, having once lost his heart, would never again offer it (with his enormous fortune) to any other lady. After a couple of years, even the most determined matron, with marriageable daughters on her hands, considered it a waste of time to throw out lures to him, and observed his light, elegant flirtations without a flicker either of hope or of jealousy.

  Such a state of affairs exactly suited his indolent, hedonistic disposition. He had settled down into a state of opulent bachelordom, enjoying every luxury which his wealth could provide, rapidly becoming the intimate of the Prince of Wales, and of his scarcely less expensive brother, the Duke of York; abandoning the struggle to overcome a tendency to corpulence; and achieving, by his impeccable lineage, his amiable manners, his lavish hospitality, the genius of his tailor, and the favour of the most admired lady in the land, the position of being a leader of fashion, and one whom any ambitious hostess was proud to include amongst her guests.