‘Now,’ said Kit, ‘you are going to meet Lady Stavely, God help you! You are also going to felicitate poor old Ripple; and finally you are going to try and discover a way out of this scrape which will not set the ton by the ears!’
‘There isn’t one!’
‘There must be one!’ said Kit firmly. ‘My life’s happiness depends upon it!’
/> ‘Then you find it!’ recommended Evelyn. ‘I’m not the clever twin! Kester, what’s the old lady like? How do I deal with her?’
‘Boldly! She’s a tartar!’
‘Lord, I wish I’d never come home!’ said Evelyn. ‘Don’t you dare to abandon me! I’m all of a twitter already!’
‘Courage, brother!’ said Kit, opening the door into the Long Drawing-room.
They entered the room together, and paused for a moment on the threshold. The Dowager, who had just picked up the cards dealt her by Sir Bonamy, laid them down again, staring at the twins in astonishment. She did not speak, but the sudden gleam in her eyes informed her granddaughter that she was not unappreciative of the picture quite unconsciously presented by the Fancot twins.
Apart, they were held to be very fine young men; together, with the candlelight glinting on their burnished heads, they were so striking that the Dowager, like many before her, was dazzled into thinking them the most handsome men she had ever beheld.
‘Evelyn, my dear one!’ exclaimed Lady Denville, springing up from the sofa, and going towards him with her light, graceful step, and her hands held out in welcome.
He took one in his own left hand, and kissed it, murmuring wickedly: ‘You are smart tonight, love! Dressed like Christmas beef!’
She chuckled, and would have led him forward, but he put her gently aside, and advanced down the room alone, to where the Dowager sat. If he was in a quake, no trace of it was apparent in his bearing. He bowed, and with a smile quite as disarming as Kit’s, said: ‘I owe you an apology, Lady Stavely. But indeed I couldn’t help it!’
In spite of herself, her lips twitched, and she put out her hand. ‘So you are Denville, are you?’ she said. ‘H’m! You’d better beg my granddaughter’s pardon, young man!’
‘Why, yes!’ he agreed, his mother’s mischievous look in his eyes; and turned towards Cressy, holding out his hand. ‘So I do, Cressy – but you are very well rid of me, you know!’ She had risen to her feet, and as she laughed, giving him her hand, he kissed it, and then her cheek, saying: ‘I wish you every happiness, my dear!’
‘Thank you! May I return that wish?’ she said demurely.
The smile in his eyes acknowledged the sly allusion, but he replied audaciously: ‘Indeed, I am excessively happy to have you for a sister!’ He turned his head. ‘Kester!’
Kit strolled forward, but his eyes were on Cressy, warmly appreciative. Evelyn said: ‘If I have any right to this hand, may I bestow it on my brother, Miss Stavely? He is much more worthy of it than I am – but that I needn’t tell you!’
‘Thank you, twin, that will do!’ said Kit, receiving the hand, and clasping it strongly.
Evelyn laughed, and turned away to confront Sir Bonamy. He looked down at him, laughter dying, and his smile a little rigid. ‘Kit tells me, sir, that I must offer you my felicitations.’
Sir Bonamy, regarding him with all the wariness of one faced with a cobra, said: ‘Yes, yes! Very much obliged to you, Denville! That is – if you have no objection!’
‘Eh?’ exclaimed the Dowager. She looked sharply from Sir Bonamy to Lady Denville. ‘So that’s it, is it? Upon my word!’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ corroborated Lady Denville sunnily. ‘That’s it! Sir Bonamy has done me the honour to ask me to marry him, and I have accepted his offer.’
‘You have, have you? Well,’ said the Dowager trenchantly, ‘if that’s so, it’s the only sensible thing I’ve ever known you do, Amabel!’
Sir Bonamy, paying no heed to this, seized the opportunity to say, in an urgent undervoice: ‘Not if you dislike it, Denville! Naturally, it’s the dearest wish of my heart, but no need for you to take snuff! Only have to tell me! For I wouldn’t come between you and your mother for the world!’
Over his hapless head the twins’ eyes met for an instant of unholy joy. No more than Kit could Evelyn resist the appeal of the ludicrous; the rigidity melted from his smile; he produced his snuff-box from his pocket, unfobbed it with an expert flick, and offered it to Sir Bonamy, saying: ‘Take snuff? Yes, indeed! Will you try my sort, sir?’
‘Well, that isn’t precisely what I meant, but – thank you, my boy! I’ve often wondered what your mixture is – a touch of old Havre, I fancy, and a suspicion – no more – of French Prize, added, of course, to –’
‘Just so, sir – and you will not find it dry!’
Sir Bonamy, helping himself to a pinch, was shaken by one of his rumbling laughs. ‘Ah, that was where I was a trifle too knowing for Kit! Told you about it, did he? He hasn’t your deft way of opening his box, either!’
‘Oh, he will never acquire that!’ said Evelyn. ‘His taste is for cigars!’
‘No!’ uttered Sir Bonamy, profoundly shocked.