“Some fruit!” said Kit hastily.

She gave a little chuckle, and said, irrepressible mischief in her voice: “Yes, dearest! Not quails!”

“Quails!” ejaculated Cosmo, shocked beyond measure. “Quails for your old nurse, Amabel?”

“No, Evelyn thinks some fruit would be better.”

“I should have thought that some arrowroot, or a supporting broth would have been more suitable!” said Emma.

That set her incorrigible sister-in-law’s eyes dancing wickedly. “Oh, no, I assure you it wouldn’t be! Particularly not the arrowroot, which—which she abominates! Dear Emma, how uncivil it is in me to run away, as I must! But I am persuaded you must understand how it, is!” Her lovely—smile embraced her seething younger son. “Dearest, I leave our guests in your hands! Oh, and I think a bottle of port, don’t you? So much more supporting than mutton-broth! So will you, if you please,—”

“Don’t tease yourself, Mama!” he interrupted, holding open the door for her. “I’ll attend to that!”

“To be sure, I might have known you would!” she said, wholly unaffected by the quelling look she received from him. “You will know just what will be most acceptable!”

“I sometimes wonder,” said Cosmo, in accents of the deepest disapproval, as Kit shut the door behind her ladyship, “whether your mother has taken entire leave of her senses, Denville!”

Mr Fancot might be incensed by his wayward parent’s behaviour, but no more than the mildest criticism was needed to make him show hackle. “Do you, sir?” he said, dangerously affable. “Then it affords me great pleasure to be able to reassure you!”

Mr Cliffe’s understanding was not superior, but only a moonling could have failed to read the challenge behind the sweet smile that accompanied these words. Reddening, he said: “I imagine I may venture, without impropriety, to animadvert upon the conduct of one who is my sister!”

“Do you, sir?” said Kit again, and with even more affability.

Mr Cliffe, rising, and going towards the door with great stateliness, expressed the hope that he had rather too much force of mind to allow himself to be provoked by the top-loftiness of a mere nephew, who was, like many other bumptious sprigs, too ready to sport his canvas; and withdrew in good order.

Mindful of the charge laid upon him, Kit then turned his attention to his aunt, with polite suggestions for her entertainment. She received these with a slight air of affront, giving him to understand that her day would be spent in laying slices of lemon-peel on her son’s brow, burning pastilles, and—if his headache persisted—applying a cataplasm to his feet. He listened gravely to this dismal programme; and with a solicitude which placed a severe strain upon Miss Stavely’s self-command, and caused Ambrose to glare at him in impotent rage, suggested that in extreme cases a blister to the head was often found to be beneficial. Apparently feeling that he had discharged his obligations, he then invited Miss Stavely to take a turn in the shrubbery with him. Miss Stavely, prudently refusing to meet his eye, said, with very tolerable composure, that that would be very agreeable; and subsequently afforded him the gratification of realizing (had he been considering the matter) that she was eminently fitted to become the wife of an Ambassador by containing her bubbling amusement until out of sight of the house, when pent-up giggles overcame her, and rapidly infected her somewhat harassed escort.

Mr Fancot, the first to recover, said: “Yes, I know, Cressy, but there is nothing to laugh at in the fix we are now in, I promise you! I imagine you’ve guessed already that my abominable twin has reappeared?”

“Oh, yes!” she managed to utter. “F-from the moment G-Godmama said—said: Not quails! with such a quizzing look at you!”

Mr Fancot grinned, but expressed his inability to understand why no one had ever yet murdered his beloved mama. Miss Stavely cried out upon him for saying anything so unjust and improper; but she became rather more sober as she listened to the tale of Evelyn’s adventure. She did indeed suffer a slight relapse when kindly informed of her noble suitor’s relief at learning that he had been released from his obligations; but she was quick to perceive all the difficulties of a situation broadened to include an alternative bride for his lordship of whom so rigid a stickler as his uncle would certainly not approve.

“Oh, dear!” she said distressfully. “That is unfortunate! What is to be done?”

He responded frankly: “I haven’t the least notion! Do you bend your mind to the problem, love! My present concern is to recover that confounded brooch!”

She nodded. “Yes, indeed! I do feel that that is of the first importance. I am not myself acquainted with Lord Silverdale, but from anything I have ever heard said of him I am much afraid that your brother is very right: he is—he is shockingly malicious! Papa told me once that he is as hungry as a church mouse, but can always command a dinner at the price of the latest and most scandalous on-dit. And if he is one of the Prince Regent’s guests—Kit, do you know how to obtain a private interview with him?”

“No,” replied Kit cheerfully, “but I fancy I know who can supply me with the answer to that problem!”

“Sir Bonamy!” she exclaimed, after an instant’s frowning bewilderment.

“Exactly so!” said Kit. He added proudly: “Not for nothing am I Mama’s son! I too have nacky notions!”

17

A luncheon, consisting of sundry cold meats, cakes, jellies, and fruit, was always served at noon in the apartment known as the Little Dining-room; and it had been Kit’s intention to have lain in wait for Sir Bonamy to issue forth from his bedroom, in the hope of being able to exchange a few words with him before he joined the other guests downstairs. But owing to the extraordinarily swift passage of time it was not until the stable-clock had struck twelve that either Mr Fancot or Miss Stavely could believe that they had been in the shrubbery for over an hour. A glance at Kit’s watch, however, sent them hurrying back to the house, where they found the rest of the party, with the single exception of the Dowager, already discussing luncheon. Although Mr and Mrs Cliffe later agreed that modern damsels were permitted a regrettable freedom which would never have been countenanced when they were young, no one made any comment on the tardy and simultaneous arrival of the truants, Lady Denville even going so far as to smile at them.

Ambrose had allowed himself to be persuaded by his mother to partake of a few morsels of food, to keep up his strength; but the Dowager had sent down a message by her maid, excusing herself from putting in an appearance until later in the day. “Nothing to cause alarm!” Lady Denville told Cressy. “Her maid says that she passed a wakeful night, and so finds herself just a trifle down pin today.”

“I thought she would,” said Sir Bonamy, putting up his quizzing-glass the better to inspect a raised chicken-pie. “Too much cross-and-jostle work last night!” He looked up to shake his head in fond reproof at his hostess. “You shouldn’t have invited Maria Dersingham, my lady!”

“I am so very sorry, Cressy!”

But Cressy, with a cheerfulness which Mrs Cliffe considered to be very unbecoming in a granddaughter, assured Lady Denville that, although the excitement of encountering her ancient ally and present enemy might have been a little too much for her, Grandmama had much enjoyed the evening.

“So she did!” nodded Sir Bonamy. “Mind you, it was touch-and-go until we came to the calves’ ears! That’s when she took the lead in milling. Wonderful memory your grandmama has, my dear Miss Stavely!” His vast bulk shook with his rumbling laugh. “Popped in as pretty a hit as I hope to see over Maria Dersingham’s guard! By the bye, my lady, that was a capital Italian sauce your cook served with the calves’ ears!”

It was left to Lady Denville to express the sentiments of the rest of the company, which she promptly did, saying: “Yes, but what happened about calves’ ears, Bonamy?”

“No, no!” he replied, still gently shaking. “I’m not one to go on the high gab, my lady, and I’ll tell no tales! I’ll take a mouthful of the pie, Denville, and just a sliver of ham!”

Interpreting this in a liberal spirit, Kit supplied him with a large wedge of pie, and flanked it with half-a-dozen slices of ham. Mrs Cliffe, who had never ceased to marvel at his appetite, turned eyes of mute astonishment towards her sister-in-law, who told Sir Bonamy severely that a little fruit, and a biscuit (if he was ravenous), was all he ought to permit himself to eat in the middle of the day. She added that she herself rarely ate any nuncheon at all.

“Yes, yes, but you have not so much to keep up!” said Sir Bonamy, blenching at the thought of such privation.

“Well, if you didn’t eat so much you wouldn’t have so much to keep up either!” she pointed out.

Her brother, strongly disapproving of this candid speech, directed a quelling look at her, and pointedly changed the subject, saying that he trusted she had found Nurse Pinner suffering from no serious disorder. “Nothing infectious, I hope?”

“Oh, no! Just a trifle out of sorts!” she replied.

“Infectious!” exclaimed Mrs Cliffe. “My dear sister, how can you tell that it is not? How imprudent of you to have visited her! I wish you had not done so!”

“Nonsense, Emma! A mere colic!”

Mrs Cliffe’s fears seemed to have been allayed. Kit saw, with some foreboding, that his mama had become suddenly a little pensive, and quaked inwardly. Never, he reflected, did she look more soulful than when she was hatching some outrageous scheme. He tried to catch her eye, but she was looking at Cressy, who had finished her nuncheon, and was sitting with her hands folded patiently in her lap.