They turned in tandem.
Had he not already heard them speak, he might have taken them for mirror images of one another. Their resemblance was exact—the same height, the same coloring, and the same expression of startled chagrin now directed toward him.
For a moment, silence prevailed. Then one of the boys—Darcy could not have said which—rose to his feet.
“We were doing nothing,” he said.
Darcy regarded him with composed interest. “Indeed?”
The second boy stood as well. “We were only looking.”
“At what?”
“At you.”
Darcy allowed himself the smallest pause. “And what have you concluded?”
“That you are a gentleman,” the first boy said.
“And that you have very fine boots,” the second added.
Darcy glanced down briefly. “I am gratified that my boots meet with your approval.”
“They are much finer than George Lucas’s,” the first boy said.
“George Lucas possesses few boots worthy of serious consideration,” the second clarified.
“I see.” There was a brief silence. Darcy considered them. “And who are you?”
The boys exchanged a look.
“I am Thomas Bennet,” said the first.
“And I am Toby Bennet,” said the second.
“Though he is the younger,” Thomas added.
“Only by a very small amount,” Toby said.
“Still the younger.”
Darcy inclined his head slightly. “Mr. Thomas Bennet. Mr. Toby Bennet.”
They appeared pleased.
“You are Mr. Bingley,” Thomas said.
Darcy’s brow lifted. “I am not.”
Toby frowned. “Then you must be the other one.”
“The other one?”
“The one who came with him,” Thomas said. “We saw you from the tree.”
“You were in the tree?”
“It is a very good tree,” Toby said.
