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Immediately, and quite without either consideration or politeness (as Mr. Bowles was to say later), two laughing young gentlemen who were obviously in their cups surged through the opening, closely followed by a third, somewhat older man with a dark, boldly defined face and a saturnine look who could quite easily have been taken for one of the natives except for his modish and well-cut clothing. He gave the astonished Mr. Bowles a twist of his mouth and a rather resigned lift of his broad shoulders while his boisterous companions tried to outtalk each other with a mixture of questions and orders flung in Mr. Bowles’s direction.
“I say! When did Damiano get himself an English gatekeeper? Don’t dress like a gatekeeper, I must say. Have to tell him.”
“Used to go to school with Damiano. Promised to look him up. Want him to meet our friend—another Viscount. We’re all Viscounts! You are a Viscount, aren’t you, old man?”
“He won’t expect us to stand on ceremony, you know. Remember the way.”
“Thought we’d surprise him. No need to announce us. You’ll see to our horses?” A golden guinea tossed in Mr. Bowles’s direction bounced off his heaving shirtfront to lie in the pinkish dust.
By the time he had recovered his voice sufficiently to pronounce, “If I might just explain to your Lordships that a Mistake has been made,” the two younger gentlemen were already striding across the gently sloping grass lawns and up the steps leading up to the terrace that Mr. Bowles always called “the courtyard.”
“Your Lordships! A mistake...” He had begun to follow them when he noticed that their rather unsteady progress had been halted while their heads swiveled to watch Bridget, who ran with remarkable swiftness ahead of them with her apron clutched in her hands.
“Not at all old Damiano’s type, is she?”
“Maid perhaps. But didn’t you think she looked English too?”
“I should not be too alarmed, unless your master happens to be entertaining some of his older relatives.”
Until then Mr. Bowles had almost forgotten the presence of the third gentleman, who had remained behind, while he debated frantically as to what he should do to avert a terrible contretemps. And now Mr. Bowles turned to him with relief.
“Sir! I’m sorry, your Lordship. I beg you to... This is not the residence of whomever...”
“It is not the home of the Conte di Menotto, even though his family crest is prominently displayed everywhere?”
In his acute distress Mr. Bowles ignored the slight sting of sarcasm, almost wringing his hands as he stammered out, “But...but the Conte is not in residence at the moment. He has rented this villa to Sir John Travers, and Lady Travers, who...who would not—oh, definitely not, my lord—wish to be disturbed.”
“You did say Travers? Lately of the city of Colombo, in Ceylon?”
“Yes, that’s quite correct, your Lordship. And if you would please, your Lordship, be kind enough to...”
It was at that very moment, when Mr. Bowles had begun to wonder why this gentleman who spoke with an unfamiliar accent had suddenly begun to scowl in a very dangerous manner, that he now noticed with a sigh of relief that the two young Lords were now retracing their footsteps in a slower and more sober fashion than before. And it became apparent, as they drew closer, that their countenances, so much alike to look at, were quite flushed.
“Well? It seems your visit was so brief that I did not get my promised introduction to your friend.” Why, Mr. Bowles thought quite indignantly while his eyes traveled from one countenance to the other, one would think he had not heard a word I said—or believed me either!
“I...we... Sorry old chap, but I think we...”
“Committed & faux pas. Found...”
“Soon found we’d made a mistake. Eh, Roger? Saw no one, of course.”
“No. No! It was the—the maid. Told us Damiano has the house rented out for the month. Better go now, I suppose.”
“I suppose we had better, now that you have discovered you made a mistake. Our apologies, please, to your employers.”
I don’t know where he comes from, but he’s not English! Mr. Bowles thought as he bolted the gate again with noisy force. And I wouldn’t trust him either, for all that he dresses like a gentleman. There’s what he said at first, and the sudden way he changed about, with his voice sounding like a knife blade hidden under velvet. Dangerous, he is.
It was only after he had started back towards the welcome coolness of the house that Mr. Bowles began to wonder why the two younger gentlemen had returned so quickly and in such an abashed manner. Surely Bridget, who was only an Irish country girl after all, could not have turned them around in such a hurry? But the only other alternative that came to his mind made him shudder, especially when he tried to think of what he must tell his master.
“Bridget was such a heroine. You should have seen the way she dashed up all those steps and flung her apron over me as if it had been Sir Walter Raleigh’s cloak.”
“Gallant Bridget!”
Alexa had dallied in her scented oil bath for longer than usual; and to make up for it, she had decided to put the last touches to her evening toilette in Sir John’s room so that she could converse with him at the same time. Now she turned from the mirror to regard him with her clear, level eyes. “Are you angry? Because you must tell me if you are. Have I disgraced you, do you think? They did seem very much ashamed of themselves in the end; and they did promise—‘word of honor!’—that they would not breathe a word. They were really quite harmless and rather stupid young men, you know.”
“I think I recognize their nam
es,” Sir John said with a twinkle in his eye that made her relax immediately. “And I am sure your summing up was quite correct, my dear, except for your imagining that I might be either angry or disgraced. Please go on with your diverting story. You have me quite fascinated! So? Your gallant Bridget saves your modesty by flinging her apron over you as you lay sleeping as usual in the sun. And...?”
