False Colours by Georgette Heyer

rather mischievously awaiting events.
    The curtains round the bed were pulled apart with a ruthlessness which was a clear sign to the initiated that the supposed occupant of the great four-poster was in his devoted valet’s black books. Kit yawned, and murmured: ‘Morning, Fimber: what’s o’clock?’
    ‘Good morning, my lord,’ responded Fimber, in arctic accents. ‘It is past ten, but as I apprehend that your lordship did not return until the small hours I thought it best not to wake you earlier.’
    ‘No, I was very late,’ agreed Kit.
    ‘I am aware of that, my lord—having sat up until midnight, in the expectation of being required to wait on you.’
    ‘Stupid fellow! You should have known better,’ said Kit, watching him from under his eyelids.
    The expression of cold severity on Fimber’s face deepened. He said, picking his words: ‘Possibly it did not occur to your lordship that your continued absence would give rise to anxiety.’
    ‘Lord, no! Why should it?’
    This careless rejoinder had the effect of turning the ice to fire. ‘My lord, where have you been?’ demanded Fimber, abandoning his quelling formality.
    ‘Don’t you wish you knew!’
    ‘No, my lord, I do not, nor it isn’t necessary I should know, for what I do know is that you wouldn’t have been so anxious not to let me go with you if the business which took you off had been as innocent as you’d have me believe. Nor you wouldn’t have sent Challow home! You should think shame to yourself, staying away all this time, and never sending her ladyship word to stop her fretting herself to ribbons! For anything she knew you might have been dead! Now, just tell me this, my lord, without trying to tip me a rise, which you know you can’t do!—are you in a scrape?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ replied Kit truthfully. ‘I hope not.’
    ‘So you may well, my lord! At a time like this! If it’s serious, tell me, and we’ll see what can be done.’
    ‘I can’t tell you what I don’t know, Fimber.’
    ‘Indeed, my lord?’ said Fimber ominously. ‘I should have thought that your lordship knew I could be trusted, but it seems I was mistaken.’ He turned away, deeply offended, and walked across the room to where Kit’s open portmanteau stood. Kit had done no more than drag his night-gear out of it, considerably disarranging the rest of its contents. Muttering disapproval to himself, Fimber stooped to unpack it. He lifted up a waistcoat, took one look at it, and turned swiftly to find Kit watching him quizzically. He stood staring for an incredulous moment, and then gave a gasp. ‘Mr Christopher!’
    Kit laughed, and sat up, pulling off his night-cap. ‘I thought you were the one person we couldn’t hoax! How are you, Fimber?’
    ‘Quite stout, thank you, sir. And you wouldn’t have hoaxed me for long! To think of you taking us all by surprise like this! Does her ladyship know?’
    ‘Yes, she heard me come in, and got up, hoping to see my brother.’
    ‘Ay, no wonder! But I’ll be bound she was glad to see you, sir. Which I am too, if I may say so.’ He glanced critically at the waistcoat he was holding, and sniffed. ‘You never had this made for you in London, Mr Christopher. You won’t be wearing it here, of course. Is that foreign man of yours bringing the rest of your baggage after you?’
    ‘No, it’s coming by carrier. I haven’t brought Franz with me. I knew I could depend on you to look after me.’ Receiving no immediate response to this, he said, surprised: ‘You’re not going to tell me I can’t, are you? Fimber!’
    The valet emerged with a start from what bore all the appearance of a profound reverie. ‘I beg your pardon, sir! I was thinking. Look after you? To be sure I will!’ He added, as he laid the condemned waistcoat aside, and picked up the greatcoat which Kit had flung across a chair: ‘And time I did, Mr Christopher! These Polish coats are gone quite out of fashion. Nor you can’t wear that shallow