What Price Love?

13

Hel-lo! What have we here?”

Comfortably seated in his study opposite Rus Dalling, Dillon looked up to see Barnaby framed in the doorway. Barnaby’s gaze had locked on Rus-whom he’d last seen in the moonlight behind the Jockey Club.

Rus had recognized Barnaby; cocking a brow at Dillon, he slowly rose to his feet.

Dillon did the same, waving Barnaby in. “The Honorable Barnaby Adair, allow me to present Russell Dalling. And yes,” he added, seeing the speculation in Barnaby’s eyes, “Rus is Miss Dalling’s twin.”

Rus offered his hand. “My apologies for the nature of our previous encounter. I had no idea who you were, and I had good reason not to dally to find out.”

Strolling forward, Barnaby glanced at Dillon, then gripped Rus’s hand. “I take it you’ve thrown in your lot with us-on the side of the angels, as it were.”

Rus’s brilliant smile flashed. “I was always on that side. I just didn’t know who else was, who I could trust.”

Barnaby rubbed his jaw; the bruise there had almost faded from sight. “Speaking of trust, you could earn mine by showing me some of those maneuvers you used. I’ve been in brawls aplenty, but that was something new. And effective.”

Rus exchanged a smile with Dillon, then glanced back at Barnaby. “He said you’d say that.”

“Yes, well, predictable, that’s me.” Barnaby looked at Dillon. “So you succeeded in persuading Miss Dalling to tell you all?”

“Not without considerable effort. Eventually she ran out of options and elected, at last, to tell me about Rus, and what she knew of his problems. Once you hear, you’ll understand, but it was immediately apparent Rus was seeking to expose the same swindle we’re pursuing.”

“From the other end, as it were,” Rus said.

“Excellent…” Barnaby’s voice died away. Consternation dawning, he glanced from Rus to Dillon.

“What?” Dillon asked.

Barnaby nodded at Rus. “You’ve scrubbed up well-I do hope you’re in hiding?”

Dillon frowned. “He is, but you haven’t yet heard the reason why.”

“I can see a damned good reason why,” Barnaby returned. “Just look at us. One sighting by the local mamas of the three of us together and the news will be out in a flash. Well-you saw how it was when it was just you and me. Add Rus here, and I guarantee the news will reach London within hours.”

Looking at Rus, Dillon saw Barnaby’s point. Barnaby was a golden Adonis, he himself was dark and dramatic, while Rus, a touch younger, was the epitome of devilish. He grimaced. “We’ll need to remember that.”

Rus grinned. “It can’t be that bad.”

“Oh, can’t it?” Barnaby said. “How much time have you spent socializing in the ton, here or in London?”

Rus raised his brows. “None, really. Not socializing.”

“Well, you just wait. Take it from us-we’re old hands. It’s not safe for men like us in the ton.” Barnaby looked around for a chair. “You’re young-you’ll learn.”

“Learn what?”

They all looked around. The door was open; Pris stood on the threshold. Her gaze was on Barnaby; she inclined her head in greeting. Then her gaze traveled, slowly, from Barnaby to her brother, then finally to Dillon.

Her gaze lingered, then she blinked, and stepped into the room.

“There-see!” Barnaby turned to Rus. “Even she paused, and she’s your sister and arguably the least susceptible female in the ton. I rest my case.”

Pris frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m just trying to warn your brother of a danger he doesn’t yet appreciate he’ll face.”

Before Barnaby could say more, Dillon waved Pris to the armchair he’d vacated and drew his admiral’s chair from the desk. Rus sat again; Barnaby pulled up a straight-backed chair and elegantly subsided.

“Right then.” Barnaby looked at them eagerly. “Enlighten me. Start at the beginning.”

Exchanging a glance with Pris, Dillon started at the point where she’d finally told him of Rus, described how they’d found him, then let Rus explain all he’d discovered before they’d joined forces.

While Rus talked, Dillon studied Pris. He hadn’t been surprised by her arrival; today was the second day Rus had been hiding at the manor.

Yesterday, she, Eugenia, Adelaide, and Patrick had arrived midmorning. Having made Rus’s acquaintance and heard his tale over breakfast, the General had been in excellent form, delighted to welcome the visitors to Hillgate End, to play host and sit chatting with Eugenia and Adelaide when, with Rus and Patrick, Dillon had withdrawn to discuss searching for where Harkness was concealing the substitute horses.

If the three of them had had their way, Pris would have been excluded from that discussion; they were as one in wanting to keep her apart from what they knew to be dangerous. Regardless, their wishes had been overridden by a display of feminine will they hadn’t been able to counter. Rus had tried to argue; with her, he had the freest hand. Having listened to the needle-witted exchange, Dillon felt certain that Rus was the elder twin; he was more responsible and openly concerned for Pris’s safety. The fact he understood, indeed shared, her wild and reckless streak only sharpened his concern.

But he hadn’t succeeded, so Pris now knew that, always late at night, Crom took the horses north and east, away from the Rigby place, farther from Newmarket and the Heath. Patrick would watch the Rigby farm until they learned what they needed to know; he hadn’t seen any activity last night.

Pris was watching Rus and Barnaby talk, impatient to get on, accepting that Barnaby needed to know all they’d learned, yet chafing at the time necessary to inform him. While Barnaby questioned and Rus answered, Dillon let his gaze slide from Pris’s vibrant face to her figure, today elegantly gowned in forest green twill.

He wasn’t sure which of her incarnations-the unconventional female dressed in breeches or the exquisite, faintly haughty lady-distracted him more. The former reminded him of that heated interlude in the summer house two evenings before, while the latter evoked potent memories of the night just passed-and the provocative promise arising from that.

Last night…he’d been restless beyond bearing. Driven by he knew not what-by some impossible-to-deny impulse he hadn’t want to examine closely-he’d surrendered and, close to midnight, had saddled Solomon and ridden to the Carisbrook house.

To the summer house. He hadn’t expected her to be there, had had no thought in his head other than simply to be near her. He’d imagined sitting on the sofa and looking over the lake, until his restlessness had faded.

He’d been doing just that, sitting staring over the still water, when he’d seen a wraith moving through the trees. Her, in a pale gown with a shawl about her shoulders.

They hadn’t made any arrangement; it hadn’t been an assignation. Yet she’d entered the summer house without hesitation. Showing no real surprise at finding him there, she’d walked directly to him, halted before him, and let her shawl slide from her shoulders.

She’d spent the next hours in his arms, in an interlude unlike any other he’d ever known. She’d taken his restlessness, and shaped it, transmuted it into something else, something she’d wanted, and had taken into herself.

Much later, at peace in a way he’d never before been, he’d walked her back to the house, seen her slip inside, then had returned to Solomon and ridden home.

That sense of peace still lingered, even now.

Just gazing at her somehow soothed some part of him he hadn’t before realized needed anyone’s touch.

“So!” Barnaby turned to him. “Did your clerks find anything?”

He shifted, refocused. “They’ve found something, but we don’t yet know what it means. The two horses Rus identified as look-alikes for Flyin’ Fury and Blistering Belle are owned by a Mr. Aberdeen. He’s a gentleman, owns a reasonable stable of runners, and employs his own trainer, yet it appears he’s sent-or is it lent?-those horses to Cromarty.”

Barnaby frowned. “He’s not a local owner?”

Dillon shook his head. “Based near Sheffield. He usually runs his horses at Doncaster or Cheltenham. My clerks are trying to identify the two horses Cromarty had in Ireland, that Crom took somewhere after the string landed in Liverpool. If those horses are Aberdeen’s, or are Cromarty’s but are look-alikes for two of Aberdeen’s runners, then it’s possible the groundwork for substitutions at Doncaster and Cheltenham is also in hand.”

Barnaby looked at him. “This is not a small enterprise.”

“No,” Dillon agreed. “And that brings us to today’s news. Yours.”

“Indeed!” Barnaby glanced at Rus, then Pris, then looked at Dillon. “Perhaps we ought to adjourn to Demon’s house? His opinion would be useful, and it would be better if we were all there to hear it.”

Dillon nodded. “Good idea. He was away all yesterday looking at horses. I’ve yet to introduce him to Rus or Pris, and fill him in on all we’ve learned. Flick and he were expected back this morning.”

“Demon,” Rus said as they all rose. “Demon Cynster?”

Recognizing the awestruck look in Rus’s eyes, Dillon grinned. “There’s only one Demon, believe me. He’s my cousin-in-law, but you can interpret that as brother-in-law. I grew up with Flick, now his wife. Demon’s stud is the neighboring estate.”

“Oh, I know.” Rus fell in beside him as he followed Pris and Barnaby to the door. “While I was hiding in the woods, I used to fill in time by sneaking close to his paddocks and watching the horses. He’s got more prime ’uns in one place than I’ve ever set eyes on before.”

“For Demon, horse breeding is more than a hobby-it’s his passion.” Dillon caught Pris’s eye as she glanced his way, and smiled. “After Flick, that is.”

He didn’t hear her sniff, but was quite sure she did.

They walked the short distance to the Cynster house, discussing various points, filling in details Rus and Dillon had skimmed over earlier. No matter how they probed, Barnaby refused to divulge anything of what he’d learned, not until they had Demon there, too.

Both Demon and Flick were at home; both were eager to hear their news, even more so when they learned who Rus was.

Pris hung on to her patience and waited with what decorum she could muster; what she really wanted was to pace, plan, and act. She’d assumed finding Rus would be the same as finding peace, yet although she’d been immensely relieved to have her twin back hale and whole, the existence of a continuing threat to his life wasn’t something she could bear with any degree of equanimity.

She wanted that threat ended, eradicated, and she wanted that now. But she needed Dillon’s, Barnaby’s, Demon’s, and Flick’s help, so she bit her tongue and forbore to hurry them.

At last, once Dillon had noted the as-yet-unclear involvement of Mr. Aberdeen, all eyes swung to Barnaby. She’d expected him to relish the moment; instead, he looked grave.

“What I have to report”-he glanced around at their faces-“when added to all you’ve learned, suggests the whole is more serious, indeed blacker, than we’d thought. Gabriel and his contacts tried to trace the ten thousand pounds Collier received. Montague, who I gather you both know”-Barnaby nodded to Dillon and Demon, who nodded back-“assured me that had the transfer been made in the normal way of business, they would have found some trail, but they didn’t. Wherever that money came from, it didn’t move through any bank. Collier must have received it as cash-literally a bundle of notes. Both Gabriel and Montague suggested the most likely source was a wealthy gamester, someone who regularly handles such sums.”

Barnaby paused; his expression grew harder. “Then Vane appeared with the latest he’d gleaned, not from the clubs but from various rather seedier locations. The latest gossip concerning the suspect race run here a few weeks ago”-Barnaby looked at Rus-“and yes, the horse involved was Flyin’ Fury, is that positively huge sums were laid against Flyin’ Fury winning.

“Certain bookmakers are wailing and gnashing their teeth, but, of course, few have any sympathy. However, Vane learned enough to estimate the winnings solely from those bets as more than one hundred thousand pounds. The point that most interested everyone was that the individual bets weren’t large-nothing out of the ordinary, all to different people or betting agents. So while the bookmakers are certain they were stung, they have no way of knowing who to blame.”

Demon looked grim. “If they did know who, that person would no longer be a concern.”

“No, indeed.” Barnaby nodded. “Gabriel sent a message. He, Montague, and Vane believe that whoever’s behind this will prove deadly. This is not the usual sort of scam, but one operating on a massive scale. The monetary risks being taken are enormous, the potential gain gargantuan. Consequently, if threatened, whoever’s behind this won’t hesitate to deal death into the game.

“I told them we believed that particular card had already been played with Collier.” Barnaby looked at Demon and Dillon. “Vane sent a message, too. Beware.”

Demon exchanged a glance with Dillon. “Sound advice.”

Pris got the distinct impression that to them that Beware meant something different, certainly carried more weight than the usual interpretation. She noticed Flick watching Demon, faintly narrow-eyed, but couldn’t guess the direction of her thoughts.

Everyone paused, piecing together all they knew. Demon summarized, “So we’ve yet to find where the switched horses are hidden. Once we know that”-he met Dillon’s gaze-“we’ll have to give serious thought as to how best to proceed.”

Dillon nodded and rose. “We’ll let you know what we discover.”

Demon and Flick saw them to the front door. The conversation along the way revolved about the runners they were preparing for the upcoming race meet-the first October meeting, a major event in the Newmarket calendar.

“Dillon and I feel sure that’s the meet at which they’ll switch Blistering Belle,” Rus said.

Demon concurred. “If we can’t thrust a spoke through their wheel, they’ll make a killing.” He looked at Dillon. “In the circumstances, I don’t know what help we’ll be. We’ll both be up to our ears in preparation.”

“Actually…” Flick eyed Rus appraisingly. “I could use an extra pair of well-trained hands, and as there’s nothing you can do at present since you must remain in hiding, and as our training track is well screened, out of bounds and out of sight to any but our most trusted lads, why don’t you slip over and lend a hand? I’ll put you to work, and you can show me what you Irish can do.”

There was enough challenge in the words to allow Rus to grin and accept with alacrity rather than fall to his knees and kiss Flick’s feet. Pris smiled, relieved that Rus would be kept occupied, delighted that the occupation was his passion. Catching Flick’s eye, she inclined her head in thanks. Flick grinned and patted her arm.

A moment later, they set off, walking across the fields and through the belt of woodland separating the stud from Hillgate End. Rus was in alt, his head already in the clouds.

Dillon laughed. “Tell me-how do you see Flick? Sweet, delicate, a Botticelli angel, gentle temper, all smiles?”

Rus looked at Dillon, shrugged. “Something like that.”

His grin wide, Dillon clapped Rus on the shoulder. “Just wait, boyo-she’s a sergeant major around horses. I guarantee she’ll run you ragged.”

The next morning, Pris came down to breakfast to find Patrick hovering in the dining room. She stared at him. “Did you find them?”

He grinned. “I did.”

She sank into her chair; ignoring Adelaide’s and Eugenia’s exclamations, she demanded, “Where?”

Patrick told her.

Ten minutes after she’d consumed a hasty breakfast, she was in the gig, the reins in her hands, Adelaide beside her, as she tooled them down the lanes to call on the house hold at Hillgate End.

They switched the black fillies late last night.” Pris unfolded a map she’d drawn. “It’s a tiny cottage, more a hovel Patrick said, but there’s a lean-to stable alongside big enough to hold two horses.”

She laid her sketch on Dillon’s desk; he, Rus, and Barnaby crowded around. The General had been present when she and Adelaide had been shown in. Dillon and Rus had frowned, signaling with their eyes; they hadn’t wanted Adelaide involved.

She’d felt like she would burst, holding in the news while Adelaide shyly greeted them, then started chatting with Rus; he’d just returned from his first session working with Flick and seemed both exhilarated and stunned. But then the General had risen to the occasion and claimed Adelaide’s attention and her arm for a stroll about the garden. Mentally blessing him, Pris had lost no time imparting her news.

“There.” She pointed to a cross some miles northeast of the Rigby farm. “It’s little more than four walls and a chimney on the other side of this stream.” She traced a squiggly line. “There are trees along the rise behind it.”

“Which horse will it be?” Barnaby looked at Rus.

He shook his head. “Sometimes it was a day between switches, at other times three.” He glanced at Dillon. “I’ll go there and check which horse it is.”

“Not in daylight,” Pris said. “Harkness might see you out riding. Who knows what he’ll be up to?”

Rus grinned. “Actually I do know, at least for a few hours every day. This afternoon he and Crom will be overseeing the string exercising on the Heath.”

“Can you be sure?’ Dillon asked.

“Without me, unless Harkness has managed to hire another assistant trainer-and how likely is that in Newmarket just before a major meet?-then he and Crom both have to attend the training sessions. Cromarty has a good few horses entered, and aside from the substitution, he doesn’t like to lose any more than any other owner.”

“Right, then.” Dillon straightened. “This afternoon it is.”

Pris bit her tongue; they did have to know which horse was where, and only Rus could be certain which was which-and she couldn’t think of any way to argue him out of what she, nevertheless, viewed as a dangerous journey.

She met his eyes-amused yet understanding-and pulled a face at him. He laughed, hugged her, and wisely made no comment.

She and Adelaide stayed for luncheon. The General seemed delighted by their presence; he confessed he missed having young ladies around. “Flick was here for years, and even though she’s just across the fields, it’s not the same.”

He glanced down the table at Dillon, old eyes twinkling. “I sometimes think I should invite Prudence, Flick and Demon’s daughter, to stay for a few weeks.”

Dillon groaned. “Heaven preserve me!” To Pris and Adelaide, he explained, “Imagine a cross between Flick and Demon-a hedonistic female, convinced she’s right, and who will stop at nothing-absolutely nothing-to ensure matters fall out as she decrees they ought.” He shuddered. “She’s a terror now, and will be utterly unstoppable in a few years.”

Barnaby nodded. “I’m just grateful that by then we’ll be ancient, and probably far distant, so she won’t turn her beady eyes on us.”

“They aren’t beady.” Pris felt forced to defend the young girl she’d once glimpsed. “They’re quite lovely.”

Barnaby nodded even more. “Precisely. Weapons of the highest caliber. Just wait until she uses them on Rus, then ask him whether we’re not right.”

The conversation continued in a lighthearted vein. At the end of the meal, they made plans to meet at the Carisbrook house later that afternoon-to go for a ride. Adelaide reluctantly ruled herself out without them having to say anything; she wasn’t a sufficiently confident rider to keep up with them.

Pris went out of her way to be extra pleasant as she drove them back, detouring to the lending library so Adelaide could find a new novel-and to check the large map on the wall. Assured she had the position of the cottage properly fixed in her mind, she drove on to the house, where Eugenia and Patrick waited.

She and Eugenia, with Patrick trailing behind, went for a walk around the lake while she explained all they knew and their present direction.

Eugenia nodded. “Mr. Caxton-Dillon-seems an estimable gentleman, and Mr. Adair, too-his connection with the new police force does give one confidence. While I’m hardly happy that Rus must stay in hiding, I’m glad he”-Eugenia glanced at Pris-“and you, my dear, have found yourselves in such excellent company. I’ll admit that in coming here, I feared matters might turn out far worse.”

Pris nodded. They continued to amble around the lake’s shore.

“I do hope,” Eugenia continued, “that your brother curbs his enthusiasm and doesn’t do anything reckless and dangerous.”

“Actually, I don’t think there’s much likelihood of that.” Pris described Flick’s invitation, and what Rus had recounted of his first session beside her on the training track. “He hadn’t realized that she, herself, rides the horses she trains. Once he found out, he thought he’d have to hold his horse back. Instead, she left him floundering.”

Smiling, Pris wondered if Flick had deliberately let the situation play out as it had, guessing how it would spur Rus on and put him on his mettle.

“Hmm,” Eugenia said. “I did think Mrs. Cynster was an exceptionally intelligent lady.”

Smile deepening, Pris strolled on.

As the afternoon ticked by, she forced herself to patience, to not look at the clock every ten minutes. Regardless, when her three coconspirators clattered into the stable yard, she was mounted and waiting.

Eugenia, Adelaide, and Patrick came out to wave them off. Minutes later, they were galloping across the fields-north, to the tiny cottage.

Pris held her mare alongside the three larger horses-Dillon’s black, a raking bay carrying Barnaby, and the strong gray that Rus was riding. Before they’d appeared, she’d been just a little worried that, despite the arrangements, they would give the Carisbrook house a wide berth and leave her waiting “in safety.” She was pleased they hadn’t, pleased with them, her mood buoyant as they raced toward the cottage.

They had to reach it, Rus had to examine the horse stabled there, then he had to get back to Hillgate End before dusk heralded an end to the day’s training. So they wasted no time; letting the horses stretch out, they flew.

A rocky streambed appeared ahead, cutting through the relatively flat fields. Dillon drew rein, then swung Solomon to follow the bank. The others followed. From the opposite bank, the land rose gently to where, tucked into the side of a rise, the tiny cottage nestled against a protective band of trees.

Finding a crossing place, Dillon sent Solomon down the bank. The big black took the opposite bank in one leap. Pris came next, waved on by Barnaby and Rus; her mare stepped daintily, picking its way, then climbed the rising bank at an angle. Barnaby and Rus quickly followed; Dillon turned and set Solomon for the cottage, surging up beside Pris’s mare, already striking out for their goal.

Eyes on the cottage’s door, he called, “You and I-let’s head straight for the cottage. We can knock on the door-if there’s anyone there, you can beg a drink of water.” He glanced at her.

She nodded to show she’d heard. Her lips curved, her eyes alight, she raced up the slope beside him.

He signaled to the other two to hold back. Facing forward again, he kept pace with Pris, tamping down the urge to recklessly race.

She was reckless enough, racing enough for them both.

She pulled up before the cottage, laughing, letting the mare circle. She waited until he halted and dismounted, then trotted the mare up and let him lift her down.

Setting her on her feet, he took her hand. “Come on.”

He led her to the cottage door, and pounded on it. They waited, both breathing quickly, sharing a long glance as a minute ticked by.

“I can’t hear anything,” she mouthed.

He knocked again, louder, longer. “I say! Is anyone there? Could a lady beg a drink of water?”

Silence. Then from around the corner came a muffled whicker.

Stepping back, he studied the cottage. It had only a single story, no attic, its one small window so grimy it was impossible to see inside. “I think we’re safe.” He beckoned to the other two, who’d hung back as if merely pausing on their way somewhere else.

Pris tried to slip her fingers free of his hold; he tightened his grip, scanning the surroundings as the other two rode up. Satisfied there was no one to see them, he met Pris’s narrowing eyes. “All right-let’s see.”

They strode around the corner. The entrance to the stable faced the rear, well screened and protected by the trees. It was in better condition than the cottage, better even than its outward appearance suggested.

Ducking beneath the heavy beam over the doorway, Dillon glanced around, taking in the bridles and reins neatly hung on one wall, the two stalls, both strong and of surprisingly good size, with half doors across their mouths. The floor was stone, clean and swept; the sweet smell of straw hung in the warm, still air.

The second stall was occupied. Pris headed for it. His fingers still locked about hers, he followed. A black filly with four even white socks and a white blaze on her chest watched them from within the stall, curious but wary, making no move to come to the half door and get acquainted.

Brisk footsteps heralded Rus, with Barnaby close behind. Rus slowed to take in the surroundings, then he met Dillon’s eyes. “At least they take proper care of them.”

Dillon waved to the occupied stall, drawing Pris back. “Which is she?”

Rus stepped to the half door; the instant the filly set eyes on him, she gave a delighted whinny and came eagerly forward. She butted Rus in the chest. Laughing, he scratched between her ears, then stroked her long black nose. “This is Belle.”

The horse snuffled and butted again.

Rus reached into his pocket and drew out a ripe red pippin. He offered it; Belle literally curled her lip, snorted in disgust, and knocked his hand aside. Rus chuckled, repocketed the pippin, and drew out a lump of sugar. Appeased, Belle lipped it from his palm, blowing softly.

Then she butted him again, pressing against the front of the stall.

“No, girl,” Rus crooned, Irish accent soft and lilting. “You have to stay here, at least for a while.”

“We’d better go.” After witnessing the evidence of the apple, Barnaby had retreated beyond the stable door, keeping watch down the valley. “The sun’s going down.” He glanced at Dillon. “How much longer will the training sessions last?”

Reluctantly, Rus drew away from Belle; Dillon and Pris followed him from the stable. Behind them, Belle whickered forlornly.

Dillon looked west, then out across the slope to where the shadows were lengthening. “We’ve just time enough for Rus to reach Hillgate End before Harkness and Crom start scouting.”

“Even if they send the string back to the Rigby place and head straight to your woods?” Pris glanced worriedly at Rus as they walked quickly back to their horses.

“Even so.” Rus grinned at her. “With the meet so close, Harkness won’t be cutting corners and rushing through training.”

Pris stopped arguing, but from the way she glanced at Rus, she wasn’t convinced. In the circumstances, Dillon left Rus to lift her to her saddle.

Within minutes they were across the stream and flying over the fields to the Carisbrook house.

When they clattered into the stable yard, Patrick was waiting. He caught Pris’s mare. “Did you find her-the black filly?”

Rus nodded. “Blistering Belle.” He glanced at Dillon. “What now?”

“Now we think.” Dillon settled Solomon, prancing as Patrick lifted Pris down. “We can’t afford a misstep.” He caught Pris’s eye, then glanced at Patrick. “It’s short notice, but do you think Lady Fowles will agree to an impromptu dinner at Hillgate End this evening? I know my father would be delighted, and it’ll give us a chance to review what we know, consider the possibilities, and decide on our goal. Then we can make plans.”

Pris nodded. “I’m sure Aunt Eugenia will be delighted to join your father for dinner.”

Dillon raised his hand in a salute. “We’ll see you then.”

The other two called farewells, then the three wheeled. Pris watched them spring their mounts and charge away, racing. With a sniff, she turned to the house. “I’d better go and tell Eugenia that we’ve arranged her evening for her.”