Free Bewitched (Bantam Series No. 16) by Barbara Cartland Page B

money!”
    “He is too sure!” Captain Collington said. “That is why we have to show him up for the pompous snob he is! The whole contention is baloney, if you ask me! Everyone’s blood is red if you prick them!”
    “Or knock them down with a Phaeton,” the Marquis said, looking at the mark on Saviya’s forehead.
    “Now do take this seriously, Fabius,” Charles Collington said. “We have found the ideal person to confound Gibbon and make him eat his words.”
    “It might succeed,” the Marquis said, “but one of the difficulties would be how to persuade Gibbon to come down here and meet Saviya. I have a feeling she would not be allowed to come to London with us.”
    “I am quite certain my father would say no,” Saviya agreed.
    “Then somehow we have to inveigle Sir Algernon to Ruckley without his becoming suspicious,” the Marquis said.
    “That is a real problem,” Charles Collington said reflectively. “What are his interests?”
    “Shooting, for one thing,” the Marquis said. “He has shot here in the past, but it is not the time of year for pheasant or partridge.”
    “No, of course not,” Charles agreed. “What else?”
    “I have it!” the Marquis exclaimed.
    His friend waited expectantly and he went on:
    “The one thing Sir Algernon really cares about, besides his Family Tree, is his collection of ancient coins.”
    “Something I have always found extremely boring,” Charles Collington said. “So where does that get us?”
    “Quite a long way,” the Marquis replied.
    As he spoke he looked at the necklace of coins around Saviya’s neck.
    “Tell me,” he said, “has your tribe any loose coins that we could borrow for a day? I see that some of those you wear round your neck are Roman. Have you any more?”
    “A large number,” Saviya replied.
    “If we could tell Sir Algernon that we have found half a dozen coins in one of the fields,” the Marquis went on, “and we want advice as to whether we should dig for more, I am certain he would be extremely intrigued.”
    “That is brilliant!” Charles Collington exclaimed. “Sit down and write a letter now and I will carry it back to London with me.”
    “I will send a groom,” the Marquis said. “He might be suspicious if you were my messenger. He might guess we were collaborating.”
    “Which we undoubtedly are!” Charles Collington said. “But do not forget we have to find a suitable gown for Saviya, decide who she is to be, and where she comes from.”
    “The whole thing will be quite a Drury Lane production by the time we have finished,” the Marquis laughed.
    “Why not?” Charles Collington answered. “A thousand guineas is a thousand guineas.”
    “May I remind you,” the Marquis remarked, “that we have not yet obtained Saviya’s agreement to assist us in the masquerade?”
    “I feel that I might let you down,” Saviya said in a soft voice. “I am a Gypsy, and it is very unlikely that anyone would take me for an English Lady of Quality.”
    “Who said anything about your being English?” the Marquis asked. “That would be ridiculous.”
    “You mean ... I do not sound like an English woman?”
    “I hope you will not be disappointed,” the Marquis replied, “but you have an unmistakable foreign accent. It is very attractive—in fact it is enchanting—but it is definitely foreign!”
    “It is because I have been in England for only a short time,” Saviya said. “When we have lived in a country for six months or a year, everyone tells me I speak their language perfectly.”
    “The phenomenal memory of which The Reverend spoke,” the Marquis smiled.
    “Then she must be a foreigner,” Charles Collington said. “It does not matter—and we can give her a high-sounding name and title. In fact it will make it even more difficult for Sir Algernon to suspect that she is not who she pretends to be.”
    “Which country do you fancy, Saviya?” the Marquis asked. She thought for a moment.
    “My mother