Miss Dashing, page 13
“You don’t. You prepare to be pranked and made the butt of practical jokes, and you bear up with good grace. Your penance is to look like a fool and seek no redress. Acknowledge that you overstepped, and they will consider the score even.”
“I did not overstep. They forgot the basic manners any boy learns by age seven.”
DeWitt pushed away from the winged creature. “The truth doesn’t matter here, my lord. Society turns on appearances, innuendo, whispers, and wagers.”
How had Hecate learned to navigate such waters with her dignity intact? “And stupidity.”
“Pride. You insulted fellows who were jabbering simply to hear themselves talk. Bachelors who have failed to earn the reward of a woman’s trust and loyalty.”
Men who’d been exiled, at least for the nonce. That perspective gave Phillip a bit of purchase on his temper.
“I am tired.” Phillip was abruptly aware that he’d been up early and put in hours of hard work before he’d joined Hecate in the gallery. He wanted to wallow—Hecate’s word—in the memories he’d made with her this day and to let his imagination roam freely over memories yet to be made. “I promised Travers I’d be back at the scything in the morning.”
“Don’t let the other guests catch you at it.”
“Right. Or they will make a jest of that, too, though without fodder in winter, their handsome cattle will starve. Such hilarity. Do me a favor, DeWitt.”
“Another favor.” The tone was so aggrieved that Phillip realized DeWitt was even more uncomfortable at this house party than Phillip himself.
“Keep an eye on Portia and Flavia,” Phillip said. “A discreet eye. DeGrange might assist with the task, and Mrs. Roberts strikes me as sensible too. Portia is working up to a tantrum of some sort.”
“How can you know that?”
“Broodmares,” Phillip said, starting for the house. “I watch them by the hour, and pay particular attention to the eyes. Portia has the look of a junior mare contemplating the unthinkable folly of challenging the herd’s reigning duchess. Portia cannot abide life at the bottom of the pecking order, and despair will make her foolish.”
DeWitt fell in step beside him. “And encouraging Hecate Brompton to twine about you as if you’re her personal maypole is wise?”
“If I’m her personal maypole, then I will enjoy the privilege. Miss Brompton twines herself where and how she pleases.”
DeWitt stopped on the threshold. “Be careful, Phillip. You might enjoy the lady’s attentions, but she is not well liked, and you could too easily give the gossips enough ammunition to ruin her. If I saw you two on the bridge, somebody else might have as well.”
Every sensible particle of Phillip’s being wanted to argue: Hecate Brompton was of age and of sound mind. If she found pleasure in Phillip’s company, that was nobody’s business but hers. Her generosity had made the whole gathering possible, and surely her guests owed her discretion and respect?
Except that DeWitt was right, and Phillip had best mind his step. “I appreciate the warning. We aren’t leaving, but I will be careful in future.”
“And accept the pranking with good grace. Smile, laugh it off, be a good sport who takes a birching in stride.”
A good sport in the stupidest of games. “I understand. If I’m to be up early, I’d best seek my bed.”
“To have Tavistock summon you back to Berkshire wouldn’t be difficult. I can get a message to him in a few hours.”
DeWitt had run from his responsibilities two years ago, and increasingly, Phillip understood why, if those responsibilities consisted largely of fribbling.
“Thank you for the offer, but I’m here to learn precisely the curriculum in which you now instruct me,” Phillip said. “I will prepare to show all toads and frogs my best good humor. Good night.”
Hecate spent three days in a fog of wonderment. On two of those days, she’d gone riding directly after an early breakfast and lurked on the bridle path adjoining the hayfield. Phillip without his shirt was too great a temptation to resist, though by the end of the second afternoon, the field was cut.
She and Phillip finished their days with a placid round of cribbage in the library, though what that man could do with a passing glance or a brush of hands defied decent description. They talked about everything—Hecate’s investments, Phillip’s inventions, the first time he’d seen Tavistock as an adult. He’d lurked among the birches and simply stared at his brother for nearly an hour, torn between curiosity, fear, and amazement.
That much honesty emboldened Hecate to talk about her mother, whom she never mentioned to anybody. The conversation and fleeting touches were delightful, also… maddening.
Phillip had promised to come to Hecate’s room that night, and thus minutes had turned to eons and hours to eternities.
“Haying has wrapped up?” Mrs. Roberts asked, taking the seat next to Hecate on the back terrace.
“The hay is cut. The raking can proceed with less urgency, apparently.”
Mrs. Roberts, like Hecate, had eschewed a bonnet. She turned a pretty profile to the late afternoon sun and closed her eyes.
“I had to have it all explained to me,” she said. “The haying. The cut, rake, rake again if the crop isn’t dry, and then stack. I had a vague idea that horses eat dried grasses through winter, but there’s art to it, and I knew nothing of the art despite owning thousands of acres.”
They had wealth in common, which might have been part of the reason Hecate liked Rose Roberts. Yes, the widow had spared Charles more than a passing glance, but not much more. A lady was entitled to her discreet pleasures, and if Charles had one talent…
“I have tried inquiring of the steward,” Hecate said, “but I fear he’ll tattle to Uncle Nunn that I’d been prying, and Uncle has his pride.”
Mrs. Roberts peered over at her, while out in the park, the loud crack of a mallet whacking a ball split the afternoon’s quiet. A few shouts followed, along with some laughter.
“Your uncle is half the reason I survived second mourning. He is at heart an exceedingly decent fellow.”
Uncle Nunn was nearly twice Mrs. Roberts’s age, and while Hecate would agree—Uncle was a decent fellow—that’s not precisely what Mrs. Roberts had meant.
“He is a gentleman,” Hecate said, “and thus he would not like me prying into how he manages his land.”
“Have Lord Phillip do the prying. That one clearly knows his way around farm equipment.”
An idea worth considering. “Lord Phillip has already told me the estate is suffering for want of competent management. I’ll suggest he broach agricultural topics with Uncle Nunn, but Uncle isn’t exactly a congenial host.”
“Nunn is proud, you’re right, but not arrogant. He lost his wife, whom he truly adored, and thus when I was bereaved, Nunn knew exactly what I sought.”
“And that would be?”
“A polite escort who didn’t chatter, who didn’t burden me with expectations of gaiety and flirtation. A companion who came between me and isolation, but who also knew—he did not have to be told—that grief would accompany me everywhere. He assured me that time was the best tonic, and he was right.”
Hecate could see Uncle Nunn rising to such a challenge and making no fuss about it whatsoever. “There was talk, about you and the earl. There still is.”
“Nunn was willing to risk that result when he saw how poorly I was coping. I’d sit in divine services, barely moving my lips to the hymns, my heart filled with hatred for a God who’d inflict such suffering for no possible gain. I hoped second mourning would yield some relief, but having to go about in Society and entertain callers only added to my bitterness.”
“You don’t seem miserable now.”
“Nunn was right,” Mrs. Roberts said, her smile sad. “Time is the best tonic, though I will admit I sampled other elixirs occasionally, with varying degrees of success.”
Her gaze went to Gavin DeWitt, who made a handsome picture with a croquet mallet balanced across his shoulders, his form displayed without benefit of a jacket. The day was warm, after all, and smacking a ball around qualified as exertion to some.
To others… the image of Phillip singing in rhythm with the sweep of his blade came to mind. Naked from the waist up, hair curling damply at his forehead, muscles bunching and rippling…
“Your Lord Phillip isn’t playing croquet,” Mrs. Roberts said. “Have Portia and Flavia kidnapped him?”
“I suspect they want to, but his lordship won’t kidnap easily.” Phillip had attached himself to the crew clearing the main drainage artery running through the Nunnsuch estate proper. He’d informed Hecate of his plans when he’d stopped by her room before breakfast. They’d conferred at her door—all very proper—and she’d explained to him the rudiments of her schedule.
Such a mundane conversation, and yet, that he’d bother to consult with her at the start of the day was more delicious than a box of French chocolates and sweeter than a violin serenade.
“Portia worries me,” Mrs. Roberts said. “A widow’s frolics are tolerated, provided she’s discreet, but Portia nurses a sense of injury out of all proportion to her circumstances. She reminds me of those Italian volcanoes… They smolder, the smoke creating striking sunrises and sunsets, but real destruction can result without much notice.”
“She’s a Brompton,” Hecate said. “She was born for dramatics and a sense of entitlement. I’ve warned Edna to keep a closer eye on her daughters, but Edna regards me as a meddler without portfolio.”
“Why do you do it?” Mrs. Roberts asked. “Why keep the whole Brompton ship afloat? Why not put at least your male dependents on notice that the well will go dry twelve months hence?”
“You’d have me cut off Uncle Nunn?”
Another rousing cry came from the croquet court.
“Nunn isn’t impossible,” Mrs. Roberts said. “He’s excessively dignified, but he can be human. He needs to retire his steward and doesn’t know how to go about it.”
“He told you that?” That Uncle had a confidante both pleased Hecate and made her sad. Why wasn’t she that confidante? Any member of the family? Why hadn’t Papa ever troubled to ingratiate himself with the family earl?
But then, a confidante had to be trustworthy, and that excused all family members from the duty.
“Perhaps the issue is a pension,” Hecate said slowly. “Uncle cannot afford to pension his steward and older retainers, and ending their tenure might be awkward even with adequate funds.”
Phillip would have seen that. He had an instinctive grasp of every detail of running an estate.
A final hard whack was followed by a round of applause. “I ought to look over the buffet,” Hecate said, though she’d rather linger here with Mrs. Roberts, pondering possibilities and not quite gossiping.
“That plague of locusts would devour dry bread without complaint as long as you provided enough summer ale to wash it down.”
“They’d complain.” Hecate ought not to have said that.
Mrs. Roberts rose. “They will whine and carp over a full spread with all the trimmings, so why bother yourself about what’s on offer? You wrote the menus, the kitchen is competent, and the Bromptons will eat what’s put before them, even as they criticize good food. Honestly, Miss Brompton, they do not deserve you, and Lord Nunn would agree with me.”
Hecate had no reply to that blunt observation. A tallish gentleman in a top hat and riding attire was making a slow progress along the path from the stable. She knew his walk, knew the way he slapped his riding crop against his boots as he…
“What is my father doing here?” she murmured, coming to her feet. “He never attends these gatherings, and he will expect the Hawthorne Suite, which Edna will never give up.”
Several of the croquet spectators and players detoured to welcome the newcomer, and Mrs. Roberts slanted a wry look at Hecate.
“You haven’t seen your father in how long, he arrives unannounced, and all you can think is: He will provoke a squabble with Edna. And yet, you lay your fortune at the feet of such as these?” She patted Hecate’s shoulder and made for the buffet.
Hecate was not especially glad to see Papa, true, but then, he wasn’t her papa, and that always lay between them. And he would most assuredly provoke a squabble with Edna, while casting subtle aspersions on Charles, Eglantine, their children, the weather, and every arrangement Hecate made for the comfort of Nunnsuch’s guests.
“But he’s the only papa I have,” she muttered, not as satisfied with that defense as she should have been.
“What do we know of Isaac Brompton?” Phillip asked from the depths of a luscious, tepid bath. Haying meant chaff got everywhere, but clearing a ditch was usually dusty work. The resulting blisters were different, too, if a fellow hadn’t done either job in some time.
“I don’t know much,” Gavin DeWitt replied, opening Phillip’s wardrobe. “A noted Corinthian in his younger days, occupied the fringes of the Carlton House set, the fringes of the Devonshire House set. Charming, particularly with the wives of his dearest friends, though he drew the line at daughters and housemaids. Parlayed his connection to the Brompton titled branch into an advantageous match to an heiress. Nothing unusual in that tale, save that he had no sons and only the one daughter, but then, his missus lasted a mere ten years or so.”
Phillip had brought the soap with him, a fine recipe with a meadowy, lavender grassy fragrance. “How do you recall such trivia?”
“The same way I recalled my lines onstage, I suppose. The details stick when I tell them to. Have you given any more thought to leaving?”
DeWitt was rehearsing that sentiment a bit too frequently. “I have lasted for the first week more or less and only blotted my copybook once with no apparent evil consequences.”
To get clean after a hard day’s work had to be one of the greatest pleasures known to man—though not the greatest. Not if that man had earned Hecate Brompton’s esteem. Phillip soaped his hair, dunked, and came up.
“Rinse, please.”
DeWitt obliged, then set aside the empty ewer. “Why hasn’t Winover sought his revenge yet? His pride demands that he make you publicly crawl.”
“I gave him the blue feather that secured his victory in the scavenger hunt. I’m fairly certain he now thinks I’m so backward that to punish me would amount to kicking the dog.” Phillip rose. “Towel.”
DeWitt threw a wadded-up cloth at his chest. “What has a blue feather to do with anything?”
“Portia was preparing a tantrum worthy of Mrs. Siddons over the fact that their team was short only the blue feather, which is, admittedly, not an item found in great abundance. But nesting season is behind us, and Hecate—Miss Brompton—considered the grounds when she made up the scavenger list.”
“And?”
“House martins have blue feathers, and they nest on dwellings, barns, sheds… usually several nests on one building. Those searching need not comb the whole park, they had only to look as far as the stable, the laundry, the drying shed, the springhouse, the summer kitchen… Miss Brompton’s list was meant to be challenging but fair. I gave Winover several blue feathers, knowing those to be the object most difficult to find on the whole list.”
Phillip stepped from the tub, feeling refreshed, relaxed, and in charity with the world. Tonight’s supper was another buffet—he much preferred those to any other sort of company meal—and he and Hecate had plans for the end of the evening.
“Have you ever considered pugilism?” DeWitt said, eyeing Phillip’s naked frame. “You’d put the fear of a hard right into many of Jackson’s acolytes.”
“You try wrestling with a contrary draft mare when she’s not inclined to tolerate a manicure. You’d sprout a few muscles too. I do not understand why a manly physique is fashionable if the fellow got his strength through idle pursuits, but not if he earned his power in honest labor.” Phillip finished toweling off and embarked on the dressing nonsense.
Sleeve buttons, cravat pin, and watch must all match. Embroidery could be lavish, but lace had to be tastefully restrained, despite neither embroidery nor lace adding one whit to a garment’s serviceability. Footwear must be polished to a high shine, though ostentatious shoe buckles were inadvisable.
“I still think we should leave,” DeWitt said, apropos of nothing. “You might have convinced Winover that you’re dicked in the nob, but Portia and Flavia are another matter.”
Phillip began the careful process of tying a starched cravat just so. What the starch added, besides some work for the laundry and itchiness for the wearer, he did not know, but Hecate liked to see him all tidied up almost as much as she enjoyed seeing him half naked.
If the day ended as planned, she’d see even more of him than that.
“Don’t smile at Portia like that,” DeWitt said, neatly folding the towel Phillip had draped over the back of the vanity stool. “She’s already casting dark looks your direction.”
“Portia is frustrated. She considers herself to be prettier than Hecate Brompton, smarter, more socially astute, younger, in every way the more estimable creature, and yet, she lacks coin, and thus she hasn’t one-tenth the consequence her cousin has. That is unfair, and from a certain perspective, Portia is correct.”
“Portia is a scheming, devious minx who has designs on your future.”
Phillip dragged a comb through his hair and tied his locks back with a black ribbon. “Will I do?”
“Damnably well.”
“You and Mrs. Roberts have been exchanging veiled glances for the past week,” Phillip said. “Either cease being so obvious, or invite the lady to admire the roses by moonlight and clear the air.”
DeWitt shook his head. “There is no clearing the air, and we are not being obvious. You will be on your best behavior with Isaac Brompton.”
Phillip regarded his reflection and beheld a somewhat largish, though well-turned-out fellow who’d clearly spent too much time in the sun to be truly fashionable. The embroidery, gold, lace, and starch bothered him, but they were precisely the appointments he needed to become comfortable with as a marquess’s heir.
