Miss Dashing, page 17
“One ought to be able to pursue such objectives without losing sight of his manners.” Phillip would have parted from Nunn then—a bath was imperative before changing for supper—but Nunn lingered at the top of the steps.
“I wish you the best of luck with your courtship. Hecate is long overdue for a worthy suitor, but I thought you should know that Johnny Brompton cantered up the drive today shortly after noon. At one time, he and Hecate were fond of each other.”
One time, ten years ago, before Johnny had left a schoolgirl to defend herself from a mob of jackals. Though, of course the fellow would have sense enough to ride up the driveway, and probably on a white horse too.
“I hope Hecate and her cousin are still fond of each other,” Phillip said. “Hecate will no doubt be pleased to see him, and I will be delighted to make his acquaintance.”
Phillip told the lie as convincingly as any London swell had ever offered a false compliment to his Mayfair hostess, and that bothered him all the way to supper.
Chapter Twelve
From the place at Edna’s right hand, Johnny held forth like the returning hero he was, and Hecate was relieved to allow him the floor. A house party in its second week should offer more in the way of entertainment than the scavenger hunts, pall-mall matches, and whist parties of the first week.
She’d thought up nothing more interesting than tomorrow’s horse race, along with the grand ball at week’s end. Johnny bid fair to be the main attraction at that event, and for good reason.
“He’s magnificent,” Flavia murmured. “Canadian air must be very healthful.”
Johnny had become what Charlie should have been: tall, robust, golden, and charming. He had the gift of laughing at himself, recounting stories of falling into rivers, felling an enormous tree only to have it land across his logging trail, and losing his fishing pole through a hole cut in the frozen surface of a lake.
“He has apparently prospered,” Hecate replied quietly. Such was Johnny’s gift with a story that even Portia appeared to have temporarily misplaced her sulks. His attire was exquisite without being ostentatious, his hair queued back in the old-fashioned manner that nonetheless looked dashing on him.
Hecate would not have known him, so kind had ten years in the wilderness been to the gangling young fellow who’d gone off with his regiment a decade past. The older Johnny had poise, self-possession, and muscles that the youth could only have dreamed of.
The differences time had wrought were subtle and pervasive. Johnny’s hair had darkened from flaxen to gold and had more curl. His laugh was heartier. He wore only the gold jewelry suitable for evening, though like any gracious Englishman, he flirted equally with Eglantine and Edna.
He flirted with the entire female half of the table, truth be told, another skill apparently learned in Canada.
“Johnny has prospered,” Flavia muttered from her place at Hecate’s side. “But can you never see past the money? Johnny has grown beautiful. He has bloomed in the wilderness. He was never this much fun before.”
“You were a child when he was last home.” So, technically, had Hecate been a child. Children noticed far more than adults gave them credit for.
“I had eyes. I had ears. Johnny was more serious before he went for a soldier, more…” Flavia speared a section of orange from the compote before her. “More subdued. I like this Johnny better.”
Because he’d made good his escape. He’d returned as a sort of anti-Brompton. Self-made, hardworking, adventurous, good-humored, unpretentious, solvent, friendly… His list of apparent virtues was dizzying, and Flavia was right: Johnny Brompton was also easy on the eyes.
Hecate slanted a glance down the table in Phillip’s direction. He was easy on the eyes, too, in an entirely different sense. No flash or dash, just bone-deep honor and quiet competence in any number of pursuits a gentleman never turned his hand to.
Phillip saluted subtly with his wineglass, and Hecate nodded. When she looked up, Johnny was smiling at her, and the glint in his eyes said he’d noted the exchange.
“Maybe Johnny hopes you’ve waited for him,” Flavia said. “Maybe he’s come home to court you, Hecate. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
“More like absurd. Did he expect me to wait ten years for him without so much as a letter sending his kind regards?” She sipped her wine and began counting in German, though, in part, fatigue—not Johnny, not Portia, not feuding housemaids, or Edna’s daily dramas—was making her testy.
“Ten years is a long time,” Flavia said, collecting a spoonful of cream and fruit juice. “Maybe he was waiting for Porry to grow up. She was always quite fond of Johnny.”
Rather than comment on Portia’s talent for revisionist recollections—she’d been fond of playing duchess-and-lady’s-maid when Johnny had decamped—Hecate finished her compote.
Nunn had deigned to join supper in honor of Johnny’s arrival—and thus thrown the seating arrangements into disarray at the last minute. He gave Hecate a nod, and she contrived to brush Edna’s arm when refilling her wineglass.
“Off we go,” Hecate murmured.
“When Johnny has finished his tale,” Edna retorted. “Really, Hecate. Have you no sense of timing?”
Hecate had the beginnings of a headache, a pinching around the temples. She counted it a small price to pay for spending hours each night in Phillip’s arms, but the toll was mounting. Waiting for the household to batten down for the night, slipping across the park, then returning before dawn ran contrary to her usual well-ordered routine.
Racketing about in the dark made her feel like a Brompton in the harum-scarum sense, but then, by next week, the opportunities to be private with Phillip would be at an end.
“And that,” Johnny said with a self-deprecating smile, “is how I came to be driving a donkey cart when I was dispatched to pick up my new commanding officer’s lady wife. Let it be said, however, that they were matched donkeys, each one as malodorous and contrary as the other.”
“How marvelous!” Flavia sighed as the rest of the audience laughed and tapped spoons against glasses. “Now I want to be driven in Hyde Park behind a matched pair of donkeys with Johnny at the ribbons.”
“Matched asses in Hyde Park,” Mrs. Roberts murmured across the table. “Intriguing concept. On that note, shall we ladies withdraw to the blandishments of the teapot?” Bless her, she directed her question to Edna, who had no choice but to rise.
Hecate waited for the guests to sort themselves out and found Johnny winging his arm at her.
“My dear, dear girl, grace me with your company, won’t you please?”
Hecate wrapped her fingers around his arm while Phillip did the pretty for Mrs. Roberts. They passed close enough that Hecate could catch a whiff of Phillip’s shaving soap, though he wasn’t wearing his usual lavender meadow scent. Something heavier and sweeter, perhaps from the stores stocked in the summer cottage.
She didn’t care for it. “I am not a girl,” she said, offering Johnny a bland smile. “Haven’t been for years.”
“One notices the transformation.” He imbued his words with a hint of flirtation. “Notices and appreciates. You’re in charge of this gathering, aren’t you?”
“I have assisted Edna with some details.” That he’d see Hecate’s hand on the reins pleased her, which was ridiculous.
Johnny laughed softly. “You were always excessively capable. I knew if I took you to Canada—as badly as I longed to—the whole lot of ’em would come to a scandalous end. Admit it, I made the right decision leaving you at your post while I made my fortune in the New World.”
Hecate was torn between resentment—when had Johnny Brompton acquired the right to assign her the duty of rescuing his family?—and confusion. He spoke to her as if they’d been on parallel missions on separate shores, all for the greater good.
“Your strategy proved successful,” Hecate said as they approached the parlor door.
“My strategy? When have I ever had occasion to discuss strategy with you? So lovely a pair of ears ought not to be burdened with the details of maneuvers and means.”
He’d always discussed his plans and dreams in terms of tactics, at least when conversing with Hecate in private. Johnny was shrewd, though perhaps he’d learned to hide the shrewdness behind blather.
“You advised me to fend off all offers of marriage until I was one-and-twenty, at which time, I’d begin acquiring control of my money. That was sound thinking, and I thank you for it. I manage my entire fortune now, and that would never have happened if I’d married.”
“You manage the whole yourself?” Johnny patted her hand. “Good for you. I’m proud of you, Hecate. The entire family is in your debt, and I will be the one to acknowledge what we owe you. Well done.”
The effect of his words was like expecting skimmed milk in her tea and finding somebody had stirred in heavy cream instead. The lavish praise felt heavy and sticky rather than rich.
“Thank you. I hope your rooms are in order?”
“Lovely. The staff says you kicked Lord Phillip out to make room for me. I will have to express my appreciation to him for accepting lesser quarters, but you need not have displaced the ranking guest on my behalf. In Canada, I spent many a night beside a campfire. A trapper goes for months without sleeping in a proper bed. It’s a hard life, and I am well pleased to have it behind me.”
He’d be back to Canada on a fast ship once the Bromptons started relieving him of his fortune.
“Then we must ensure your comfort while you’re here,” Hecate said as the gentlemen began filing back toward the dining room. “It’s good to see you.”
“Wonderful to see you.” He held her hand and gazed at her with a seriousness that belied the raconteur’s good spirits. “A dream come true.” He bowed over her hand and departed, leaving Hecate alone in the corridor and wondering what on earth he’d intended with that excessive flummery.
“The evening put me in mind of my attitude toward Crosspatch’s churchyard gossips,” Phillip said as he and DeWitt wandered toward the summer cottage. “Not a word of the proceedings ever involved me. I lack any aptitude for intemperance, flirtation, adultery, wagering, rage, or crime, and thus I was of no interest to them, nor they to me.”
“You also,” DeWitt said, “never ran off to join the traveling players, leaving your womenfolk to make shift. The Crosspatch neighbors must have made a great deal of hay over that.”
“We worried about you,” Phillip said, and to his consternation, he was still in some regard worried for DeWitt. The fellow was unsettled, and fishing generally lost its charm by the third hour. As far as Phillip knew, DeWitt had yet to catch anything save a few naps.
“I don’t get the sense anybody worried about Cousin Johnny,” DeWitt said. “His years in Canada were apparently one long, uninterrupted lark.”
“A lucrative lark, based on his turnout.” Two golden rings on his left hand, a third on his right. A tasteful cascade of lace beneath his chin, the fragrance of gardenias wafting about his person. Three gold watch chains across his flat middle and a dragon twisted onto the gold of his cravat pin.
Gardenias. The sooner Phillip washed away the stink of the fancy parfum his valet had insisted on packing, the sooner he’d breathe freely.
“You laughed at Johnny’s jokes,” DeWitt said. “I did, too, and the ladies positively swooned over him.”
Hecate had not swooned, though Phillip was looking forward to hearing her reaction to her cousin’s arrival. That assumed she didn’t fall asleep at her vanity and skip their usual assignation altogether. She was getting as little rest as Phillip, and while the nights were lovely, they were also deucedly short.
“One is supposed to be polite,” Phillip said. “As best I recall, commandeering the attention of the whole company for better than an hour is not polite.”
“He’s been gone ten years. Let him make his entrance.”
DeWitt had been off in the provinces for two years. Had anybody greeted him with one-fifth the enthusiasm Cousin Johnny merited?
“I watch the gossip,” Phillip said. “I don’t participate in it, and my question is always: What is the motive here? Is an exchange driven by malice, concern, curiosity, or—Crosspatch Corners is a rural English village, after all—simple boredom?”
“I vote boredom,” DeWitt said. “Polite society is frequently as bored as it is boring, much like village society. I will be glad to leave this place.”
And get back to what? Ignoring his sister the marchioness making sheep’s eyes at her new husband? Memorizing plays he’d never perform? Standing up with the village beauties at the next assembly? A farmer was never at a loss for six different pressing tasks to choose from, while a gentleman was to take pride in idleness.
The concept still baffled Phillip, though he’d had better than a week to watch the likes of Charlie Brompton and the Corvisers do just that.
“I am fortunate,” Phillip said as the dark outline of the summer cottage came into view. “I am fascinated by such mysteries as why a speckled hen does not always lay speckled eggs, but a red hen can lay eggs that are both russet and speckled. Breeding comes into it, but it doesn’t explain the whole puzzle.”
“A mystery for the ages,” DeWitt said. “All I know is, I don’t like Cousin Johnny. Behind all that bonhomie, he’s gauging the audience’s reaction, keeping an eye on the till, and upstaging the rest of the troupe.”
“If he inspires Portia to cease her histrionics,” Phillip said around a yawn, “then he’s welcome to teach the lot of us all the latest Canadian drinking songs.”
They climbed the steps and let themselves into the darkened dwelling. No fires were lit in the grates, no lamps left burning, and Phillip liked it that way. Too much artificial light, and a man got out of step with the rhythm of the sun, moon, and stars.
“Portia was whispering with Flavia in the library when I arrived for supper,” DeWitt said, tossing his key into a porcelain bowl on the sideboard. “I went in there to return a volume of poetry Miss Hecate found for me, and those two were stirring some cauldron of mischief known only to them.”
“Probably what they do best. Setting their caps for their handsome cousin, no doubt. God in heaven, I am tired.”
“Come fishing with me.” DeWitt’s voice sounded wistful in the darkness. “Let those mend wall who will be paid for it.”
“My wages go to Mrs. Riley, newly delivered of a healthy girl child. Besides, Henry hasn’t the knack of mending wall, and if you do it wrong, you just have to make the same repair after the next hard winter. He’s learning from me, and his education is far from complete. Will you go fishing in the morning?”
“The horse race is tomorrow. I had Roland sent down from Twidboro Hall at the beginning of the week for the express purpose of upholding the honor of the Berkshire gentry.”
“I noticed your colt napping in the shade today. Has he had enough time to recover from the journey?”
“Knackered and winded, Roland can beat anything on the Nunnsuch estate. Care for a brandy?”
“I’d fall asleep before the third sip. I bid you good night.”
A horse race would liven up the day. Herne was fast—not as fast as Roland—but Herne also had bottom. The horse was tireless, well rested, and had a genius for gauging the distance to an obstacle.
Doubtless, Cousin Johnny’s charger was faster, smarter, and more athletic.
Phillip washed thoroughly and still caught a lingering whiff of that damned cologne he never should have purchased. Foul stuff. Made him smell like a dowager trying to hide a tendency to tipple.
He peeled out of his clothing, lay down on the bed, and gave himself up to waiting for Hecate’s arrival. Perhaps tonight they’d talk and nap and catch up on their rest. He really ought to be going to her, but that way lay… complications.
Portia lurking on the stairway, the Corvisers laying lewd wagers… Phillip dozed off to the image of Cousin Johnny Roman-riding up the drive, manly feet on the backs of a pair of donkeys. The scrape of a key in the lock of his French doors roused him.
He waited, more than ready to enjoy the pleasure of simply holding Hecate. He longed to feel her weight asleep on his chest, to hear her voice in the darkness…
Footsteps trailed away from the door, and he realized that she’d likely found him asleep and decided to leave him to his slumbers.
Bollocks to that. He rose and pulled on shirt, stockings, and breeches, then shoved his feet into his oldest pair of boots. A dark jacket completed his ensemble and off he went in pursuit of his beloved.
Only to stop at the foot of the garden steps as Cousin Johnny’s voice cut across the darkness.
“Dearest Cousin Hecate. Dare I hope you came out here knowing I’d follow?”
“You dare not. One simply wants a breath of fresh air before bed.”
Phillip silently applauded that sentiment.
Cousin Johnny’s footsteps crunched closer. “Is that all one wants? I’ve missed you, Hecate. Missed you far, far more than you can possibly know.”
A gentleman would not eavesdrop. A gentleman would slip away before another word was said.
Phillip longed to be a gentleman in the eyes of the world, to have the panache and presence of a Cousin Johnny. Instead, he had a good pair of ears and the burning conviction that the fellow was up to no good.
Phillip found a comfortable rock amid the ferns and bracken and settled down to do more than eavesdrop if necessary to safeguard Hecate’s wellbeing.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Hecate said, frustration flaring, “I will seek my bed.”
“Bide with me a moment,” Johnny replied. “Only a moment.”
Hecate weighed the price of delaying her slumbers another quarter hour against Johnny apparently feeling entitled to subject her to some sort of cousinly moment. Phillip had been fast asleep when Hecate had let herself into his bedroom, and she hadn’t had the heart to wake him.
Had Johnny followed her to the summer cottage? He was an accomplished woodsman, after all, and familiar with Nunnsuch’s grounds.
