Miss dashing, p.23
Miss Dashing, page 23
Such glory, such vast, magnificent…
He withdrew and spent in the seam of their bodies, and Hecate’s peace suffered a hairline crack. If she was to be blessed with children, she wanted them to be Phillip’s children. She tucked close to him, unnerved by the thought.
Phillip dragged his coat over her and wrapped her close. “Rest now. I have you.”
What calmed her heart when she would have gone a-sorrowing for what could never be was the warmth of that coat, which bore the lavender fragrance she associated with Phillip, and the consideration of the gesture.
One man loved her and loved her well. One man saw exactly who she was and yet regarded her with tenderness and care. That was wealth. That was good fortune.
“I love you, Phillip Vincent.”
“Then I am content. My love will always be yours.”
Phillip had spent a lifetime inuring himself to mere contentment. The subtle reminder of loss was plain to Hecate.
“You’ll leave in the morning?” She could not have asked the question looking him in the eye. But she was sprawled on his chest, secure in his embrace, her eyes closed.
“If I leave tomorrow, I will return in time for the grand ball, Hecate. I want Brompton to know when he steals your happiness that I see his larceny for the heinous dishonor it is. Promise him nothing further until then, or he will use your new promises to more easily wreak the havoc that he could previously attempt only on the strength of old, dubious documents.”
More sound advice. Phillip was right—if Hecate accepted a proposal from Johnny, his breach-of-promise suit would no longer have to rely on those old settlement agreements Hecate supposedly signed.
“Don’t stay for me,” she said. “Look after your own interests, Phillip.”
He kissed her crown. “I have been looking after my own interests since I was breached. I’m not about to abandon that office at this late date. Sleep now and know that I love you.”
She slept, and when she awoke to a lone robin twittering in a misty gray light, Phillip yet slumbered beside her. At some point, they’d pulled on enough clothing to be decent. Hecate rose and toed into her heeled slippers, then gathered up her stockings and stays. Her hair was a loose braid down her back, a sensation she hadn’t known since childhood.
Phillip remained asleep when she kissed his cheek and didn’t stir as she made for the hedgerow. When she reached the path, she broke into a jog. She ran all the way to the bridge, lest she lose her nerve and instead run away with Phillip.
Chapter Sixteen
Phillip kept his eyes closed while Hecate slipped away. He watched, unmoving, as she ran up the path and disappeared into the darkened shelter of the trees. Only when he was certain she would not return did he sit up and finish dressing.
The woman he loved was holding on by a thread, and her parting words to him had been to look out for himself. Hecate believed Phillip was intent on securing Society’s good opinion, and she’d had grounds for that conclusion.
Rings, lace, French perfume, chassé jetté et assemblé, en avant en arrière…
Those gestures had been not for the sake of Society’s esteem, but rather, attempts to be worthy of Hecate Brompton’s hand. Cousin Johnny doubtless had a jetté worthy of Almack’s.
What did Phillip have?
A farmer’s stamina and determination, his calluses, his passion for nurturing the land and beasts, his ability to work hard toward a good harvest even when fate seemed destined to starve him and everybody he loved.
The early morning mists began to dissipate, and Phillip realized he had something else to fall back on, another farming trait. Hours spent walking behind a team of plow horses, more hours spent waiting for a mare to drop her foal, yet still more hours contemplating rainy days that could destroy a crop or save it…
A farmer had time to think, to consider, to mentally try on ideas and refine them until nearly every problem gained an eventual solution. Clear those acres, divert that stream, fallow that field, cross those two strains of sheep…
Phillip sat in the hay meadow as the sky lightened and the avian chorus greeted the day, and he thought.
About a cousin coming back from Canada, a man changed for the worse.
About Henry Wortham, discounting his own many gifts, to focus on Johnny Brompton’s arrogance and his elegant gentleman’s hands.
About Johnny Brompton, casually declaring himself off on a constitutional and suggesting Phillip accustom himself to coming in second.
Phillip pulled on his boots and rose, startling a flock of sparrows from the nearby trees. He had mere days to work with, days when Cousin Johnny might be lurking in broom closets or accosting Hecate behind hedges.
“Not bloody likely.” His sorrow and anger had sprouted into seedlings of determination, and they would bear fruit that could poison Cousin Johnny’s schemes.
Phillip cut across the dewy field, his thoughts interrupted by the sound of hoofbeats. The Earl of Nunn was out for his early morning hack, riding the acres he only half knew how to manage.
Phillip planted himself in the middle of the path.
Nunn drew his bay to a halt. “Lord Phillip, good morning. You have grass in your hair.”
“An occupational hazard of farming. You had the ha-has repaired because Hecate laid out the racecourse over three of them.”
“And because a crumbling ha-ha is an invitation for sheep to wander. I’m told my timing was unfortunate, given the progress of the haying.”
“Who told you that?”
“Henry Wortham, after yesterday’s race. I thanked him for his honesty, though I realized when I gave the order I was putting the safety of the jockeys and their mounts ahead of the harvest.”
The horse shook his head. A beast with fewer manners would have snatched at the reins.
“You did not want to put Hecate to the effort of designing a different racecourse.”
Nunn looked bored. “She has more than enough on her plate. I’ll bid you—”
Phillip put a hand on the reins, which was doubtless seventeen gentlemanly felonies at once. “She will marry that arsewipe if I can’t find a way to thwart him. She thinks she has no allies, that if she turns her back on Johnny’s threats, not a single Brompton will stand with her.”
Nunn cued the horse to move to the side, and Phillip turned loose of the reins.
“Hecate has, and has always had, my highest esteem,” Nunn said. “You know why I haven’t been vociferous in my support, and I suspect Hecate knows as well.”
“How could she know when you excel at disdaining all you survey?” Phillip asked. “How could she, when you’ve been in regular contact with her father, but never once asked if she’d like to be in contact with him as well? She sees the post coming and going here at Nunnsuch. Do you truly think she hasn’t noticed the correspondence you’ve sent to Bristol?”
Nunn’s pained expression suggested he’d contemplated that very possibility. He swung off his horse, loosened the girth, and ran the stirrups up their leathers.
“You are determined to interrupt the most pleasurable hour of my day,” he said. “I admit your rudeness is in good cause. Mrs. Roberts has been quite clear on my responsibilities toward Hecate. Edna herself has suggested I take a hand in matters where Johnny is concerned. She claims his intentions are less than respectful, though she’s doubtless alluding to his intentions toward the family fortune rather than toward Hecate herself.”
“Hecate is the family fortune,” Phillip said. “But the only family member to truly treasure her is apparently sitting on his fundament in Bristol and awaiting an engraved invitation to take a hand in matters. I need details, my lord. Time is of the essence, and if that blunt statement offends your polite sensibilities, I do not give one hearty goddamn in apology for my rudeness.”
Nunn looped the reins through the throatlatch of the bridle, ensuring that even if the horse grazed, he could not get a foot caught in them.
“Home,” he said to the horse, gesturing in the direction of the stable. “Go on, go home, and enjoy your oats.” He stepped back and brandished his crop playfully, and the horse obligingly trotted off. “I’m not a farmer, but I fancy myself a decent horseman. Air your questions, my lord, and I will do my best to answer them.”
“First, your assurances that you will make plain to Hecate that she has your support.”
“I will discreetly assure her of my loyalty.” Nunn went the opposite direction from his horse, who had disappeared around a bend in the path. “Next question.”
Phillip’s interrogation lasted until they reached the arched bridge, where they tarried under a rising sun.
“You could take my coach,” Nunn said when Phillip had learned the essentials necessary for the moment. “Not very stylish, but comfortable.”
“That will attract attention. I arrived on horseback, and I will leave on horseback. I want Johnny to see me departing.”
“Oh, very well. Reject the only aid I am in a position to offer.”
Nunn’s dignity and stubbornness put Phillip in mind of Hecate. “Not the only aid. The sooner you talk to Hecate, the better.”
“After breakfast, assuming you allow me to return to the manor in the next hour.”
Phillip watched the water moving beneath the bridge, mentally inventoried the revelations of the past hour, and pushed away from the bridge stone railing.
“No more questions. Keep an eye on Johnny, a close eye. He’s accosted Hecate twice and assaulted her at least once.”
Nunn whacked at his boot with his riding crop. “I will alert the staff and put in a word with Mrs. Roberts. She has no patience with knaves.”
“Then I’m off to have a chat with DeWitt about the loan of a fast horse. My thanks for your time, my lord.”
Nunn smiled, a surprisingly charming departure from his usual hauteur. “Now you turn up mannerly. Be off with you, and we will look for your return before Saturday evening’s entertainment.”
Phillip parted from the earl on the bridge and made straight for the summer cottage.
Hecate had slipped into the house through the conservatory, changed into a day dress, and repinned her hair. She relied on the good offices of the butler to assure her that Johnny was yet abed and likely to remain so for some time. Last evening had devolved into a sort of whist championship, and Cousin Johnny had partnered with Portia to sweep the field.
The brandy decanters had been vanquished thereafter, and two footmen had been needed to assist Master Johnny to his bed.
“He’ll waken with a devil of a head,” the butler observed. “One would expect a former soldier to know better. Even Mr. Charles Brompton remarked his cousin’s excesses.”
“Canada has not been a good influence on Johnny Brompton,” Hecate replied. “If you would keep me apprised of his movements, I’d appreciate it.”
“Mrs. Roberts has made the same request, miss, and I expect for the same purpose. Mr. Johnny will not set a foot out of his apartment without you knowing it before his door has swung closed.” The butler bowed and decamped with that blend of dignity and dispatch typical of his station.
An ally. Two, if Hecate counted Mrs. Roberts. A heartening thought. Hecate’s next destination was the breakfast parlor—lovemaking under the stars had left her famished in body as well as heart—though she nearly collided with Mr. DeWitt when she reached the top of the steps.
“Mr. DeWitt, good morning. You’re up early. Will you join me for breakfast?”
DeWitt went to the window and watched a lone horseman canter down the drive on a big bay.
“I will happily accept that invitation,” he said. “Lord Phillip has been called away on urgent business. I am to convey his regrets to you, though he assures me he will return for the final ball.”
Hecate abruptly sank onto the wide windowsill. Not a window seat proper, but only for lack of a cushion.
“His lordship has left? I trust all is well in Berkshire?” She’d told Phillip to go, and perhaps he’d decided he was hers to command in that detail too.
“He did not confide particulars, other than to ask for the loan of Roland and to assure me he’d return. Lord Phillip also impressed upon me the need to ensure that you are not pushed into any pantries or china closets by your charming Cousin Johnny.”
Another ally? Phillip disappeared into the lime alley, lost from sight. “You have no idea where he’s gone or why?”
DeWitt took the place beside her. “He’s returning on Saturday, and not just so Portia can have her way with him.”
Hecate had a sense of having come into the middle of a play, and not the play she was expecting to see. “I beg your pardon?”
“Portia has a plan, involving notes and secluded corners and convenient discoveries. I was on the terrace outside the library last night when she mentioned the generalities.”
Why must the Bromptons always be so, so… Brompton-ly? “Have you any specifics?” Phillip would come back in time to do the pretty at the grand ball and find himself embroiled not only in scandal, but in scandal and matrimony.
“Flavia would know the particulars. I caught only part of the conversation.”
“You will please resume lurking on terraces and at keyholes to the best of your ability, Mr. DeWitt. Portia tried such a scheme last year and nearly ruined Flavia’s reputation as a result. Fortunately, I overheard the maids whispering about a locked linen closet, used a hairpin to good advantage, and thwarted the scheme fifteen seconds before Mayfair’s biggest gossips would have arrived to seal Flavia’s fate.”
“I gather the gossips were not in the script?”
“Portia was supposed to find a certain viscount in unseemly proximity to Flavia and to promise silence in exchange for coin. She hadn’t counted on other young ladies and their chaperones taking an interest in the young man’s whereabouts, or noticing that he was absent from the ballroom as the supper waltz approached.”
DeWitt rose and held out a hand. “Poor planning, just as she ought not to have been plotting her reprise near open windows. I’ve worked with directors like her. Frequently in error and seldom in doubt, as the saying goes. Shall we to breakfast? One wants fortification against the challenges of the coming day.”
Hecate allowed him to aid her to rise, and she found him a good conversationalist over breakfast. When a footman brought her a note informing her that Lord Nunn requested the favor of her presence in his study, DeWitt made it clear he would escort her abovestairs as well.
Not merely an ally, then, but a bodyguard, simply because Phillip had requested it. “You and Lord Phillip are friends,” she said as they left the breakfast parlor. “Not merely neighbors?”
“Phillip is a few years my senior, and I have no brothers. My father was making the transition from merchant to aspiring gentry, and what he knew best—business—was not what I needed to know to become the first bona fide DeWitt country squire. Phillip knew. He somehow just knew, and he was patient with my questions.”
“Who taught Phillip?” And what could Nunn possibly want that was of enough moment to justify an after-breakfast summons?
“The staff at Lark’s Nest, from the boot-boy to the steward to the dairyman and the goose girl, were and are devoted to him. They became his family and his champions, and the neighbors did as well. He is our Phillip. For years, he was our Mr. Heyward, a bit singular in his habits, but always willing to lend a hand or a team or a plow. London doesn’t deserve him, and if Mayfair fails to appreciate him, then all of Crosspatch Corners will decry polite society’s folly.”
What would that be like, to have a whole village shaking its figurative finger at Mayfair’s hostesses? How would it feel to know that same whole village offered an unconditional welcome, no matter how far or long Phillip wandered?
“This is Nunn’s study,” Hecate said, stopping outside a paneled door. “Thank you for your company, Mr. DeWitt.”
DeWitt bowed. “Phillip will return, and until then, I am to let you out of my sight only if Mrs. Roberts, trusted staff, or Nunn accompanies you. You’ll summon me when you’ve completed your business with the earl?”
Hecate wanted to say that Phillip had overreacted, that Johnny wouldn’t force himself on her, but she recalled all too clearly that insulting, assessing stare he’d turned on her twelve hours ago.
“I will summon you. Go linger near open windows and lurk at keyholes.”
“While avoiding the near occasion of locked linen closets.” He waited until Hecate had knocked and been admitted, and he was still lounging across the corridor when she closed the study door.
“One cannot find proper rest in the country,” Portia said, dropping a third lump of sugar into her tea. “The wretched birds, the bellowing cows, the neighing horses… I forget what sheep do—something that begins with a B—but it’s most unpleasant to the ear. They all make such a racket, and then the sun is so disgustingly bright and at such an unspeakably early hour. I vow my head will never recover from this enforced rustication.”
Flavia, who had made it out of bed and even changed into a morning dress, regarded her from the escritoire by the window.
“Drink your tea, Porry. Whether we are in Town or the wilds of Hampshire, you are never fit company until your third cup. Though as to that, what were you thinking, sampling the brandy last night?”
Portia had done more than sample the brandy. She’d allowed Johnny to be a bad influence, at which he apparently excelled. Between them, they’d downed a considerable portion of Nunn’s library stock.
“A nightcap aids with sleep,” Portia said, stirring her tea. “Any dowager admits as much. If you must scold me, please keep your voice down.”
The maids had come and gone, but they had a way of circling back with a fresh pot or flowers or some other excuse to eavesdrop on their betters. Portia sipped her tea and wished she’d thought to ask one of the maids for a headache powder.
