Page 31 of Miss Dashing
“This is a disaster. Hecate is working her wiles on the unsuspecting, Flave. How dare she?”
“Hecate hasn’t any wiles, and Lord Phillip knows what he’s about.”
Did heever. His hand glossed gently down Hecate’s back, inviting her closer without exerting a hint of force.
“Hecate knows what she’s about too,” Portia said, feeling a sense of bitter, bitter betrayal. “She’s her mother’s daughter. Mama says so at least once a week.”
“Mama says a lot of things. Nobody has ever kissed me like that.”
Me either.Portia remained silent rather than risk sounding as forlorn as Flavia had. The kissing went on, interspersed with long moments of quiet embracing. Lord Phillip kissed Hecate’s fingers—drat him to the devil and back—and murmured something into her ear.
She nodded, and they passed into the gallery, arms around each other’s waists.
“We were not supposed to see that,” Flavia said. “Hecate must be top over tail for his lordship to so far forget herself.”
“Hecate does not fall top over tail. Not for his lordship. Not for any man. She’s been enthralled with her ledgers ever since Cousin Johnny broke her heart.”
“According to Mama.” A hint of disloyalty colored Flavia’s observation as she left the bridge for the path through the park. “Mama is all but cooing at Mr. DeGrange. We have been out for two Seasons, Portia, and Mama has failed to secure so much as a request to court either one of us. I fear she’s decided to pursue her own interests at our expense.”
“Mama wouldn’t.” Portia trailed behind Flavia, still much preoccupied with that business on the balcony. “Hecate never forgets herself. She must be toying with Lord Phillip’s affections. He’s been ruralizing for ages and isn’t accustomed to polite society’s ways.”
“But you said he’s a marquess’s brother and ought to—”
Portia caught up with her sister. “I know what I said, but since when has Hecate ever taken notice of a fellow? Lord Phillip must be richer than Mama knows, Flave. Hecate must be after his money.” This theory made sense, given what Portia knew of Hecate and of Mama’s imperfect intelligence-gathering abilities. Mama was losing her touch, alas, and Eglantine was no help whatsoever, while Charles was utterly useless.
Portia and Flavia were on their own, and Portia forgot that at her peril.
“Lord Phillip is certainly well turned out,” Flavia allowed. “He doesn’t cut nearly the dash Mr. DeWitt does, and Mr. DeWitt isknownto be wealthy, but you might have a point about Hecate’s motivations. Given her unfortunate antecedents, one must make allowances.”
Flavia’s signal virtue was her loyalty. As younger sisters went, she wasn’t that clever, and she often said the first thing to pop into her head, but she was unswervingly loyal.
“We must do something, Flave. Lord Phillip is new to Society, a lamb to be shorn by the first scheming spinster to whip out her shears. Hecate could have had no other purpose for putting his lordship on the guest list besides getting her hooks into him before the matchmakers have a go.”
“Unsporting of her, and there’s his lordship with all that money.”
“Thousands of acres of prime Berkshire land too,” Portia observed, for surely a marquess’s brother would have a largish estate. “And not bad-looking.”
“Mr. DeWitt is the handsomer of the two.”
“Where is Mr. DeWitt?”
Flavia stopped at the foot of the garden. “Where is Mrs. Roberts?”
Portia voiced a more intriguing possibility. “Where is Eglantine?”
“Porry, no!” Flavia sank onto the steps that led up to the formal parterres. “Eglantine is devoted to Charles. Dotes on him. Adores him for his Gallant Sacrifice.”
Portia would not risk getting her skirts dirty by taking an undignified seat on the steps, but neither would she allow Flavia to deceive herself about a real possibility.
“Charles got his mitts on a considerable fortune when he married his Eggy, Flave. The fortune is gone in less than ten years. She might resent that, and she has presented Charles with an heir and spare, despite the heir’s lineage being somewhat irregular.”
“In true aristocratic fashion, though.”
“In true aristocratic fashion. We also know Charles has a wandering eye.”
“A wandering pizzle, you mean. He’s a hound, Porry. If he wasn’t in line for the earldom, hostesses wouldn’t bother with him.”
Portia began to pace as her theory acquired supporting principles and corollaries. “Yes, they would, because he is a witty and charming hound. All the male cousins know how to open doors, including bedroom doors. They dance well, and they are handsome.”
