Page 42 of Miss Dashing
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’tshethat 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.
