Page 69 of Miss Dashing
“You are going the wrong direction,” Phillip said. “The stable is over there.” He nodded to the westering sun. “The manor house is up the path that way, and the summer cottage is across the park to my left.”
Brompton looked momentarily nonplussed. A trick of the slanting sunbeams perhaps, or maybe the man had been far gone in dreams of unearned wealth.
“I’m taking a constitutional,” he said, “to contemplate my rosy future, despite today’s defeat in the saddle. I bid you good evening, my lord, and congratulate you on having come in second. No shame in that. In fact, you’d be well advised to get used to it.”
Phillip took the path in the other direction, though the whole exchange made him want to go for another swim and scrub himself thoroughly all over again. That, or go best out of three with Brompton.
At a fork in the path, he was reminded of a moment about two and a half miles into the race. The front foursome had rounded the village green and were crossing a neighboring estate before making the final run up the Nunnsuch drive.
Brompton had checked his chestnut, who’d been in the lead at the time. At that point, the race was a matter of maintaining the pace, getting a good distance to the jumps, and saving back something for the final stretch.
Brompton had yielded the lead to DeGrange as they’d approached the crossroads that would lead back to Nunnsuch. Phillip had a sneaking suspicion that Brompton had neglected to review the course. He’d relied on old knowledge from boyhood and a general description of the course to see him safely around.
A farmer paid dearly for failure to prepare. If his equipment was poorly maintained over winter, his team in bad weight come spring, his blades dull, his ditches choked with weeds, he paid and paid and paid.
Phillip turned his mind to how else Brompton might have failed to prepare for his assault on Hecate’s freedom. Therein might lie a means of ambushing the scoundrel and bringing about his eventual defeat.
The problem occupied Phillip through his nightly dancing practice in the darkened gallery, though what could more clearly portend failure than a man stumbling about in the dark, with no music, no partner, and no plan?
ChapterFifteen
“I do believe if Henry Wortham set his mind to sweeping a lady off her feet, she would be well and truly swept.” Portia kept her voice down, though only a few other guests were whiling away the middle of the evening in the library.
“Henry’s form did rather give me pause,” Flavia replied, moving her peg on the cribbage board. “He could model for Hercules or Perseus. One of those famously fit fellows. Lord Phillip is nearly in Henry’s league for muscle.”
“Not for height. DeWitt has some fine attributes.” Gavin DeWitt wasn’t bristling with muscle like Lord Phillip, nor was he on the grand scale of a Henry Wortham, but he was lean and strong, and he moved with a sort of unconscious grace. “Well-muscled quarters. Boots Corviser, by contrast, clearly owes his fine shoulders to his tailor’s skill.”
She and Flavia shared a smile. They’d been spying on the male of the species at the swimming hole since their first summer at Nunnsuch. Somebody had obligingly left Mama’s field glasses lying about, and enjoyable old habits died hard.
Flavia picked up the deck and shuffled expertly. “They weren’t boys, those fellows we saw today.”
“Boys make more noise.”
“And they haven’t well-muscled quarters. Or chests, or arms. Do you suppose Mr. DeGrange boxes at Jackson’s?”
The question was meant to be casual, but Portia knew Flavia better than Flavia knew herself. “Do you fancy him, Flave?”
“He cleans up nicely, but Mama saw him first.”
Portia hadn’t spared DeGrange more than a glance to inspect his forbidden parts. She did that not because those parts were of any special interest—they were the most ridiculous appendages God had ever fashioned on a human body—but because any opportunity to investigate members of the opposing team, as it were, must not be neglected.
“Hecate has assembled a decent crop,” Portia said, picking up her cards. “Not stellar, but decent. Then along comes Cousin Johnny to give the other fellows a run for their money.”
“He was horrid to his horse.” Flavia rearranged her cards, frowning at her hand. “I was embarrassed for him. He’s apparently up to something where Hecate is concerned, else Lord Phillip would not have spoken to him so severely.”
The talk of dueling had been interesting. “Why do you suppose Johnny didn’t call him out? Johnny was a soldier. He’ll be a better shot than any farming courtesy-lord-come-lately.”
“Johnny always had more sense than the average Brompton. Witness, he went to Canada when everybody knew Napoleon was the greater threat to England. It’s your crib, Porry.”
“Right.” Portia began the round, though her mind wasn’t on the cards. “Lord Phillip is apparently smitten with Hecate. One must admit the obvious.”
Flavia peered at her across the board. “They would suit. He’s the steady sort. She is too.”
“Steady is dull. I grant you, having Hecate’s fortune about has been helpful, but I cannot imagine anything more tedious than life as a farmer’s wife. I suppose one plucks chickens when one isn’t birthing little farm boys and goosegirls, but crops, weather, weather, crops… I’m not sure I’d wish that on even Hecate. We might give Johnny’s aspirations a slight nudge, Flavie.”
“What of Hecate’s aspirations? I don’t gather she’s as fond of Johnny as she used to be.”
“When she tires of Johnny, she can disport with Lord Phillip all she pleases to, assuming Johnny allows her out of the house. She needs some excitement in her life, and Johnny is just the fellow to see that she has it.”
