“That will do, and you bungled the sequence. The we-happy-few part comes first.”
Phillip descended to the terrace with a sense of crushing homesickness—Shakespeare could do that in a few lines—but also possessed of a determination Henry V, facing terrible odds with an exhausted, tattered army, would have understood.
Phillip’s objective was not to acquire a fortnight’s experience moving in polite company at close quarters, nor even to see DeWitt subjected to the same exercise. His purpose had become to ensure that Miss Hecate Brompton received the respect she was due.
A task best begun immediately.
How was it possible that every time Hecate beheld Lord Phillip Vincent, he appeared more impressive? More… séduisant? Not simply good-looking, but alluring. She resented him for distracting her, but she also simply enjoyed the sight of him. Tall, dark, and reserved rather than handsome.
He stood on the terrace steps beside Gavin DeWitt. His lordship’s hesitation should have conveyed timidity, a lack of polish. Instead, he surveyed the gathering as one looked over a flock of sheep. His indifferent expression pronounced the herd mostly culls, a few worthy specimens, nothing impressive.
Beside him, DeWitt was a slightly overdressed ornament. Every other person present would have said DeWitt was the more desirable supper companion, including, probably, DeWitt himself.
Lord Phillip sauntered down the stairs and made straight for her.
“Miss Brompton.” He bowed correctly over her hand. “May I have the pleasure of introducing to you Mr. Gavin DeWitt, late of Berkshire. DeWitt, Miss Hecate Brompton.”
They moved through the little pattern of bowing and nodding as Cousin Eglantine let forth a trill of all-heads-shall-now-turn-and-admire-me laughter. DeWitt obliged.
Lord Phillip subtly winced. “Perhaps you’d be good enough to introduce us to our host and hostess, Miss Brompton?”
“Of course. This way. Mr. DeWitt, I trust your rooms are in order?” Cousin Edna would not bother to ask.
“My rooms are lovely, thank you. Nunnsuch is a most impressive venue.”
A flatterer. Hecate had learned to appreciate them. They were easier to endure than the men who sneered or leered.
“I’ll happily give you the tour tomorrow afternoon,” she said. “Parts of the house date back to Norman times, and the earl has only recently had the oubliette filled in.”
Hecate had insisted. If Charles and Eglantine expected to raise children in this house, an oubliette was out of the question, and to blazes with family history.
“Venerable and interesting.” DeWitt twinkled at her. “I so enjoy that combination.”
Oh, for pity’s sake. He was a persistent flatterer. “Then you must see the gallery. We immortalize our rogues as all conscientious families do. Cousin Edna.”
Edna left off simpering at Hallowell DeGrange. Hecate so rarely claimed a handsome gentleman on each arm, and the slight surprise in Edna’s eyes was gratifying.
“Miss Brompton.” DeGrange was a decent fellow, by Brompton standards, past thirty and no longer given to foolish wagers. The monocle was a recent affectation, but Hecate preferred it to Charles’s quizzing glass. “How do you do? And who are these fine fellows? A brace of bachelors, no doubt?”
He laughed at his own observation, Edna joined in, and Mr. DeWitt looked amused. Lord Phillip, by contrast, appeared to be mentally culling two more underperforming sheep from his herd.
“Cousin Edna, I have the pleasure to make known to you Lord Phillip Vincent and Mr. Gavin DeWitt. Gentlemen, your hostess and my cousin, Mrs. Edna Brompton.”
Cousin Edna held out her hand, and more tedium ensued. DeWitt exerted himself to be adorable and succeeded in being annoying, while Lord Phillip’s behavior was correct. Edna, who possessed good instincts for self-preservation, did not attempt to flirt with either man—she was nearly old enough to be Mr. DeWitt’s mama—but neither did she offer to take up the hostess’s duties and introduce her guests to the earl.
Nothing for it, then.
“Lord Nunn will want to make your acquaintance,” Hecate said when Edna and her flirt du jour excused themselves. In truth, the earl didn’t bother making anybody’s acquaintance. He preferred instead to look down his nose, nod, and retreat into his study. To his credit, he didn’t put up with toadying, which flummoxed most of his Brompton relations.
If Lord Nunn was in residence at Nunnsuch, Hecate bided in London rather than presume on his hospitality. In recent years, he’d kept increasingly to Nunnsuch rather than Town, where impecunious relations lurked behind every potted palm.
“My lord,” Hecate murmured when Nunn’s audience, Mrs. Rose Roberts, smiled at Hecate in greeting. “If you have a moment, I’d like to introduce two more guests to you.”
Nunn brushed a glance over her, then arched an eyebrow at Mr. DeWitt and Lord Phillip. DeWitt smiled genially. Lord Phillip looked bored.
“Proceed,” Nunn said. He had the looks to be a convivial old raconteur—snowy white hair, blue eyes, lean save for a bit of a paunch, but he instead attempted relentless majesty. Hecate used to contemplate dashing a serving of punch in his face, but punch cost money. Then too, by the time she was Nunn’s age, the Bromptons might well have put her in a permanent ill humor too.
She stepped through the ritual, and Nunn bestirred himself to exhibit his manners. He was a peer, true, but in terms of family standing, a marquessate outranked an earldom. Mr. DeWitt ingratiated himself with Mrs. Roberts and inveigled her into showing him the wonders of the herbaceous borders, while Lord Phillip remained at Hecate’s elbow.
“Hail from Berkshire, do you?” Nunn asked. “I thought the Tavistock marquessate had its seat in Surrey.”
As opening salvos went, that one should have landed sizzling with menace at Lord Phillip’s feet. Hecate doubted his lordship had clapped eyes on that family seat, his banishment to Berkshire a blatant indicator of paternal rejection.
“As it happens, I prefer Lark’s Nest,” Lord Phillip replied mildly. “My estate is not only profitable, but lovely. Tavistock deeded it to me outright, and I do so admire generosity, especially in those with many demands upon their resources. Don’t you agree?”
His tone was pleasant, but heads had turned. Charles sent Hecate a do-something look. Edna’s plumes were for once still, and over by the punchbowl, Cousin Portia was whispering furiously into Cousin Flavia’s ear.
“Decent thing for the marquess to do,” Nunn harrumphed. “One cannot fault his intentions.”
“Tavistock is the best of brothers,” Phillip replied. “When he learned that he had family in my humble person, he dropped the Town whirl flat and presented himself on my doorstep in Berkshire. He’s been biding there more or less ever since, and we hope he and the marchioness will make a permanent home in the surrounds. Family is as family does, after all.”
In the distance, an owl hooted, the sound dying away into the shadows of the home wood and leaving a vast silence in its wake. Then somebody commenced a coughing fit, while Portia snickered, and Flavia rapped her sister on the arm with a folded-up fan.
“Perhaps you’d like a glass of punch, my lord?” Hecate said, gesturing with her empty glass. “I could certainly use more. The earl has many other guests to greet, and I’d like to introduce you to more of my cousins.”