“Yes, ma’am.” Phillip took the glass Mavis shoved into his hand, thanked heaven for proper Hampshire lasses, and made his way to the back of the gig, where Hecate was handing the last tray of tarts to one of the women.
“You’ve been hiding all morning here in the hayfield,” she said. “Is that for me?”
Phillip passed over the glass. “Go slowly. Might have a kick.” He waited for a lecture on proper attire, on gentlemanly pastimes, on fraternizing with the locals… He’d truly erred and deserved a dressing down for indulging in a morning of hard work.
“Travers says you inspired his crew to get twice as much done in half a day.”
That was the initial flattery intended to soften a series of blows. A scold would follow, and Phillip would bear up like the gentleman he longed to be when Hecate Brompton was on hand.
“Mrs. Riley is nearing her time,” he said. “She was prepared to do the same work as young Henry there, but probably for half the coin Henry will earn. She’ll have my wages instead.”
Hecate’s gaze went to Mavis, who rested one hand on the small of her back and the other on Henry’s arm. Henry seemed to stand a little taller with Mavis beside him.
“Kind of you,” Hecate said. “You’ve eaten?”
Had he? Phillip fumbled for words because he’d only that moment noticed that Hecate Brompton had a pale sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks. Faint and few, but present all the same.
“A meat pie,” he said. “I’m sure I had a meat pie.”
Hecate sent him a quizzical look. “Will you bide here for the rest of the day?”
“Will you tell me that’s not done? That a gentleman would never? That I’m a hopeless philistine because I’d rather scythe hay than gossip away a fine summer morning?” If so, perhaps he could be finished with this house party, but that prospect didn’t hold as much relief as it ought to. Not when Hecate would be disappointed in him.
“I will tell you,” Hecate replied, “that Great-Uncle Nunn’s estate management has been driving me to bad language for years and that your insights would be much appreciated.” She took a sip of her cider, then passed him the drink. “I will also tell you that a gentleman does not offer a lady—or anybody else—falsehoods.”
Phillip was too hot and thirsty to refuse a drink, and the cider was ambrosial. “I avoid dishonesty generally, except in the interests of kindness.”
“You told me a very great bouncer, my lord.” She batted gently at his hair, then took back the drink. “You claimed your shoulder is defective, that you are deformed. I have firsthand evidence, the evidence of my own eyes, to refute your statement. Your manly figure has no flaws whatsoever. I will expect you at three of the clock to join me and Mr. DeWitt on a tour of the gallery and public rooms.”
She flounced off on a whiff of roses and joined the ladies munching lemon cake on their blankets in the shade.
“You’ll be wanting this,” Gavin DeWitt said, thrusting Phillip’s coat at him.
How much of that exchange had DeWitt overheard, and did Phillip care in the slightest? Upon consideration, no, he did not.
“You have crumbs on your cravat, De-Nitwit, and I do not want my jacket. In this heat, wearing a jacket makes no sense, and you should probably get rid of yours.”
DeWitt brushed at the lace frothing beneath his chin. “Whyever would I commit such an unpardonable breach of manners?”
“Because we have work to do, and we aren’t expected in the gallery until three of the clock. Travers!” Phillip called. “We’ll need another scythe.”
Phillip peeled out of his waistcoat and rolled up his sleeves, then picked up his blade and started on a song. He was the first one back to work, though Henry joined him in less than two minutes.
Hecate checked her appearance in the mirror one more time and noted that her annual summer crop of freckles was threatening to emerge, drat the luck.
On the heels of that thought came another: Lord Phillip would not care one whit about a few freckles. He would, by contrast, regard nightly facial scrubs with a raw potato, avoiding the out of doors, and wearing veils in the hottest weather as so much ridiculousness.
“No potato scrubs,” Hecate informed her reflection. “Not this year.”
She made her way to the gallery and found her quarry in earnest contemplation of a portrait of the present Lord Nunn as a young man.
“Miss Brompton, greetings.” Lord Phillip bowed politely. “He wasn’t always such a prig, was he?”
“My mother could make him laugh.” The artist had captured a hint of humor in Nunn’s blue eyes. He’d been lean, blond, and aristocratically splendid in the lavish finery of an earlier time. The younger Lord Nunn posed with one hand fisted on his hip, the other resting on the head of an adoring hound. A lady’s portrait was hinted at in the background.
“This is the late countess,” Hecate said, moving on to the next painting, which had been hung such that Lord and Lady Nunn seemed to perpetually gaze toward each other. “A love match, according to my mother, but no sons survived long enough to carry on the line.”
“Hence Charles’s good fortune. He’s a rackety fribble, isn’t he?”
Lord Phillip had bathed. His hair was neatly queued back, and his attire was free of dust, chaff, and even wrinkles. He was also no longer sporting a grin, airing a fine baritone, or wielding a scythe while half naked beneath the summer sun.
More’s the pity.
The muscles of his back, chest, and arms would make the Apollo Belvedere moan with envy. Mavis Riley, a grieving widow who’d been devoted to her husband, had followed Lord Phillip’s progress with a wistful hint of smile. Henry Wortham, the blacksmith’s oldest son, was taller and brawnier, but not as mesmerizing to watch at his work.
“What became of your mother?” Lord Phillip asked, studying the late countess’s rings.
“A wasting disease, and yet, she was a happy woman most of the time.”
“Was she a happy wife?”
A voice in Hecate’s head told her to chide Lord Phillip for such a forward question, but they were not at some duchess’s ridotto, where a dozen ears would overhear. Then too, nobody ever mentioned Mama.
“She tried to be a happy wife. Papa is not warmhearted by nature, though he can be very charming when he wants something. He and Uncle Nunn are opposite sides of an ill-humored coin. Uncle Nunn is bereaved and without children, so his discontent with life is understandable. Papa married Mama for her money and lost interest when she, too, was unable to produce sons.”
“Is that why she took up with your true father?” Lord Phillip asked, moving on to the first Baron Nunnville.
Ancestors organized by date marched along the inside wall, and Hecate had seen them all hundreds of times. Men, mostly, with a nod to the occasional viscountess or countess. The baronesses hadn’t signified.
“Where is Mr. DeWitt, my lord?”
“I bring you his regrets. He felt the need for some activity after being shut up in the coach all day yesterday. He took my place on the haying crew and asks that you reserve another day for his tour.”
“Let’s sit, then, shall we? You had a busy morning.”