Chapter Eight
Supper had passed in a lovely blur for Hecate. The food had been excellent, the conversation entertaining, and the occasional glance shared with Phillip magical.
I feel as giddy as a girl making her come out should feel. The notion pleased her, though she was positively ecstatic when Nunn indicated by a nod at the clock that the time had come for the ladies to withdraw.
Hecate relayed that command to Cousin Edna by virtue of a murmured word—Edna was absorbed with patting Hallowell DeGrange’s sleeve, his wrist, and probably his thigh—and the women rose on the arms of their escorts.
“Miss Brompton.” DeGrange bowed to her and winged his elbow. “Might I say you are in particularly fine looks this evening?”
“You may, though you needn’t. How is your dear mother?”
“Mama despairs of me. Longs to see me settled, but what’s the rush? It’s not as if I have a title, and that affords one a certain freedom to choose, wouldn’t you say?”
He smiled at her, and without his monocle, he was handsome enough in a blond, blue-eyed way. He’d served honorably on the Peninsula and didn’t feel compelled to remind everybody of that twice in every conversation. Hecate had invited DeGrange because he had a good sense of humor, he wasn’t overly prone to gossip, and he’d be a good influence on Charles.
A reliable bachelor, just as Hecate was a reliable spinster, but DeGrange’s smile this evening looked a bit conspiratorial. They waited for the crowd at the dining room door to thin, Cousin Eglantine clinging to Phillip’s arm, while Portia and Flavia had to content themselves with the brothers Corviser.
“Shoes and Boots seem to be getting on well with your lady cousins,” DeGrange observed, referring to the siblings Schumann and Boothby Corviser. As Portia and Flavia trundled down the corridor, they giggled and fawned and comported themselves like young women who’d done too much justice to the dinner wines.
“Did you just give them those nicknames?” If so, DeGrange had hidden depths of cleverness. A corviser in days of old had been a shoemaker.
“Schoolyard wits get the credit, as usual. We arrive too soon to the withdrawing room, and I must bid you a temporary farewell. Say you’ll think of me.”
He bowed over her hand and came up smiling, and Hecate was faced with the extraordinary conclusion that he was flirting with her.
“I will think of retiring early, I’m afraid. I still haven’t made up the teams for tomorrow’s scavenger hunt.” Hecate had devised those teams days ago and, during the journey from London, had made six copies of the list of items to be searched for. She was on no team, being relegated to the role of organizer, of course.
“I’d like to go searching with you on a fine summer day,” DeGrange said. “One has the sense victory would be assured.”
“Of course it would be, because I decided what must be sought, and thus putting myself on a team would be cheating.”
The crush at the parlor door was thinning, and Phillip passed her on his way back to the dining room. Even the meadowy scent of his shaving soap left her wanting to smile, sigh, and make a fatuous study of his retreating form.
“Don’t you ever cheat, Miss Brompton?” DeGrange asked. “Just a little? Risk a discreet compromise with the unrelenting dictates of decorum? Does your soul never long for a little diversion and mischief?”
If he only knew. “The Bromptons indulge in mischief and diversions aplenty, I’m afraid. Somebody must remain firmly in possession of her common sense in this family, and that somebody is me.”
“And for that,”—he tossed off a bow—“you remain in firm possession of my admiration. If you were on a scavenger team, I’d insist on being assigned to it. Perhaps you’ll look with favor on my humble person when it’s time to form squares for tomorrow’s picnic.”
He sauntered off, and Hecate felt as if he’d mistaken her for another woman who’d brought charm, beauty, and some accomplishments among her luggage. Hecate had always been wealthy, but DeGrange had no reputation as a fortune hunter.
His mild flirtation had been enjoyable and harmless, but also… odd.
Very odd.
Hecate made her excuses to Edna, who was perfectly happy for Hecate to spend the rest of her evening on organizational chores while Edna collected gossip over the tea tray.
“DeGrange is very sweet, isn’t he?” Edna said as the ladies arranged themselves on sofas and hassocks. “He comes from a good family too.”
“Are you thinking of remarrying, Edna?”
Edna gave her a puzzled look. “Whyever would I do that? You of all people know how marriage impinges on a lady’s freedom. My late husband, God rest his soul, was a prince among men, but he was still a husband.”
As Hecate made her way abovestairs, she reflected that until recently, she would have echoed Edna’s sentiments, but there was Edna, compromising her dignity in an attempt to catch the eye of a baronet.
Edna, scheming endlessly to see her daughters launched.
Edna, trying to make a quarterly allowance do the work of a small fortune.
Edna, hoping to turn an evening of whist into a windfall.
A husband—the right husband—would have rendered all that effort and indignity unnecessary.
Hecate went straight to her room, took out a dark blue merino wool shawl, and traded house slippers for sturdier footwear.
Phillip would likely be half an hour over the port and cheroots. A more conscientious lady would review tomorrow’s menus, look in on the housekeeper, have a word with the butler…
Hecate changed into a morning dress of aubergine silk that was years out of fashion and completely unacceptable for evening wear. She undid the pair of braids coiled into her chignon and pinned the lot into a loose bun.
She removed her jewelry and dabbed a drop of scent on the inside of each wrist.
While one part of her mind watched these activities with growing consternation, another part—perhaps the part connected to her heart—wildly applauded. She used her toothpowder, blew out the bedroom candles, and slipped down the maids’ stairs.
A quick exit through the conservatory, and she was free in the luscious air of a summer night and preparing for her first assignation in years.
Phillip did not smoke.
He did not believe that after hours of sitting before a lavish feast and sipping a different wine with each course, a man also needed to imbibe several glasses of port. He was none too keen on the blatant and public use of the chamber pots when the ladies withdrew either. Several of the tipsier fellows had bad aim, and ye gods, what a thankless task the footman would have cleaning up in the morning.
The drinking and smoking he could have tolerated, but the next part—the snide innuendos aimed at the ladies—he found frankly disturbing. He waited out his indenture to masculinity by a pair of French doors that brought in a blessedly fresh breeze.
“I had no idea you favored ladies of a certain age, DeGrange,” a sandy-haired fellow remarked. His evening coat sported overly padded shoulders, and his cravat was the equivalent of a puzzle box wrought in linen. “Our hostess is a bit long in the tooth for frolicking. Perhaps you’d best trade in your monocle for a fine set of spectacles.”