“Not for Johnny.” Hecate allowed Phillip to escort her to the buffet. “If he’s so successful, why is he going to such lengths to get his hands on my money?”
“Some people are never satisfied. They lack for nothing except contentment, and I do not envy them. Shall I fill you a plate?”
“Please.” Not because she was hungry, though she was, but because every moment spent with Phillip was a moment stolen against a fate she seemed doomed to meet at Johnny’s handsome hands.
Phillip watched Hecate quietly directing yet another social event while the Earl of Nunn allowed himself to be harangued by the vicar’s wife, the occasional neighboring squire, and Mr. Jonas, a solicitor who’d retired to the neighborhood to be near his daughter. Nunn wasn’t a jovial lord of the manor, but he was gracious within the limits of his character.
“Come along,” DeWitt said, tugging Phillip’s arm. “We’ve recovered from our exertions, digested our sustenance, and drained half a barrel of ale. Time for the dashing competitors to swim off the stink of our labors.”
Hecate listened to some old grandpa maundering on about the misadventures of his youth. She’d doubtless heard the tale before, and yet, her smile was genuine, her expression serene.
“I’m losing her,” Phillip muttered. With each passing hour, she was shoving her own wants and needs into some mental warehouse where she stored a lifetime of longings and dreams, even as she kept an eye on the punchbowl, the tipsy bachelors, the buffet, and the weather.
For the sake of the greater good—or the Brompton version of the greater good—she’d surrender to Johnny’s scheme.
“Beg pardon?” DeWitt said as a shout of laughter went up from Henry Wortham’s vicinity. “You came in second.”
The greatest loss would not be her money. She’d been parting with that for the sake of various Bromptons since girlhood. Married to Johnny, she’d lose her freedom.
“Is scandal really such a force in polite society that it must be avoided at all costs?” Phillip asked as he accompanied DeWitt in the direction of the summer cottage. “I understand the devastation of foot rot. A whole herd can be destroyed in a season. Potato blights are just as destructive, and they tend to hit the poorest of small holders the hardest. A failed harvest puts hardship on a whole nation. But a tide of whispers and slander? How does one measure that damage?”
DeWitt was quiet until they reached the steps of the summer cottage terrace. “The damage looks like this: No offers for the family’s unattached young ladies. No posts for the young men. No mortgages on the family’s properties as the investment opportunities magically disappear. No credit, when many a respectable family lives on credit. No invitations, when who is invited where by whom is the currency of social standing. The servants begin to drift away, and the agencies no longer send the best candidates, if they send any.”
“Like a neglected estate,” Phillip said, “a slow spiral into an ever-deepening pit.”
“That pit is financial, social, emotional, logistical… Say you want to rent out your town house to raise some capital, but the only tenants willing to look at it won’t pay what you’re asking and won’t respect the premises. You want some new clothes made up by the fellow you’ve long patronized on Bond Street. He informs you that, sadly, he’s unable to take any new commissions for at least three months. Try the lesser shop around the corner, though he’s also unable to take your business.”
If Hecate brought such a fate on her family—the blame would fall exclusively on her, never on dear Cousin Johnny or scheming Cousin Isaac—she’d have no allies or supporters with whom to fight back.
Except for Phillip, who was still trying to master the quadrille in the odd, private hour. He’d taken to stealing away to the portrait gallery after supper. He practiced the steps in solitude, the disapproving eyes of the Brompton rogues staring at his stumbling progress.
“I wish we’d left last week,” DeWitt said. “The situation here grows complicated.”
“We might not make it past the finish line,” Phillip said. “If Hecate accepts Johnny Brompton’s suit, I will not answer for the consequences.”
The day was shifting from afternoon to a long, lovely summer evening, and Phillip endured a wave of homesickness. Not for Crosspatch Corners in particular, but for a life made simple by geographical limitations. As long as he’d kept to himself and tended his acres, he’d been safe from heartache.
“Come swimming with us,” DeWitt said. “You stink as badly as I do.”
“Worse,” Phillip said. “A four-mile course was a romp for Roland. You’ve been conditioning him.”
“He loves to run.” DeWitt’s pride in the horse was evident in his tone. “Speed is in his blood. The whole time I was away, he wanted to be about his job—galloping like the wind—but nobody was on hand to sort him out. He’ll have more endurance for being allowed to grow into his frame before he’s permitted to compete, but the native speed has always been there.”
Had this conversation taken place in spring, before Tavistock had upended Phillip’s life and Hecate had stolen his heart, Phillip would have taken the bait DeWitt so kindly dangled. A good long natter chin-wag about training a promising colt would have been enjoyable. The highlight of the day.
“Be off with you,” Phillip said. “I will leave the hale-fellow-well-met nonsense at the swimming hole to you. You’re the professional thespian.”
“Don’t say that too loudly. If you, as the ranking guest, disdain our company, Henry Wortham and his ilk will take it amiss.”
Phillip had been very nearly of Henry’s ilk until recently. “Then I will put in an appearance for the sake of Henry’s pride, but charm is beyond me.”
“One doesn’t expect miracles, my lord. That’s part of their appeal.”
Phillip accompanied DeWitt down the path to a widening in the stream below the arched bridge. A bend on the stream’s course had made for a stretch of deeper, slower water and obscured the location from the sight of the house or summer cottage.
Private enough that Henry Wortham was already parading around as God had made him.
Henry, a truly magnificent specimen in the altogether, made a clean dive from a handy rock and came up gasping. “Ruddy cold. My cods will be the size of raisins.”
“They’ll match your brains, then,” somebody replied.
“Still bigger than yours.” Henry splashed water at his detractor, and others peeled down and joined Henry in the water. A four-mile gallop had taken the starch out of most of them, and when the numbers began to thin, Phillip shed his clothes and waded in.
The water was luscious. Just cold enough to be refreshing, though the swimming hole itself lacked the dimensions to accommodate much more than a casual dip. Phillip scrubbed off, made use of the towels provided for the occasion, pulled on shirt and breeches, and found a place beside Henry on the grassy bank.
“How fares Mrs. Riley?” Phillip asked as several yards away, a still shirtless Johnny began to hold forth about some howling, half-man/half-beast creature rumored to inhabit the Canadian woods.