Flavia was quiet for a moment, while Portia was mentally composing notes and choosing where to lure the soon-to-be-happy couple.
“I don’t like it,” Flavia said at length. “Hecate has supported the whole family for years, and now Johnny wants her money, too, just like the rest of us. He’s not smitten with her. He’d have mentioned her in his letters if he had been, and he’d have written more than once or twice a year.”
Flavia was at her worst when she was trying to apply logic to facts. “He was busy making his fortune so he was worthy of her.”
“Then he shouldn’t be underhanded in his courtship, accosting her in the garden and threatening scandal if she won’t have him.”
“We have only Lord Phillip’s word for that version of events, and honestly, Flave, what would either of us know about how smitten fellows behave? Charlie is supposedly smitten with Eggy, and he’s forever sowing wild oats nonetheless.”
Flavia’s brows drew down, portending a prodigious attempt to reason through that conundrum. The house party had a mere handful of days left to run its course, and Portia could not afford to wait on Flavia’s dubious skill with cogitation.
“Let’s not think it to death,” Portia said, patting Flavia’s hand. “If you are partnering Mr. DeGrange, I suppose that leaves me with Boots Corviser.”
“Or Mr. DeWitt,” Flavia said. “He was on the terrace when I came in.”
“I wonder how much he won on today’s race. Perhaps we should relieve him of a few pence in the interests of keeping him humble?”
“Fetch him,” Flavia said, “and if Mr. DeWitt won’t join us, we’ll press Boots into service, though he looks none too steady on his pins.”
Portia had no interest in a tipsy whist partner, so she repaired to the terrace, though Mr. DeWitt had apparently found elsewhere to end his day.
Time to plead a headache, then, and find a private place to practice imitating Hecate’s precise, tidy hand.
Phillip had run through the whole prissy, prancing sequence of the quadrille for the third time, which he could do only slowly and because he allowed himself to stop and mentally review each sub-pattern before embarking on it.
“Chassé jetté et assemblé, en avant en arrière…” He’d asked DeWitt to help him with the pronunciation, because unlike the ladies, he’d not be carrying a fan that helpfully listed the steps. He’d be relying on the prompting of a caller, and thus a grasp of proper French pronunciation became imperative.
“Phillip, what are you doing?” Hecate stood framed in the doorway by the light of the corridor sconces.
“Making a cake of myself,” he said, lowering his arms. “I regularly entertain the Brompton ancestors with my stumbling. You are sworn to secrecy.”
She hesitated on the threshold, and that broke his heart. A week ago, she’d been willing to steal into his room by the light of the moon. Now, she looked both directions before slipping into the gallery and closing the door behind her.
“I promised you a house party without quadrilles.”
Phillip approached her. Hecate’s tone had been hard to decipher, but it had been far from warm. “I wanted to surprise you. Were you looking for me?”
She moved away before he’d come within embracing range. “I sought solitude, and this place reliably provides it.”
“Johnny doesn’t come here, you mean.” Phillip stood near the door, feeling as Henry Wortham must when faced with the conundrum of wooing a lady he’d gladly die for. What next steps? Were there any steps that would lead forward?
“Johnny… accosted me again.” Hecate crossed her arms and stalked to the French doors. “Rather, he could have. I was intent on counting table linens, because the buffet at the grand ball will require nearly all we have. Mrs. Roberts has offered to lend us some of hers, but I don’t want to put her to the trouble… I was in the linen closet, and there he was.”
That Hecate would spend her evening counting tablecloths when a housekeeper or chambermaid should have been tasked with the job was more reason for heartbreak.
“You were trying to hide,” Phillip said, “as I’ve been hiding here of an evening. Did he touch you, Hecate?”
She shook her head. “No. He simply stood in the doorway, letting me know without a word that I was trapped. He offered to assist me, I waved him away, and he sauntered off.”
“But first,” Phillip said, taking up a lean on the door’s opposite jamb, “he waited a moment, emphasizing your peril and his power. Let’s step outside, shall we?”
Hecate passed through the French doors and into the summer night. Phillip followed, and when she took one of the padded benches beneath the eaves, he sat beside her.
“Johnny has you spooked,” Phillip said, wondering if he dared take Hecate’s hand.
“I should have known better than to be alone in a linen closet, Phillip. I’m not thinking clearly. A man who will force himself upon me within shouting distance of the house is a man who trusts that I will not bellow with outrage when he makes further advances.”
What was she saying? “Have you decided to accept his suit, then?” Phillip had been steeling himself for that possibility without admitting it, but saying the words brought forth rage, despair, bewilderment.
Old emotions, long familiar to a boy who’d been rejected by his own father.
“I have mere days, Phillip, before Johnny gallops for London, where he will start his campaign to rob me blind. He will be subtle and thorough.”
“Sly and sneaking.”
“He means business. He has convinced himself that his ten years in the New World entitle him to get his hands on my fortune, and he will have documents, as well as Isaac’s support in the clubs, Charlie will probably cheer him on too. Years ago, Johnny told me to remain single if I wanted to keep hold of my money. Simple, sound advice, though now I see that he wanted me unwed so my fortune would remain available to him.”
Phillip’s beloved was talking herself into surrender. “He won’t stop at plundering your fortune, Hecate. He will use the threat of litigation to force you to the altar.”
She sniffed and nodded.
By the light of the moon, Phillip saw a skein of silver on her cheek. “Damn and blast.” He took her in his arms, and she came to him willingly.
“I hate to cry. Crying solves nothing. There is no such thing as having a good cry.”
Phillip fumbled for his handkerchief and passed it over. “I cried when I returned to Crosspatch after my first foray into London. I felt like a soldier who’d survived his first battle. I realized even then that by leaving Crosspatch, by braving the wilds of Town, I’d lost something. An innocence, a purity of perspective. But I’d gained wisdom and strength, and I’d made the acquaintance of the most fascinating lady.”
“Phillip, don’t.”
He stroked her hair, a terrible sense of parting cleaving his heart. “She was all starch and propriety, but also… fierce, kind, determined. She got me through my first formal dinner, and that gave me hope. This lady was devoted to her charities and had single-handedly established a sailors’ home that was a model of its kind. Her family was an unceasing trial to her, and yet, she never played favorites or complained of the burdens they placed on her.”