“He’ll waken with a devil of a head,” the butler observed. “One would expect a former soldier to know better. Even Mr. Charles Brompton remarked his cousin’s excesses.”
“Canada has not been a good influence on Johnny Brompton,” Hecate replied. “If you would keep me apprised of his movements, I’d appreciate it.”
“Mrs. Roberts has made the same request, miss, and I expect for the same purpose. Mr. Johnny will not set a foot out of his apartment without you knowing it before his door has swung closed.” The butler bowed and decamped with that blend of dignity and dispatch typical of his station.
An ally. Two, if Hecate counted Mrs. Roberts. A heartening thought. Hecate’s next destination was the breakfast parlor—lovemaking under the stars had left her famished in body as well as heart—though she nearly collided with Mr. DeWitt when she reached the top of the steps.
“Mr. DeWitt, good morning. You’re up early. Will you join me for breakfast?”
DeWitt went to the window and watched a lone horseman canter down the drive on a big bay.
“I will happily accept that invitation,” he said. “Lord Phillip has been called away on urgent business. I am to convey his regrets to you, though he assures me he will return for the final ball.”
Hecate abruptly sank onto the wide windowsill. Not a window seat proper, but only for lack of a cushion.
“His lordship has left? I trust all is well in Berkshire?” She’d told Phillip to go, and perhaps he’d decided he was hers to command in that detail too.
“He did not confide particulars, other than to ask for the loan of Roland and to assure me he’d return. Lord Phillip also impressed upon me the need to ensure that you are not pushed into any pantries or china closets by your charming Cousin Johnny.”
Another ally? Phillip disappeared into the lime alley, lost from sight. “You have no idea where he’s gone or why?”
DeWitt took the place beside her. “He’s returning on Saturday, and not just so Portia can have her way with him.”
Hecate had a sense of having come into the middle of a play, and not the play she was expecting to see. “I beg your pardon?”
“Portia has a plan, involving notes and secluded corners and convenient discoveries. I was on the terrace outside the library last night when she mentioned the generalities.”
Why must the Bromptons always be so, so… Brompton-ly? “Have you any specifics?” Phillip would come back in time to do the pretty at the grand ball and find himself embroiled not only in scandal, but in scandal and matrimony.
“Flavia would know the particulars. I caught only part of the conversation.”
“You will please resume lurking on terraces and at keyholes to the best of your ability, Mr. DeWitt. Portia tried such a scheme last year and nearly ruined Flavia’s reputation as a result. Fortunately, I overheard the maids whispering about a locked linen closet, used a hairpin to good advantage, and thwarted the scheme fifteen seconds before Mayfair’s biggest gossips would have arrived to seal Flavia’s fate.”
“I gather the gossips were not in the script?”
“Portia was supposed to find a certain viscount in unseemly proximity to Flavia and to promise silence in exchange for coin. She hadn’t counted on other young ladies and their chaperones taking an interest in the young man’s whereabouts, or noticing that he was absent from the ballroom as the supper waltz approached.”
DeWitt rose and held out a hand. “Poor planning, just as she ought not to have been plotting her reprise near open windows. I’ve worked with directors like her. Frequently in error and seldom in doubt, as the saying goes. Shall we to breakfast? One wants fortification against the challenges of the coming day.”
Hecate allowed him to aid her to rise, and she found him a good conversationalist over breakfast. When a footman brought her a note informing her that Lord Nunn requested the favor of her presence in his study, DeWitt made it clear he would escort her abovestairs as well.
Not merely an ally, then, but a bodyguard, simply because Phillip had requested it. “You and Lord Phillip are friends,” she said as they left the breakfast parlor. “Not merely neighbors?”
“Phillip is a few years my senior, and I have no brothers. My father was making the transition from merchant to aspiring gentry, and what he knew best—business—was not what I needed to know to become the first bona fide DeWitt country squire. Phillip knew. He somehow just knew, and he was patient with my questions.”
“Who taught Phillip?” And what could Nunn possibly want that was of enough moment to justify an after-breakfast summons?
“The staff at Lark’s Nest, from the boot-boy to the steward to the dairyman and the goose girl, were and are devoted to him. They became his family and his champions, and the neighbors did as well. He is our Phillip. For years, he was our Mr. Heyward, a bit singular in his habits, but always willing to lend a hand or a team or a plow. London doesn’t deserve him, and if Mayfair fails to appreciate him, then all of Crosspatch Corners will decry polite society’s folly.”
What would that be like, to have a whole village shaking its figurative finger at Mayfair’s hostesses? How would it feel to know that same whole village offered an unconditional welcome, no matter how far or long Phillip wandered?
“This is Nunn’s study,” Hecate said, stopping outside a paneled door. “Thank you for your company, Mr. DeWitt.”
DeWitt bowed. “Phillip will return, and until then, I am to let you out of my sight only if Mrs. Roberts, trusted staff, or Nunn accompanies you. You’ll summon me when you’ve completed your business with the earl?”
Hecate wanted to say that Phillip had overreacted, that Johnny wouldn’t force himself on her, but she recalled all too clearly that insulting, assessing stare he’d turned on her twelve hours ago.
“I will summon you. Go linger near open windows and lurk at keyholes.”
“While avoiding the near occasion of locked linen closets.” He waited until Hecate had knocked and been admitted, and he was still lounging across the corridor when she closed the study door.
“One cannot find proper rest in the country,” Portia said, dropping a third lump of sugar into her tea. “The wretched birds, the bellowing cows, the neighing horses… I forget what sheep do—something that begins with a B—but it’s most unpleasant to the ear. They all make such a racket, and then the sun is so disgustingly bright and at such an unspeakably early hour. I vow my head will never recover from this enforced rustication.”
Flavia, who had made it out of bed and even changed into a morning dress, regarded her from the escritoire by the window.
“Drink your tea, Porry. Whether we are in Town or the wilds of Hampshire, you are never fit company until your third cup. Though as to that, what were you thinking, sampling the brandy last night?”
Portia had done more than sample the brandy. She’d allowed Johnny to be a bad influence, at which he apparently excelled. Between them, they’d downed a considerable portion of Nunn’s library stock.
“A nightcap aids with sleep,” Portia said, stirring her tea. “Any dowager admits as much. If you must scold me, please keep your voice down.”