Page 43 of Miss Dashing
“You haven’t seen your father in how long, he arrives unannounced, and all you can think is: He will provoke a squabble with Edna. And yet, you lay your fortune at the feet of such as these?” She patted Hecate’s shoulder and made for the buffet.
Hecate was not especially glad to see Papa, true, but then, he wasn’t her papa, and that always lay between them. And he would most assuredly provoke a squabble with Edna, while casting subtle aspersions on Charles, Eglantine, their children, the weather, and every arrangement Hecate made for the comfort of Nunnsuch’s guests.
“But he’s the only papa I have,” she muttered, not as satisfied with that defense as she should have been.
“What do we know of Isaac Brompton?” Phillip asked from the depths of a luscious, tepid bath. Haying meant chaff got everywhere, but clearing a ditch was usually dusty work. The resulting blisters were different, too, if a fellow hadn’t done either job in some time.
“I don’t know much,” Gavin DeWitt replied, opening Phillip’s wardrobe. “A noted Corinthian in his younger days, occupied the fringes of the Carlton House set, the fringes of the Devonshire House set. Charming, particularly with the wives of his dearest friends, though he drew the line at daughters and housemaids. Parlayed his connection to the Brompton titled branch into an advantageous match to an heiress. Nothing unusual in that tale, save that he had no sons and only the one daughter, but then, his missus lasted a mere ten years or so.”
Phillip had brought the soap with him, a fine recipe with a meadowy, lavender grassy fragrance. “How do you recall such trivia?”
“The same way I recalled my lines onstage, I suppose. The details stick when I tell them to. Have you given any more thought to leaving?”
DeWitt was rehearsing that sentiment a bit too frequently. “I have lasted for the first week more or less and only blotted my copybook once with no apparent evil consequences.”
To get clean after a hard day’s work had to be one of the greatest pleasures known to man—though not the greatest. Not if that man had earned Hecate Brompton’s esteem. Phillip soaped his hair, dunked, and came up.
“Rinse, please.”
DeWitt obliged, then set aside the empty ewer. “Why hasn’t Winover sought his revenge yet? His pride demands that he make you publicly crawl.”
“I gave him the blue feather that secured his victory in the scavenger hunt. I’m fairly certain he now thinks I’m so backward that to punish me would amount to kicking the dog.” Phillip rose. “Towel.”
DeWitt threw a wadded-up cloth at his chest. “What has a blue feather to do with anything?”
“Portia was preparing a tantrum worthy of Mrs. Siddons over the fact that their team was short only the blue feather, which is, admittedly, not an item found in great abundance. But nesting season is behind us, and Hecate—Miss Brompton—considered the grounds when she made up the scavenger list.”
“And?”
“House martins have blue feathers, and they nest on dwellings, barns, sheds… usually several nests on one building. Those searching need not comb the whole park, they had only to look as far as the stable, the laundry, the drying shed, the springhouse, the summer kitchen… Miss Brompton’s list was meant to be challenging but fair. I gave Winover several blue feathers, knowing those to be the object most difficult to find on the whole list.”
Phillip stepped from the tub, feeling refreshed, relaxed, and in charity with the world. Tonight’s supper was another buffet—he much preferred those to any other sort of company meal—and he and Hecate had plans for the end of the evening.
“Have you ever considered pugilism?” DeWitt said, eyeing Phillip’s naked frame. “You’d put the fear of a hard right into many of Jackson’s acolytes.”
“You try wrestling with a contrary draft mare when she’s not inclined to tolerate a manicure. You’d sprout a few muscles too. I do not understand why a manly physique is fashionable if the fellow got his strength through idle pursuits, but not if he earned his power in honest labor.” Phillip finished toweling off and embarked on the dressing nonsense.
Sleeve buttons, cravat pin, and watch must all match. Embroidery could be lavish, but lace had to be tastefully restrained, despite neither embroidery nor lace adding one whit to a garment’s serviceability. Footwear must be polished to a high shine, though ostentatious shoe buckles were inadvisable.
“I still think we should leave,” DeWitt said, apropos of nothing. “You might have convinced Winover that you’re dicked in the nob, but Portia and Flavia are another matter.”
Phillip began the careful process of tying a starched cravat just so. What the starch added, besides some work for the laundry and itchiness for the wearer, he did not know, but Hecate liked to see him all tidied up almost as much as she enjoyed seeing him half naked.
If the day ended as planned, she’d see even more of him than that.
“Don’t smile at Portia like that,” DeWitt said, neatly folding the towel Phillip had draped over the back of the vanity stool. “She’s already casting dark looks your direction.”
“Portia is frustrated. She considers herself to be prettier than Hecate Brompton, smarter, more socially astute, younger, in every way the more estimable creature, and yet, she lacks coin, and thus she hasn’t one-tenth the consequence her cousin has. That is unfair, and from a certain perspective, Portia is correct.”
“Portia is a scheming, devious minx who has designs on your future.”
Phillip dragged a comb through his hair and tied his locks back with a black ribbon. “Will I do?”
“Damnably well.”
“You and Mrs. Roberts have been exchanging veiled glances for the past week,” Phillip said. “Either cease being so obvious, or invite the lady to admire the roses by moonlight and clear the air.”
DeWitt shook his head. “There is no clearing the air, and we are not being obvious. You will be on your best behavior with Isaac Brompton.”
