Page 56 of Miss Dashing
“You laughed at Johnny’s jokes,” DeWitt said. “I did, too, and the ladies positively swooned over him.”
Hecate had not swooned, though Phillip was looking forward to hearing her reaction to her cousin’s arrival. That assumed she didn’t fall asleep at her vanity and skip their usual assignation altogether. She was getting as little rest as Phillip, and while the nights were lovely, they were also deucedly short.
“One is supposed to be polite,” Phillip said. “As best I recall, commandeering the attention of the whole company for better than an hour is not polite.”
“He’s been gone ten years. Let him make his entrance.”
DeWitt had been off in the provinces for two years. Had anybody greeted him with one-fifth the enthusiasm Cousin Johnny merited?
“Iwatchthe gossip,” Phillip said. “I don’t participate in it, and my question is always: What is the motive here? Is an exchange driven by malice, concern, curiosity, or—Crosspatch Corners is a rural English village, after all—simple boredom?”
“I vote boredom,” DeWitt said. “Polite society is frequently as bored as it is boring, much like village society. I will be glad to leave this place.”
And get back to what? Ignoring his sister the marchioness making sheep’s eyes at her new husband? Memorizing plays he’d never perform? Standing up with the village beauties at the next assembly? A farmer was never at a loss for six different pressing tasks to choose from, while a gentleman was to take pride in idleness.
The concept still baffled Phillip, though he’d had better than a week to watch the likes of Charlie Brompton and the Corvisers do just that.
“I am fortunate,” Phillip said as the dark outline of the summer cottage came into view. “I am fascinated by such mysteries as why a speckled hen does not always lay speckled eggs, but a red hen can lay eggs that are both russet and speckled. Breeding comes into it, but it doesn’t explain the whole puzzle.”
“A mystery for the ages,” DeWitt said. “All I know is, I don’t like Cousin Johnny. Behind all that bonhomie, he’s gauging the audience’s reaction, keeping an eye on the till, and upstaging the rest of the troupe.”
“If he inspires Portia to cease her histrionics,” Phillip said around a yawn, “then he’s welcome to teach the lot of us all the latest Canadian drinking songs.”
They climbed the steps and let themselves into the darkened dwelling. No fires were lit in the grates, no lamps left burning, and Phillip liked it that way. Too much artificial light, and a man got out of step with the rhythm of the sun, moon, and stars.
“Portia was whispering with Flavia in the library when I arrived for supper,” DeWitt said, tossing his key into a porcelain bowl on the sideboard. “I went in there to return a volume of poetry Miss Hecate found for me, and those two were stirring some cauldron of mischief known only to them.”
“Probably what they do best. Setting their caps for their handsome cousin, no doubt. God in heaven, I am tired.”
“Come fishing with me.” DeWitt’s voice sounded wistful in the darkness. “Let those mend wall who will be paid for it.”
“My wages go to Mrs. Riley, newly delivered of a healthy girl child. Besides, Henry hasn’t the knack of mending wall, and if you do it wrong, you just have to make the same repair after the next hard winter. He’s learning from me, and his education is far from complete. Will you go fishing in the morning?”
“The horse race is tomorrow. I had Roland sent down from Twidboro Hall at the beginning of the week for the express purpose of upholding the honor of the Berkshire gentry.”
“I noticed your colt napping in the shade today. Has he had enough time to recover from the journey?”
“Knackered and winded, Roland can beat anything on the Nunnsuch estate. Care for a brandy?”
“I’d fall asleep before the third sip. I bid you good night.”
A horse race would liven up the day. Herne was fast—not as fast as Roland—but Herne also had bottom. The horse was tireless, well rested, and had a genius for gauging the distance to an obstacle.
Doubtless, Cousin Johnny’s charger was faster, smarter, and more athletic.
Phillip washed thoroughly and still caught a lingering whiff of that damned cologne he never should have purchased. Foul stuff. Made him smell like a dowager trying to hide a tendency to tipple.
He peeled out of his clothing, lay down on the bed, and gave himself up to waiting for Hecate’s arrival. Perhaps tonight they’d talk and nap and catch up on their rest. He really ought to be going to her, but that way lay… complications.
Portia lurking on the stairway, the Corvisers laying lewd wagers… Phillip dozed off to the image of Cousin Johnny Roman-riding up the drive, manly feet on the backs of a pair of donkeys. The scrape of a key in the lock of his French doors roused him.
He waited, more than ready to enjoy the pleasure of simply holding Hecate. He longed to feel her weight asleep on his chest, to hear her voice in the darkness…
Footsteps trailed away from the door, and he realized that she’d likely found him asleep and decided to leave him to his slumbers.
Bollocks to that. He rose and pulled on shirt, stockings, and breeches, then shoved his feet into his oldest pair of boots. A dark jacket completed his ensemble and off he went in pursuit of his beloved.
Only to stop at the foot of the garden steps as Cousin Johnny’s voice cut across the darkness.
