Page 78 of Miss Dashing
“You fancy Johnny because you know you cannot have him,” Flavia said, retrieving Portia’s half-empty tea cup from the tray and passing it over. “I grant you, he’s a splendid specimen, and he can be charming, and cousins do marry, but Johnny is apparently set on gaining the family fortune.”
Portia finished her tea, unable to dismiss Flavia’s observation entirely. “Johnny has dash and daring, two qualities one does not often find among the Mayfair tulips. All that time in the wilderness honed his courage, no doubt.”
Flavia took the empty tea cup from her. “Shall you wash, Porry?”
Portia took a sniff in the general direction of her armpit. “I’ll have a bath later. I want to do one more draft of my notes.”
Flavia held out a hand for Portia’s nightgown. Flavia would have made a good lady’s maid, which was a cheering thought. When Portia was married to Lord Phillip, she might keep Flavia around as a sort of unpaid companion. Many spinster sisters dwelled with a married sibling and made themselves useful despite having neither husband nor children of their own.
“If you are done with your tray, make use of the toothpowder, please,” Flavia said, folding up Portia’s nightgown and placing it beneath the pillows. “All in your ambit will thank you, and you might consider ringing for some parsley.”
“Don’t be half-witted. Chewing parsley makes me bilious. Have a look at my notes. Tell me what you think. They’re in the drawer of the escritoire.”
Flavia obliged. She was a better speller than Portia, but she apparently found nothing to correct.
“You will lure Johnny to the gallery?” Flavia set the notes aside. “On the night of the ball, the gallery will be lit. It’s a public room with lovely views from the balcony. Half the shire will be milling around there at some point in the evening.”
“Which is why I’ve asked for Johnny to post at eight of the clock, before the guests start to arrive, when everybody will be rushing around, making last-minute preparations, servants everywhere. Our mistake before was not waiting until enough witnesses were on hand.”
“But the gallery? If Hecate is admiring Great-Uncle Nunn’s portrait, and Johnny is across the room, perusing the painting of him and Emeril in their regimentals, nobody will find that in the least compromising. Johnny and Hecate are cousins, and she’s on the shelf.”
Flavia, in the venerable tradition of blind hogs, had a point. “Hecate wouldn’t ask Johnny to meet her in a linen closet.” Portia tried to sort through other possibilities, but Flavia’s nattering, the bright sunshine, and the hopeless, infernal birdsong conspired to rob her of her powers of concentration.
“Let’s do your hair,” Flavia said. “A loose braid to start with and a low bun.”
“Like a governess?”
“Your head pains you.” Flavia picked up the brush and ran her thumb across the bristles. “You are always cross when your head pains you. I thought only of your comfort when I suggested the style, Porry.”
Portia took a seat on the vanity stool. “Go gently with that brush. You are correct. The fresh country air has given me the worst head.”
Portia was admiring her reflection in the cheval mirror—a tot or three of brandy really had very little effect on a lady’s appearance, after all—when it occurred to her that Hecate’s bedroom had no parlor. Flavia was always borrowing things. If Johnny was lured to Hecate’s bedroom, and Hecate was inspired to visit the same location, and Flavie—accompanied by Portia, of course—took a notion to borrow something from Hecate’s jewelry box at the opportune moment…
“You are looking a little more the thing,” Flavia said. “Still a bit pale, but fashionably so.”
“I am, aren’t I? Fashionably pale. Well done of me.”
“You’ve had an idea. What are you planning, Portia Ariadne Brompton?”
Not even Hecate resorted to using Portia’s middle name. Perhaps Flavia would make a poor choice of unpaid companion after all.
“Whatever I plan, whatever I do, I am doing it for the greater good of the Brompton family, meaning I do it for you too, Flavia.”
Flavia took the vanity stool and pulled the ribbon from the end of her braid. “I know you will think badly of me for saying so, but I don’t like to hear you telling fibs. You want Hecate out of contention for Lord Phillip’s hand, and that means foisting Johnny off on her. She won’t like that, Johnny won’t like being manipulated even if he does get her money, and Lord Phillip… He won’t marry you, Portia. He’s not the sort to be duped by notes or schemes.”
“Perhaps not, but he’s the sort who will do the right thing by a lady’s reputation when the decision has been taken from his hands. The trouble with you, Flavia, is that you lack ambition and imagination. One can manage with only one or the other, but I have both, and I intend to use them.”
Flavia muttered something about having a little humility, but Portia elected not to hear her. Flavia meant well, but she truly was rather limited. Portia had until Saturday night to talk her sister ’round.
All the time in the world, when it came to convincing Flavia to comply with a scheme.
“Hecate, good morning. Do have a seat,” Nunn said, on his feet and very much on his dignity by the study’s windows.
To Hecate, Uncle Nunn had been a fixture, the patriarch harrumphing and scowling over the familial landscape, not malign, but certainly hard to warm up to. Morning light revealed him to be human, aging, perhaps even tired.
Good God, I can’t lose him too.Not now. A wife would be a little check on Johnny’s excesses, but Nunn’s consequence would have some real influence. Clubs would reject Johnny, hostesses and bankers would do likewise if Nunn asked them to.
“You are wondering why I intruded on what will be a very busy morning for you,” Nunn said, clasping his hands behind his back. “I began my day in the company of Lord Phillip, and he has delegated to me certain tasks.”
