The Duke's Last Hunt (10 page)

“Yes, well, I didn’t know I would be staying, did I?” replied Henry good-naturedly, aware that most men in his position did not bother justifying their actions to their valet. After stripping off his old clothes, he pulled a clean shirt over his head and reached for his waistcoat. “Did you complete that commission I sent you before you left London?”

“Yes,” said Biggs, looking at his master’s hessians with a frown. The abuse they had received in the last three days without their nightly cleaning was unconscionable. “Madame said she had just the thing, ready-made for a display piece, and would tailor it to your specifications.”

“And can it get here tomorrow?” asked Henry, fastening the last button of the waistcoat.
That
was the essential question.

“It can, my lord. I made special arrangements for a courier.”

“Good man, Biggs,” said Henry, patting his valet on the back. He chose a gray suit to go with the rose colored pattern of the waistcoat.

A knock sounded on the door. It was Frederick, eager to help Henry dress for dinner. “Thank you, my dear fellow,” said Henry, “but my man Biggs has arrived from London so I shan’t have to impose upon you any longer.”

“Oh, yes, Lord Henry,” said the footman, crestfallen. “It weren’t an imposition though. I hope I never implied as much.”

“Not at all,” said Henry generously. “If I could have two valets, I would.”

“’Tis all right,” said Frederick, putting a brave face on it, “and just as well, for I have the day after tomorrow on leave for my sister’s wedding.”

“Best wishes to your sister,” said Henry, lifting his chin as Biggs adjusted his cravat. Must you travel far for it?”

“Nah,” said Frederick, “just a morning’s walk up the countryside. She’s marrying the village baker—don’t know as he’s good enough for her, but he’s a good baker, right enough.”

“Ah,” said Henry, his store of politeness nearly exhausted.

Biggs turned a quelling look at the younger man, his bald pate glowing with displeasure at the footman’s presumption. “If you please, young fellow….”

“Oh, of course,” said Frederick with a sheepish grin, and he ducked out the door to resume his other duties.

As Biggs tied the last knot in the neckcloth, a final question occurred to Henry. “Biggs, what color was the display piece at Madame’s shop?”

“Green, sir.”

Henry smiled as he shrugged into his tight-fitting jacket. Green was the best he could have hoped for. It would set off her eyes beautifully.

10

W
hen Eliza finally gathered the courage to leave her room, the gong had begun to sound. Her mother was still ill, but her father met her on the stairs and gave her a cheerful smile and a pat on the arm. “How are you doing, my dear?”

“As well as can be, Papa.” There was no time to elaborate further on the subject. And besides, the smell of alcohol on his breath did not encourage confidence.

Mr. Curtis took her in at dinner, and she was happy to note that she would be on the opposite side of the table from Lord Henry. This precluded him talking to her in an over-familiar manner, but it did not preclude him from staring. She self-consciously dropped her eyes every time he tried to catch them—by the end of the dinner she had vastly improved her acquaintance with Harrowhaven’s dishes and cutlery. She did manage to notice, however, that Lord Henry’s suit was of as smart a cut as she had ever seen in London, a far cry from the tight blue jacket he had worn two nights ago. His valet must have arrived. She looked down at her plate once again. It made her feel even dowdier in her re-worked green silk.

The duke sat at the head of the table as far from his mother as possible. He did not speak much throughout the course of the dinner—indeed, the brunt of the conversation was left to Adele and Mr. Curtis, who seemed only too happy to oblige—and Rufus seemed impatient, agitated. He gestured for the footman to refill his wine glass several times, and as soon as it was full it was empty again.

“Our guests will be here soon,” Adele tittered as the ladies rose to remove to the drawing room. “Don’t be too long with your port, gentlemen.”

“Of course not!” said Mr. Blount gallantly, giving the ladies a bow as they disappeared.

“I’m going for a ride,” Eliza heard Rufus say curtly just before the doors swung shut. So he would not be joining the party this evening? She was not sure if she was feeling a pang of disappointment or a pang of guilt at her lack of regret. It seemed to fit, however—she could not quite imagine the duke enjoying himself with amusements Adele had devised.

“Eliza!” Adele was calling her from across the room. “Have you ever played Buffy Gruffy?”

“No,” said Eliza, instantly apprehensive. Her mother had never allowed games to be played, and the few times she had observed them at the homes of acquaintances, she had never wished to join in.

“Well, it’s time you learned,” said Adele. “Stephen, that is to say,
Mr. Blount
suggested it, and I think it is a marvelous idea.”

“Be kind to Miss Malcolm,” said the duchess, retiring to the corner with a book to provide the requisite chaperonage for tonight’s entertainment.

“Oh, but of course, Mother,” said Adele. The sparkle in her eyes did not fill Eliza with reassurance.

The gentlemen—Mr. Blount, Mr. Curtis, and Lord Henry, sans the duke and Eliza’s father—rejoined them just as Adele’s friends from the local gentry were arriving. Adele presented Miss Ashbrook and Miss Cecil to Eliza. Miss Bertram was indisposed and unable to attend, but Miss Cecil’s brother Edward Cecil had accompanied them, making it four couples exactly—a fact that was disturbing to Eliza. Her mother had always warned that even numbers of young people boded ill.

Mr. Blount had never met their visitors before, but Mr. Curtis and Lord Henry were already acquainted with them.

“You’re looking very modish tonight,” said Miss Ashbrook to Lord Henry. “I love a well-tied cravat.”

“Then I’m certain you would prefer Robert’s to mine,” said Lord Henry with a hint of irony in his voice. He gestured to his half-brother who was across the room conversing with the Cecil siblings. “That Oriental knot he’s sporting is the
pink
of fashion.”

“Oh, well you know, it all matters how one wears it,” said Miss Ashbrook, lowering her voice to a murmur as if her words were only meant for Henry Rowland.

Eliza, standing a few feet away, found herself suddenly curious just who this Phoebe Ashbrook was. She cast an appraising eye over the young lady and saw a brown-haired girl of average height, with an average figure, and an average countenance. There was nothing remarkable about Miss Ashbrook, at least not at first glance. But then, Eliza had never flattered herself that
she
was a particularly remarkable character either. Beauty, as the old saying went, was in the eye of the beholder. Eliza found herself transfixed by the beholder’s eyes, trying to fathom how much of Miss Ashbrook’s beauty they were appreciating.

“I suppose one might say the same of a lady’s gown,” said Lord Henry with a wry smile. Miss Ashbrook simpered at this no doubt expecting a compliment, but Eliza saw Lord Henry’s eyes dart in her direction instead. “Miss Malcolm wears her green gown remarkably well, don’t you think?”

“Oh…yes, of course,” replied Miss Ashbrook, disappointment registering in her face.

That disappointment only increased as Lord Henry sidestepped her to address himself to Eliza.

“I trust your headache has dissipated, Miss Malcolm?”

“Yes,” said Eliza. “For the most part.” She had forgotten about the headache’s existence. She lightly pressed her fingertips to her temple to add some verisimilitude to her malady.

“In all the time I spent with you in London, I never recall you suffering from a headache.” Lord Henry’s eyes gleamed.

He was teasing her, perpetuating that odious falsehood he had created on the first day of their acquaintance. It was as plain as day to him that she had feigned the headache to avoid the difficult decision between riding with Rufus or picnicking with him. Not that it had been a difficult decision—she would choose a picnic over mounting a horse any day of the week. But she had not wanted to offend the duke—or cause her mother more grief by encouraging the wrong man.

“Perhaps I’m not used to all this wholesome country air,” replied Eliza. She felt strangely emboldened in this room full of strangers. “But surely you must remember the time I went home ill from the opera—I had a most decided headache then.”

“Ah, how could I have forgotten?” replied Lord Henry, not missing a step in this farcical dance. “
Artaxerxes
, was it not?”

“Indeed.” Eliza inclined her head.

Miss Ashbrook, who would not be ignored any longer, advanced to Lord Henry’s elbow. “Everyone is here. Shall we choose a game to play?”

“I know!” said Mr. Cecil, a pleasant-faced fellow with black curls. “Let’s have a round of Musical Magic, yes?”

Adele, the empress of the evening, agreed to his suggestion, and the young people swiftly set up a circle of chairs. Eliza saw the Duchess of Brockenhurst look up from her reading briefly and then return to her book once she saw that the young people were beginning their entertainment. Miss Ashbrook took the seat directly to the right of Henry Rowland, and Eliza found herself seated between Miss Cecil and her brother, Mr. Cecil.

Mr. Cecil had chosen the game, so it was his prerogative to go first. The group banished him from the drawing room and, in his absence, selected a goal for him to achieve. He must snuff the large candle sitting on the table by the door. When he returned, Adele began to hum a popular Irish air and the rest joined in. Eliza was relieved to find that she knew the song. She looked over to Lord Henry and saw that he was merely observing the scene with an amused look. Apparently he was content to let the ladies make the music.

As Mr. Cecil returned to his chair and moved farther from the candle, the humming grew softer. He stood up again and walked back to the door. The humming crescendoed with every step. Unsure of his object, he knocked once on the door. The ladies shook their heads and continued humming.

He stepped sideways and found himself directly in front of the table as the humming increased to a frantic pitch. He opened a book that lay on the table. Again the ladies shook their heads, their lips continuing to buzz out the Irish air like an angry swarm of bees.

The only other item on the table was the candle. “Aha!” said Mr. Cecil, and with a swift pinch of the fingers he snuffed the wick.

The humming ceased immediately. “Bravo, Edward!” said Mr. Cecil’s sister. “Shall we have another round?”

Eliza’s stomach tightened. She hoped no one would propose her as the next participant—or rather, the next victim—for this game. To be the center of attention in front of this group…her stomach turned somersaults inside of her and her knuckles tightened around the arms of the chair in which she sat.

When Miss Cecil offered to go next, Eliza’s fingers relaxed and she breathed a sigh of relief. Miss Cecil was a proficient player. She approached the stool by the fire without much difficulty and promptly sat on it when the music cued her to do so.

Eliza faced another moment of uncertainty and creeping dread until Mr. Curtis offered to be the next sacrificial lamb. The group decided that he must pull his pocket watch out of his vest and open it, a difficult maneuver to execute with only the volume of the humming to instruct him. After nearly ten minutes of trying to understand his goal, Mr. Curtis returned to his chair, lifted his coattails, and sat down testily, averring that he had had
enough
of this silliness.

“Oh, come now, Robert,” said Adele, wrinkling her nose. “You will ruin all our fun with your peevishness.” She turned to the gentleman next to her. “Mr. Blount, shall we put
you
to the test and have one more round? Leave the room, and no listening at the door while we discuss!”

“As my lady commands,” said Mr. Blount.

Eliza thought it was remarkably good-natured of him to stomach being ordered about in such a manner.

“Now then,” said Adele, dropping her voice to a stage whisper, “we must choose an action for Mr. Blount to accomplish. What do you suggest?”

“Let him open that window,” said Miss Cecil, gesturing toward the far wall of the drawing room.

“Too simple,” said Adele dismissively.

“Let him stand on one leg,” said Mr. Cecil.

“Even simpler.”

“Perhaps he should kiss one of the ladies’ hands?” offered Miss Ashbrook slyly. Her suggestion was met with giggles.

“But whose?” said Miss Cecil, affecting an innocent gasp.

“Adele’s?” said Miss Ashbrook. “It is
her
party.” She smiled at her friend complicitly, and Adele returned the smirk.

Eliza reddened around the cheekbones. No wonder her mother disapproved of parlor games.

“I object!” said Lord Henry. “If this were my party, I would most certainly
not
want Mr. Blount kissing my hand. A simple bow to my sister should suffice, should it not?”

Adele snorted. “Henry!” She tapped her foot in annoyance, and Eliza noticed that her face, when irritated, looked markedly similar to her half-brother Robert’s.

The duchess looked up from her solitary book reading in the corner of the room. “Adele, my love. This game is played out. Choose something else.”

It was not a suggestion.

Adele huffed momentarily, then called in a firm voice for Mr. Blount to return.

“Have you selected my task?” he asked, surprised to hear no music being hummed.

“We’re changing the game,” said Adele curtly. “What was it you asked to play earlier? Buffy Gruffy?”

Eliza squirmed in her chair. The name of the new “amusement” sounded no more promising than the last. What embarrassments lay in store with this next game? At least the duchess was a vigilant chaperone—perhaps
some
decorum might be maintained….

* * *

Henry rose from his chair
as Adele took the floor to explain the new game to everyone. He watched Miss Malcolm touch her hand to her head—either this activity was causing her some distress, or her fictitious headache had returned to her in earnest.

“How amusing!” said Miss Ashbrook. “If Mr. Blount does not mind, I shall go first.”

“Of course not,” said Stephen.

Henry saw Miss Ashbrook’s brown eyes sparkle with a hidden purpose.

“You must cover your eyes,” said Adele, looking about for a suitable blindfold.

“I shall use my shawl,” said Miss Ashbrook, shrugging the long piece of fabric off of her shoulders.

“Are you sure,” asked Mr. Curtis, squinting to see better, “that it is not too sheer?” Henry had been thinking the very same thing.

“Oh, no,” replied Miss Ashbrook, tying it over her eyes. “I cannot see a thing, I promise you.”

After Miss Ashbrook was effectually blinded, Adele signaled the rest of the group to rise to their feet, and in a disorderly jumble of whispers and giggles, they rearranged themselves so that Miss Ashbrook should not know their locations.

Henry managed to place himself next to Miss Malcolm. “Hello,” he whispered. She gave him a nervous smile, her hands folding and unfolding. It did not take an Oxford scholar to understand that Miss Malcolm did not like games of this sort.

“Are you all ready?” demanded Miss Ashbrook, and hearing nothing to the contrary she spun around thrice in the center of the circle. Then, putting her hands in front of her, she slowly walked forward till her slippers trod upon the toes of the person in front of her—Henry’s toes.

Yes, thought Henry, that scarf was decidedly too sheer. Miss Ashbrook could see straight through it and had homed in on him on purpose. And now, she had the opportunity to ask him three questions to “guess” his identity.

“Where do you hail from?” she asked.

Henry affected an accent but answered truthfully as the game required. “Och, London, but Sussex originally.”

“What brings you back to Sussex?” Her pink lips curved up into a smile.

Henry debated how much to reveal. “A bonnie lass, I reckon.”

Miss Cecil and Adele sent out a peal of laughter while Stephen and Robert shook their heads at his audacity. Henry sent a sideways glance at Miss Malcolm, but she was looking in decidedly the other direction, head held high, cheeks scarlet.

“How long are you planning to stay in the neighborhood?”

“As lang as I am wanted,” replied Henry promptly. Miss Malcolm would still not look his way.
Was
he wanted? It was difficult to tell.

“I will guess who you are then,” said Miss Ashbrook, putting one hand on her hip. “You are Lord Henry Rowland, are you not?”