The Duke's Last Hunt Page 9

“No, thank you, your lordship. Very good of you.”

  Henry smiled. The woman’s face had a distinctively suspicious cast to it—he supposed that “good” was the antithesis of what she considered him. He wondered if Eliza had confided in her maid about the incident with Constance yesterday morning….

  “I have a book here that perhaps Miss Malcolm would like to borrow—something to pass the time.”

  The maid took the book and held it gingerly. Henry hoped that she would not leaf through it. It was a novel, although the plain cover concealed that fact admirably, an older book that he had enjoyed many years ago. The title was Pamela or Virtue Rewarded, and he hoped that the second of those names would pass muster with the sergeant in charge of this camp.

  “I look forward to seeing your mistress at dinner.”

  There was no response to that, so Henry retreated and allowed the maid to close the door. He snapped his fingers in frustration as he walked down the corridor. If only she had opened the door a little wider and let him catch a glimpse of the room’s occupant. At breakfast Miss Malcolm’s hair had been pulled up into a bun, with a few pieces falling down around her face. It was probably all unpinned now. He wondered if she really did have a headache—brought on by having to choose between Rufus’ plan and his own.

  The rest of the afternoon Henry whiled away playing billiards with his half-brother Robert and Sir Arthur. “So, Robert, I hear you’re in deep waters,” he said in an undertone while Sir Arthur was distracted with the decanter of brandy.

  “Who says so? Nonsense,” replied Robert. He squinted at the table and knocked a billiard ball into a hole with more force than he had hitherto exerted.

  “Mother says so. Rufus has your note? And it expires soon?”

  Robert waved a hand dismissively. “He’ll put a stay on the repayment—he has before. And with any luck, I’ll get him to invest some more in this engine I’ve told you about—I’ve got a sure thing, this time!” He laid down his billiards stick and brushed an invisible speck off his lace cuffs.

  Henry shrugged. “Suit yourself, Robert. But be advised that Rufus is by no means a benevolent philanthropist.”

  “I’m sorry, Henry,” said Robert, reading more into the comment than Henry had intended. “I cannot think of a more unfair event than two inheritances and three sons. Your father’s plan to provide for you made a mull of everything, and for that we must all be disappointed.”

  “Never mind that,” said Henry, in no way desirous or deserving of his half-brother’s pity.

  “Another game?” said Sir Arthur, sloshing his drink down onto a table in the corner and seizing upon an unclaimed billiards stick.

  “Of course,” said Robert.

  “Not I,” said Henry. “I want to see if my valet has arrived with my clothes—perhaps I will have something presentable to wear for dinner tonight.”

  Robert and Sir Arthur waved Henry good-bye as they set up the billiard balls. Henry went down the hallway and started up the stairs. He had just reached the landing by his brother Rufus’ portrait, when he heard Rufus himself in the entryway below. Rufus and Walter had been gone all day, either setting up the details of the upcoming hunt or shooting some fowl themselves.

  “Plenty of time to dress for dinner,” Henry heard Rufus remark. “I’ll have a bath first, I think.”

  “Good plan,” said Walter, giving a loud sniff and bursting into good-natured laughter. “Could you give my regrets to your mother? I’ll be dining elsewhere tonight.”

  “Oh?” said Rufus. Henry could not see the two men speaking, but Rufus’ voice had an edge to it. “With whom?”

  “Some friends from the village,” replied Walter vaguely.

  “You mean Reverend Ansel?”

  “Why, yes, if you must know.”

  “Why so secretive about it?”

  “I simply thought it would be of no concern to you.”

  “But of course it is a concern to me. That man’s lobbying to allow public access to the strip of forest alongside the church. I won’t have a bunch of farmers and village brats frightening off the game. What motive does he have for inviting you to dinner?”

  “Friendship, I’m sure. I grew up around here, the same as you did, Rufus. You would not begrudge me a simple invitation to dine with the Reverend and his family?”

  Henry could hear Rufus’ foot tapping impatiently. “Hmm…well, all right. But I warn you, I shan’t be swayed, no matter how much he tries to curry favor with you.”

  “Of course not,” said Walter placatingly. “Now go, take your bath, your grace. You stink worse than one of those farmers you so desperately want out of your woods.”

  They had walked through the saloon now and were approaching the stairs. Henry took a deep breath, threw back his shoulders, and stood out of their way on the landing. Rufus walked past him without a word, but Walter paused, somehow aware that he had been eavesdropping. “How about it, Henry? Join me for dinner at the Reverend’s?”

  “No,” said Henry evenly, “but you may give him my kind regards. And his family as well.”

  Walter shook his head slowly as if he could not believe the audacity of that remark. Then looking away, he spat vehemently on the flowered carpet covering the stairs.

  * * *

  Henry was delighted to discover that his valet had, in fact, expedited his pace to arrive at Harrowhaven with his luggage in time for dinner.

  “You ought to have brought me along in the first place, my lord,” said Biggs reproachfully. His bald head glowed with the exertion of hanging all of his master’s coats in the wardrobe in this warm room.

  “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

  When 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 himsel
f 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.