Friends and Foes (6 page)

Philip reached the garden more quickly than he would have thought possible considering the coldness of the air and the decidedly muddy state of the grounds—Wilson would likely tender his resignation when he caught sight of Philip’s mud-caked Hessians. He’d simply have to explain to the man that such things happen in war.

He turned the first corner of the winter-stripped garden in time to hear a rather unladylike curse muttered in a decidedly feminine voice. So Sorrel not only fought like a soldier—she had the vocabulary of one. That ought to put to rest any worries he had of offending her sensibilities.

He rounded the next corner fully expecting to find his opponent ready for a brawl. Philip had not thought to find her standing stock still, leaning heavily on her cane, her gloved hand rubbing at her right hip. He could tell the instant she became aware of his presence. She rose up to her full height—an inkling of pain entered her expression that he vaguely remembered seeing before—and glared at him.

“Lord Lampton,” she offered with cold civility.

“Miss Kendrick,” Philip replied, matching her tone. “I see the cold has not kept you indoors as it has the rest of the party.”

“I found myself in need of exercise.”

“You are an advocate of exercise, then?” Philip tried to look his haughtiest, lest she think she’d gotten the upper hand with her underhanded comments the evening before.

Sorrel let out a small puff of air and shrugged dismissively. “I have little choice,” she replied and resumed her slow, awkward walk.

“And how is it, Miss Kendrick, that you find yourself forced into exertion?” Philip easily caught up with her and curtailed his stride to match hers, swinging his quizzing glass as he sauntered.

“I have discovered in recent years that limps are rather like dogs, my lord,” Sorrel answered. “If they aren’t regularly walked, they tend to act up.”

“So you are here at the behest of your limbs.”

“My aching, throbbing, uncooperative limb, yes.” Sorrel seemed to grimace but immediately recovered. “That and the fact that I cut quite a dash with this cane of mine.”

Philip almost allowed a smile. He’d made similar inane comments thousands of times, though he always managed to keep all hints of bitterness out of his voice. Sorrel hadn’t been able to. How was it possible that she could be so very frustrating and intriguing at once?

“I have to concede that you do have very good taste in canes,” Philip said, indicating his own nearly identical one.

Sorrel looked at his cane and then into Philip’s face, and, for a split second, he thought she would smile at him. She didn’t.

Lampton War Tactic Number Eight: One must contemplate a new strategy when dealing with an enemy whose smile, or
almost smile,
throws off one’s equilibrium, no matter how briefly.

Perhaps he needed to embrace anew his former strategy. Sorrel had nearly smiled at him. She’d been borderline friendly. Maybe flirtation would be the best tactic, after all. Let her stone-cold heart flutter a little—it would do her good. It would do
him
good. She’d be forced to reevaluate her hasty opinion of him, or at least her own superiority, if she found herself entranced by a dandy. Ha!

“I understand your brother will be joining our ranks soon.” Philip dumped his cursed quizzing glass back in his waistcoat pocket and pursued an overtly friendly topic.

“He will be traveling with
your
brother, I believe,” Sorrel said. “Though I do not believe they were well acquainted before the journey was arranged.”

“Charlie is a good gun.” Philip allowed himself to smile at the thought of his youngest brother. “He’ll likely have your brother sworn to some mischief or another before their arrival.”

A noise strangely like a feminine chuckle escaped seemingly without Sorrel’s knowledge. She continued walking without acknowledging her strategic misstep—enjoying the company of the enemy was not a wise move. Philip reminded
himself
of that fact. Twice.

“One thing about your brother’s arrival intrigues me, Miss Kendrick.” Philip spoke as though they were the most unexceptional of companions with only friendly feelings between them.

Sorrel didn’t ask the obvious question. So she wouldn’t take the bait? Fine. He’d simply press on.

“You are named Sorrel. Your sister’s full name, I seem to remember, is Marjoram. Both herbs, I believe.”

“You have discovered our family secret, my lord,” Sorrel answered dryly. “We are all of us named for herbs. My father”—Now why had that word brought bitterness into her voice again?—“decided that his children would be named for something useful in the hope that we would emulate our namesakes.”

“Many parents name their children with just such an end in mind. Did your father’s plan prove more successful than most?”

“Ironically, yes.”

Why ironically?
Philip wondered.

“Marjoram, the herb, is sweet, rather universally liked, and is soothing to even the most dyspeptic of individuals.” Sorrel sighed rather wearily. “Marjoram, my sister, is exactly the same.”

“And what of sorrel?”

“Sorrel is known for being bitter and astringent. I am sure you will find the name and the description rather fitting.”

How did one respond to that? They continued in silence. Philip listened to the muffled sucking sound of Sorrel’s heavy-laden cane being thrust in and out of the mud and searched for something more to say. He couldn’t seem to bring himself around to flirting once more. Sorrel was supposed to be standoffish and contrary but seemed almost vulnerable in her self-castigation.

“Let me see if I can guess your brother’s name.” Philip assumed a very speculative look. “I’ve got it! Horseradish.”

“Horseradish?”

“Knotweed, perhaps?”

“Really, my lord.”

“Nutmeg? Peppermint? Poppy?”

“Why on earth would my brother be named Poppy?”

“You said your brother was also named for an herb. Though I believe a poppy is really a flower.”

“Poppy?” Sorrel said with an amused tremor in her voice. “Poppy! He would be mortified.”

Then, stopped still in her tracks, she laughed. A shoulder-shaking, grin-inducing laugh. Philip couldn’t help joining her.

“Poppy wasn’t right, then?” Philip pushed out amid his laughter.

Sorrel shook her head, her smile still brightening her face. Philip did his utmost not to notice her dimples. “Fennel. His name is Fennel.”

“And does his name suit him?” Philip still hadn’t wiped the smile from his face—he couldn’t seem to manage.

“Fennel was once believed to improve one’s sight, and my brother, I assure you, sees far more than one realizes—more than he ought to, in fact.”

“A visionary?”

“An astute observer.”

“Younger brothers do have a tendency to unearth secrets,” Philip replied.

“You have so many younger brothers you must have no secrets left.”

Referencing his brothers at first raised Philip’s hackles—Sorrel had accused him of being an irresponsible brother—but her smile appeared so genuine, he couldn’t help thinking she’d meant no affront.

“Not nearly as many secrets as I would have otherwise.”

Their walk continued in companionable silence, Sorrel’s expression oddly pleasant. Her cane continued poking holes in the soft soil, and her walk remained every bit as awkward as before, but she seemed more at ease.

His flirting tactic seemed to be working. Philip had to admit he wasn’t actually flirting but simply having an unexceptional conversation, which made it all the more exceptional. He was casually conversing with the enemy. The enemy!

Lampton War Tactic Number Nine:

No tactic existed for the unexpected situation. He could think of no immediate explanation or safeguard.

The arrival of a liveried footman saved Philip the bother of examining his unexpected situation. The footman bowed and held a folded piece of paper out to Philip. He took it and waited until the servant had made his way from the garden before eyeing the missive.

The letter had no direction scrawled across the front, no seal along the back. It hadn’t been posted. Only the name
Philip
graced the front of the page. He unfolded the note and read the few sentences inside.

Philip
,

Charlie and Fennel Kendrick have just arrived. Your youngest brother seems quite anxious to see you. Let us hope he has not concocted another of his schemes.

Mater

“Well, Miss Kendrick, it appears our brothers have descended upon us from Eton.” Philip refolded the note and slipped it in his coat pocket.

“Fennel?” An uncharacteristic eagerness entered Sorrel’s eyes. Philip found the change strangely endearing. He hadn’t yet seen Sorrel look pleasantly excited about anything. Was it possible there was a warm-hearted woman underneath the prickly exterior?

She spun around as if to head back toward the house. After a sudden, strange catch in her movement, Sorrel’s right leg seemed to give out and she crumpled to the ground. Another expression with which she ought not to have been familiar slipped past her lips. She cast her cane to the ground in front of her in obvious frustration and remained half-sitting, half-sprawled, on the ground.

“Miss Kendrick.” Philip squatted in front of her and held out his hand, an unspoken offer of assistance.

He expected some gratitude for his gesture. After their friendly chat, he assumed she’d smile the way she had before, dimples and all, and accept his offer. She didn’t.

Sorrel looked from Philip’s outstretched arm to his face, and her expression set in a scowl. As if Philip had never made his offer, Sorrel shifted very awkwardly forward, took hold of her cane, and struggled to her feet, all the while ignoring Philip’s very existence.

“Do you think that was absolutely necessary, Miss Kendrick?” Philip asked after Sorrel had settled herself on her feet. “I assure you I am quite capable of assisting a young lady to her feet.”

“And
I
am quite capable of getting to my own feet, Lord Lampton,” she snapped back. Her jaw appeared to clench, her glove pulled tight around the obviously tensed hand gripping her cane.

“Are you always so stubborn?” Philip demanded.

“Are you always so condescending?” she shot back.

Well, General Sorrel had returned with a vengeance.

Lampton War Tactic Number Nine: Ignore the smile. The enemy is always the enemy.

*   *   *

“Sorrel!”

She recognized Fennel’s voice immediately. Sorrel had hoped to change out of her now mud-stained coat or at least put more distance between herself and Lord Lampton, who would enter the house at any moment, before greeting her baby brother.

“You slipped?” Fennel eyed the enormous swath of mud across the side of Sorrel’s coat. “Our traveling coach spent half the journey sliding all over the roads. Charlie pulled out a bag of marbles, and we spent the last hour or so wagering in which direction they’d roll.”

“You wagered?” Sorrel asked in some alarm. She’d never known her brother to engage in anything remotely reckless.

Fennel grinned at her. “I have scandalized you, I see.” He slipped an arm around her shoulder; despite his being her baby brother, at fifteen Fennel already surpassed her in height. “We staked only the distinction of guessing correctly. Half the time we both predicted the same direction so it hardly mattered.”

“Yes. Well, Charlie
is
a great gun,” Sorrel replied with a minute roll of her eyes.

Fennel laughed. “Where’d you learn cant like that?”

“Charlie’s brother described him thus,” Sorrel answered.

“Which brother?” Fennel asked with obvious amusement. “According to Charlie, he has several dozen.”

From the doorway a familiar voice answered. “It often feels that way.”

Sorrel stiffened, knowing Lord Lampton had entered behind her. Fennel turned back toward the new arrival but kept a supportive arm across Sorrel’s shoulders, forcing her to turn as well.

“And which of the hundreds of Jonquils is this?” Fennel asked her with a smile.

“Fennel, this is the Earl of Lampton.” Sorrel made the introduction but avoided Lord Lampton’s gaze. “Lord Lampton, this is my brother, Fennel Kendrick.”

Fennel extended his free hand and heartily shook Lord Lampton’s. “Charlie speaks highly of you,” he said. “Highly and often.”

“There
is
a great deal to admire.” Lord Lampton shrugged as if praise of himself were an everyday occurrence.

Sorrel bit back a sharp reply. Fennel laughed.

“You, my lord, are precisely as Charlie described.”

“He mentioned my yellow waistcoat?” Lord Lampton tugged at the aforementioned article of clothing.

Fennel laughed once more.
Why,
Sorrel wondered,
does he find Lord Lampton so amusing?

“Charlie’s been anxious to see you, Lord Lampton,” Fennel said through his remaining chuckles. “He and Lady Lampton were on their way to the west sitting room, I think they said.”

“Thank you very much, Poppy,” Lord Lampton said, offering a quick bow and beginning to walk past them.

“Poppy?” Fennel repeated, still smiling as broadly as before.

“Your sister”—Lord Lampton inclined his head toward Sorrel—“told me your name was Poppy.”

“I did not,” Sorrel hotly replied.

“I am quite certain she did,” Lord Lampton said. “I tried to tell her that no self-respecting young man would appreciate such a pet name being generally known.”

“What a load of rubbish,” Sorrel grumbled.

“Perhaps, Miss Kendrick, you may add my tendency to tell a good tale to my otherwise humble list of affectations.” Lord Lampton winked at her and continued his exit.

Fennel chuckled. “Charlie said his oldest brother always says the most absurd things. He said the Earl is a good enough actor to grace Drury Lane if he wanted to.”

“Actor?” Sorrel asked, a little intrigued. “Do the Jonquils play a lot of charades, then?”

“I don’t know,” Fennel replied, walking toward the wide, wooden stairway with his arm firmly clasped around Sorrel’s shoulder. “Charlie just said his brother Philip is a good actor. I will confess I wanted to meet him just to figure out what Charlie meant.”