Mistress of the Hunt (21 page)

“What, pray, is that, Cousin?” she asked coolly.

“That?” Miss Pellerin removed her silver pince-nez and gazed up with limpid innocence. “Why, ’tis nothing at all, the merest trifle.”

“Then you will not object to showing it to me, my dear ma’am.” Philippa held out her hand, looking down at the older lady in such a way as to make it clear that she would not be denied.

Frowning a little and shaking her head as much in annoyance with herself for having been caught out as for any other reason, Miss Pellerin extracted the sheet of paper and handed it over.

Philippa scanned the clumsily penciled note quickly, her indignation rising with every word. “Who dared to give this to you, ma’am?”

“Why, Bickerstaff did, of course, but you must not be angry with him, for he only did as I asked. That is not the first such missive we have received, you know, but when the first arrived, you were out somewhere, so he brought it to me, and I could not think that showing it to you would serve any good purpose. I made no doubt, in point of fact, that it would infuriate you, just as this one seems to have done. In any event, I instructed Bickerstaff to bring any future things of this sort to me.”

“How many have there been, Cousin Adeliza?”

“Oh, merely two or three,” that lady replied airily.

“I see. Did they each threaten harm to me and mine if I did not see reason, as this one does?”

“Oh, to be sure, none was precisely conciliating, my dear, but wild threats, you know, must not be taken too seriously. I am persuaded no one would truly wish harm to any of us.”

“Well, I cannot like it. Has Bickerstaff any notion who is sending them?”

“No, and they do not come through the post, as you can see. He merely finds them stuck in the door, and there was one in the grain wagon when they came back from Grantham with supplies for the stables. No one can think how it got there. I did ask Mr. Drake if he had any suggestion, you know, but he agreed with me that the least said, the soonest mended.”

“Mr. Drake? Was he here?”

“Well, you know he was, Philippa, for you spoke to him yourself.”

“Oh, yesterday. I had thought you meant today.”

“No, no, and I must say I take it very kindly in him that he has not aligned himself with Rochford over this business. He says there is plenty of hunting and that the affair is no concern of his. And he comes to visit as often as he did before, which when no one else does must be considered a point in his favor, you know.”

“Yes, of course,” Philippa said vaguely. “Do you know, ma’am, I had thought this nonsense would blow over rather more quickly than this.”

“Well, it hasn’t. Mr. Drake says poor Rochford has felt the force of it, too.”

“Rochford? How can that be?”

“Well, you see, my dear, the Melton Men seem to have come to the conclusion that he is somehow at fault for your behavior. I dare say you may thank Mr. Brummell or that rattle Alvanley for putting the notion in their heads. Mr. Drake says that however strongly they might pretend in public that his lordship is merely a victim like themselves, privately they are pressing him most urgently to do whatever he must to bring you to a more conciliating frame of mind. Some, Mr. Drake says, have even gone so far as to badger Rochford to organize a ladies’ hunt.”

Her words gave Philippa food for thought, but she had barely had time to consider whether either the Melton men or Rochford believed that a tame ladies’ hunt would satisfy her, before she had other matters to occupy her mind, for they had no sooner sat down at the dining-room table that evening than there was a clatter of wheels and horses’ hooves on the drive outside the window, and the sound of several masculine voices upraised in cheerful shouting.

“Mercy me!” exclaimed Miss Pellerin, exchanging a startled glance with Philippa. “Has there been an invasion?”

Jessalyn, forgetting her manners in the excitement of the moment, leapt from her chair and scurried to the tall, heavily draped window. That neither of the older ladies censured this unladylike conduct spoke volumes for their own curiosity. For her part, Philippa held her breath, watching the child as she pulled the heavy blue velvet curtains aside and peeped out the window.

Jessalyn let out a shriek of joy. “It is Edward! Edward is come. Oh, ma’am, may I go to him? Please.”

“You will do no such thing,” said Miss Pellerin firmly. “The very notion. You will sit down at the table and eat your dinner like a Christian, young lady, and we will hear no more about running out to meet what sounds like a whole cavalcade of gentlemen.”

“Well, there were at least four of them,” acknowledged Jessalyn, returning to her place with patent reluctance. “I daresay he has brought friends from school for hunting, and maybe to spend Christmas with us. ’Tis only a fortnight off, after all.”

Philippa had not said anything, but to say that she was delighted by her stepson’s arrival would have been to exaggerate the matter. Rather, she was dismayed. Whether Edward had come for the hunting, which was all too likely, or merely to spend Christmas in what was left of the bosom of his family, he could not be counted upon to take cheerfully the information that his stepmother had set herself against the whole of Leicestershire.

Nor did he. It was apparent before ever he opened his mouth upon entering the dining room that he had seen at least one of the signs. Young Lord Wakefield was in his eighteenth year and had been raised by an affectionate father and a succession of doting nannies to think himself quite a fellow. Even his years at Eton had done little to lower his opinion of himself, for he had had the good fortune to be very good at games and thus was able to escape most of the trials of being a less-than-brilliant scholar. He was of medium height, with curly blond hair, an athletic build, and a generally sunny temper; however, at the moment, his blue eyes were narrowed ominously, and his lips were pressed firmly together, bespeaking his displeasure.

Philippa spoke quickly. “How do you do, Edward? You ought to have sent word ahead, apprising us of your intended arrival. However, if you and your friends do not object to taking potluck, I daresay we can contrive to feed you. And pray, do not think you must change,” she went on hurriedly when he opened his mouth to speak. “We are quite
en famille
tonight and will not mind you all in your dirt. Will you not introduce your friends to us? You do remember my cousin Adeliza Pellerin, do you not?”

“Well, of course I do,” the young man said abruptly, but her rapid burst of words had served her purpose, for he had evidently recognized the unsuitability of speaking his mind before such an audience. He grimaced, shot her a look of intent, then turned to usher in the three gentlemen who had accompanied him. “That’s Winky—Lord Winkburn, that is,” he said, indicating the first of these, a young man whose neckcloth was rather taller than allowed for comfort and whose body one might have thought a trifle too chubby for the tight yellow pantaloons and bright green jacket he affected.

“How d’ye do?” he said, bowing stiffly, his cheeks reddening from the exertion.

Smiling at him, Philippa found herself wondering how on earth he had managed to ride a horse into Leicestershire from Oxford, but then she recalled the rattle of carriage wheels and deduced the Lord Winkburn had either driven himself or been driven. The others were introduced as Peter Dauntry, a slender young man whose eyes fairly popped out of his head at sight of his hostess, and Lord Reginald Partridge, a rakish gentleman with a blue-and-white Belcher handkerchief knotted casually around his throat.

“Son of old Walmsey, you know,” Edward added to the latter introduction.

“The Marquess of Walmsey, I collect.” Miss Pellerin nodded to the rakish gentleman, whose twinkling eyes and twitching lips gave Philippa to recognize a kindred spirit. The older lady added placidly, “I’ve known your papa and your dearest mama for years, young man, but I daresay you were always away at school when I chanced to visit Walmsey Hall.”

“Or locked in my bedchamber, more like,” replied Lord Reginald with an impudent grin. “Dashed if I didn’t spend most of my formative years on bread and water, ma’am.”

“But it was white bread and the purest spring water,” quipped Lord Winkburn dryly.

“Well, I can’t see that the diet did you any harm,” said Miss Pellerin. “Do sit down, gentlemen. Here is Bickerstaff, right behind you, to take your orders.”

“Something to wet our whistles, first off, man,” said Mr. Dauntry with an air of having dealt with the most important matter before he returned his admiring gaze to his hostess.

“Dash it, Pippa,” Edward said in an undertone as he drew near her chair, “I wish to speak to you. I cannot think—”

“Yes, Edward,” she replied quietly, “but not until after supper, if you please.”

He nodded curtly, moving to take his place at the head of the table, but she could not be astonished when he joined her not ten minutes after the ladies had left the gentlemen to enjoy their port. She had instructed Bickerstaff to direct him to her in the library, Miss Pellerin having kindly agreed to keep Jessalyn occupied in the drawing room until the other gentlemen arose from the table, at which time the child was to be sent off to bed.

“What sort of bumble-broth have you created, for God’s sake?” Edward demanded before he had even shut the door.

“Lower your voice, sir, and come into the room like a gentleman.”

“Dash it, Pippa, don’t try coming the stepmother over me. I won’t stand for it. Not when you’re less than eight years my senior.”

“Since I am also your principal trustee, Edward, it would behoove you to tread courteously when dealing with me,” she warned.

He pushed a hand through already tousled blond curls. “Dash it, how do you expect me to behave when I come into Leicestershire to find you’ve turned Chase Charley into a battlefield? You’ve embarrassed me before my friends and made me a dashed laughingstock. I came to hunt, but now I daresay Assheton-Smith and Lonsdale won’t let me within sight of their hounds.”

“Don’t be absurd, Edward. They will not blame you for my doings. They know only too well that I am their opponent in this matter.”

“Well, dash it, you’ve got to take those signs down at once, Pippa.”

She refused to yield, but she could not say, when she finally took leave of him, that she had succeeded in explaining her reasons or in mitigating his wrath with her.

In the week that followed, tempers at Chase Charley became more frayed than ever, and although Edward and his friends got in several days of hunting, they were given to understand that their company was suffered by the other hunters rather than enjoyed by them, making it clear that the ill feeling in the neighborhood was growing, not diminishing with time. By the end of the week Philippa would have liked nothing better than to rip down every one of her no-trespassing signs. The only thing that stopped her was that she could not do so without seeming to give in to Rochford. Even that, as a reason, now seemed insufficient.

He had not come with his uncle to collect Lucinda after lessons in nearly two weeks, and she missed his company. She even missed having a chance to argue with him, and it occurred to her that she had come to look upon his friendship as a necessity to her comfort. When his eyes had glowed with warmth, she had felt that warmth spread all through her body. And, she realized uneasily, when the gray eyes had turned chilly, she had felt the chill, as well. Until she had allowed her temper to set her against him, until she had taken offense at what everyone else considered to be a trifle exploded out of all proportion, she had enjoyed only the warm feelings. Now, on the other hand, since it had become clear that he had no intention of allowing her to force his hand, it seemed the chill was all that was left. The thought was scarcely a comforting one, but it haunted her through the week.

Thursday afternoon, Edward and his friends returned early from their hunting, bringing with them Lord Alvanley and two of the gentlemen Philippa had seen the day of Rochford’s accident. They entered the stone hall as she was passing through on her way to the saloon.

“No sport today, gentlemen?” she asked, smiling at them.

“We have,” said Alvanley with a grimace, “been up Tilton Wood and down Tilton Wood and
through
Tilton Wood, and they’ll very likely finish at Tilton Wood. We grew bored with Tilton Wood.”

Several of the others chuckled, but Edward said rather sharply, “There was no sport in it today, a parcel of thrusters and crammers, heading the fox this way and that. There was no bearing it, so we came home. If we could have hunted over this country, it dashed well would have been different.”

As a final straw it was sufficient. Philippa turned on her heel and without so much as a polite farewell to any of them walked through the saloon, out the terrace door, and down the steps. Giving no thought to purpose or direction, she strode angrily across the lawn to the gravel pathway leading into the park, wanting only to put as much distance as possible between herself and her stepson. Not until she heard the gurgling of the stream ahead did she realize she was drawing near to the keeper’s cottage. The thought of encountering Sam Cudlipp was enough to cause her to turn back toward the house, congratulating herself upon a narrow escape from an undesirable confrontation. It was only by the greatest bad luck that she found herself, five minutes later, face-to-face with Tom Giles.

The burly tenant farmer stopped in his tracks, but when she would have passed by with no more than a polite greeting, he barred her way.

“What hurry, m’lady? ’Tis time ’n all we had some chat.”

“I’ve nothing further to say to you, Mr. Giles.”

“Seems like I got a deal to say to you, howsomever, and this be a good place to talk, I’m thinkin’.” He moved a step nearer, and Philippa became aware of a growing fear that he might hurt her.

She stood very still. “You must let me pass. Lord Wakefield will soon come to look for me, you know, for I walked out only for a breath of air.”

“Let ’im come. I’ve a deal t’ say to ’is lordship, as well. Seems ’e oughta take a hand hereabouts.”

“You must know that he cannot, that he is underage.”