Mistress of the Hunt (7 page)

“Well, no one has ever, with all her faults, accused Jessalyn of being vaporish,” said Miss Pellerin with a smile, before adding more seriously, “You ought not to wander about by yourself, my dear. Had someone seen you with his lordship, an assignation might have been suspected.”

“Oh, pooh,” replied Philippa, grimacing. “Not but what his lordship mightn’t have liked it to be an assignation. I fear he is like so many others, ma’am.”

“Mercy me, on the catch for a wife, is he?”

“I don’t doubt it. As you said before, he must be in his mid-thirties, and he’s been away for several years. He is not getting any younger, and there’s the succession to be secured. Anyway, I recognized the look,” she added a little sadly.

Miss Pellerin wisely said nothing more to the purpose than that she was sure they ought to be getting downstairs if they were not to keep the others waiting, and Philippa, with a guilty glance at the hovering Tilly, agreed. It took them some time to reach the pink-and-gold saloon where the household gathered before dinner, and when they entered they discovered that the others were indeed before them.

Philippa’s appreciative gaze fell first upon the viscount, who was looking as much like a soldier as it was possible to look in proper evening attire. His light-colored breeches and dark coat were cut in such a fashion as to show his excellent figure to admiration, and his linen was so white it seemed to sparkle. He smiled at her, and she returned a tiny smile of her own that widened when her hostess spoke to her.

“Dear Philippa, you do remember Rutland, do you not?”

Philippa looked up at the fifth Duke of Rutland. “Indeed, I do. How do you do, your grace?”

Rutland nodded, smiling at her. “Well, thank you, Lady Philippa.” He was a tall gentleman of a distinctly noble presence, but she stood in no awe of him, for he was a singularly courteous man who knew to a nicety how to put others at their ease. He talked with her for some moments more, then gestured toward the third and fourth gentlemen in the room, a short, plump, rather ugly young man dressed in the height of fashion, and another, handsomer man with a devil-may-care look about him. “You know Lord Alvanley, of course, ma’am,” the duke said, indicating the first gentleman, “but have you met my brother, Lord Robert Manners?”

Philippa had not had that pleasure before, and she was pleased to meet Lord Robert, who proved to be a merry gentleman in his early thirties. The duchess broke in just then to demand to know if they were all to stand about staring at one another or if her husband meant to ring for refreshments. The demand being seconded by the dowager, who said that for her part she could do nicely with a glass of Negus, thank you, the duke grinned at his brother, who went to pull the bell.

The fact that such action had not been necessary was proved by the immediate entrance of two footmen with silver trays laden with all manner of bottles and glasses. By the time each person had been served, Philippa discovered that Lord Rochford had maneuvered himself to a place by her side.

“I like that dress,” he said simply.

“Thank you, sir. Tis one of my favorites.”

“How refreshing that you do not claim it to be just whatever fell first to hand.”

“ ’Twould be most foolish to chance snatching up a gown that did not become one, would it not? I fear I have little interest in such games, sir.”

“I say, Lady Philippa,” Lord Robert broke in, moving to stand beside Rochford, “my mama tells me you have twice hunted with my brother’s pack. Do you mean to do so again, now that you are here?”

Philippa dimpled at him, her cheeks reddening as she darted a glance toward the duke and discovered that he had overheard the question. “As to that, my lord, I cannot say. I have not been invited.”

“Well, dash it, John, invite her,” commanded his lordship. “Mama says she rides dashed well for a woman. Can’t wish to sit by and watch if she can ride.”

“No, indeed,” agreed Rutland. “You must join us here at Belvoir whenever you like, Lady Philippa. We should be pleased to have you ride out with the family.”

“You permit women to ride with your pack?” Rochford inquired with a lazy smile. “You are more daring than most, duke.”

Rutland chuckled but avoided his mother’s eye. “I have been given little choice in the matter, Rochford. No more, in fact, than my father before me. Have your sisters never demanded the chance to ride with the Wyvern pack, then?”

“Much good it would have done them,” the viscount said, grinning. “Neither my father nor I would be like to permit such a thing. The company is scarcely suitable, and the country is a deal too rough.”

“You have your own pack, sir?” Philippa inquired, interested despite her determination to set him at a distance.

“My father’s pack, actually. But then, I daresay it comes to the same thing.”

“Alvanley has been kind enough to say that the Wyvern pack is as well-bred as our own,” said Rutland, smiling at that gentleman.

“Young Alvanley,” said the dowager in stern tones, “would like any pack of hounds that could run fast enough to avoid being run down by him. His lordship,” she added, shooting that gentleman a challenging look, as though she dared him to disagree with her, “is a crammer and heads his fox as often as not, if he don’t overrun him.”

“Alwayth did thay,” Lord Alvanley lisped, unabashed by these strictures, “hunting would be a dashed thight more fun were it not for the damned houndth alwayth getting in the way.”

“That means,” said Rochford near Philippa’s ear, “that he cares only for the hard riding and nothing much for the hunt itself. Alvanley rides neck-or-nothing, and if he doesn’t turn the fox away from the course, he rides past him, or did you follow that exchange without my translation?”

She smiled at him but stepped a little away. “I knew about overrunning, of course, and I daresay I knew that Duchess Isabella was expressing disapproval, but I am not fully alive to all the slang of the sport, I fear.”

“No reason any gently bred female ought to be,” he replied, but his tone was even and his smile took offense from the words.

Indeed, his smile was so warm that Philippa found herself responding to it yet again. A moment later, disconcerted to find herself still staring into his gray eyes, she sought a way to break the spell and grasped at the question that had been plaguing her since young Quinlan’s visit. “Please, sir, can you tell me why the scent is poor in Leicestershire in November?”

“Is it, by God? First I ever heard of it. Here, Duke”—he turned toward Rutland—“has the scent fallen off since I was last here in November?”

Rutland stepped closer to them, but they had everyone’s attention now, and it was the dowager who answered first.

“Nonsense. Pure poppycock. Who’s been filling your head with such rubbish, sir?”

“Why, Lady Philippa tells me she has heard the news from some quarter or other.”

All eyes were on Philippa now, and she found to her dismay that she was blushing deeply. “I … I really know nothing about it,” she said. “Someone merely made the statement—”

“Someone who had a bad day’s hunting one November, no doubt,” said Rutland gently. “That is generally how such tales get about. Though the height of the season hereabouts is more likely to be December and January, one can get good runs in November as well. The scent is higher in the shires than elsewhere because of all the grass and because we don’t permit all our farm animals to run loose fouling it. It is generally breast-high, meaning the hounds don’t stoop to it, or very good—‘burning’ or ‘screaming,’ in the language of the hunt—but we have our flighty days, too, when the scent is variable. Because the weather is more uncertain in November than in the later months, more likely to present us with quick freezes, it is possible to have more variable days. No doubt that is what your informant meant. Won’t you let me refill your glass before we go in to dinner?”

Philippa nodded, not because she wanted more ratafia but because it gave her the chance to follow Rutland a little away from the others, a chance to catch her breath. By the time she turned back, the members of the party had rearranged themselves, and the duchess was telling a humorous anecdote in her rattling way. The company was still laughing when Mr. Douglas entered to announce that dinner was ready.

Conversation at the table was general but turned at last, as indeed all conversations in Leicestershire inevitably turn, to hunting. Lord Robert Manners was reminded by something his mother said about some lord or other of a tale concerning that same gentleman in the hunting field. This tale was topped by one related by the duke, and soon everyone but Philippa and Miss Pellerin was exchanging tale for tale. After well nigh a half-hour of this conversation, the young duchess laughed ruefully and spoke across her brother-in-law and Alvanley to Philippa, who was sitting at Rutland’s right hand, across from Miss Pellerin.

“You must forgive them, my dear. Once the subject raises its head, nothing can stop them. I am persuaded you find such conversation tedious, but I promise you, the more one hears of it, the less boring it becomes.”

“You needn’t fret about me, Elizabeth,” Philippa said, smiling. “I grew quite accustomed to such talk at Wakefield’s table, although I suppose I did not really attend to it, or I would be able to understand more of what is being said now. The niceties of the sport elude me, but I do like a good fast run with the hounds.”

“I’d forgotten,” said the dowager, “that you stayed in Leicestershire with Wakefield through the hunting season. That must have been dull for you. I know that his first wife flatly refused to leave Sussex in the wintertime.”

“Well, I enjoyed myself,” said Philippa, smiling. “Not that I was able to hunt other than when we visited here, of course, for I fear Wakefield was a trifle old-fashioned in that regard.”

“All Leicestershire is a trifle old-fashioned in that regard,” said the dowager tartly.

“Why, how can
you
say so, ma’am, when the duke has very kindly permitted me twice to hunt with the Belvoir? Indeed, he has invited me to do so again,” she added, turning her smile upon Rutland.

His eyes crinkled at the corners, but though he said nothing, his brother was not so reticent. “Dash it all, why should she not hunt with us occasionally?” Lord Robert inquired. “Not at all the thing to do with the Quorn or Cottesmore, of course. All those rowdy young sprouts riding neck-or-nothing, and not a courtesy to be found amongst the lot of them. But when Mama rides with the Belvoir, not a word of language does one hear that one ought not to hear. The very thing for you, Lady Philippa.”

Alvanley was grimacing, and it was as much to forestall any words he might utter that would set the dowager off that Philippa said quickly, “I shall enjoy it, of all things, I promise you, sir, but you must know that I shan’t often be able to travel so far. ’Tis all of seventeen miles from Chase Charley to Belvoir, and I fear I am not sporting enough to enjoy getting up in the dark and returning in the dark.”

“But you must stay here when you hunt, of course,” said the duchess, laughing. “How absurd you are, Philippa, to think we should expect you to ride here and back in a single day, and hunt as well.”

“But that is what the men do, is it not? They hire horrid little houses in Melton Mowbray so as to be as near the three great hunts as possible. Then they ride to Charnwood Forest to hunt with the Quorn on Monday—or is that the Friday hunt? Not that it signifies, of course,” she added, shaking her head. “For the next day, they are off to Belvoir or to Oakham to ride with your pack or the Cottesmore. They are not such poor honeys as to need to rack up overnight.”

General laughter followed her description of the Melton men, but no one contradicted what she said of them, although Lord Alvanley took exception to her description of the horrid little houses.

“I darethay my house ought not to incur your disdain, Lady Philippa. A very cozy box, I promith you.”

“Yes, I have heard that you purchased that charming little house across from the George, my lord. I’ve no doubt you find it quite comfortable.”

“Having spent a small fortune to make it so, he dashed well ought to find it comfortable,” said Lord Robert with a wink.

“Money,” groaned Alvanley. “Mutht we alwayth talk of money?”

“Not rolled up yet, are you?” asked Rochford.

“Not yet,” admitted his lordship, “but if my uncle don’t path on soon, it will be bellowth to mend with me, I promith you.”

“We will have no such vulgar talk at this table,” said the dowager severely.

Philippa looked quickly down at her plate, for as the old lady spoke, she had no difficulty seeing her in her mind’s eye as she must have been that night at the opera when she had damned Fox before the entire
beau monde
. No vulgar talk, indeed. When she had herself in hand well enough to venture looking up, she was unfortunate enough to look directly into Rochford’s eyes. Was it her imagination or was there a twinkle lurking there? Not daring to look long enough to make sure, she turned quickly to the duke.

“You were saying earlier, sir, that the Wyvern hounds are considered to be as fine as your own?”

Rutland smiled. “Perhaps not
as
fine, ma’am, but fine enough. I think I may say without fear of contradiction that the Wyvern color is not so perfect as the Belvoir, but then, our hounds are particularly well-noted for their bright yellow color. And it is true, also,” he added, raising his voice with just the suggestion of a provocative note, “that their cry is more musical to the discerning ear.”

“They are as fast,” declared Alvanley before Rochford might take up the lightly veiled challenge, “and that ith more important. Who careth what they thound like. Hounds serve no purpose other than to give us a direction in which to point our horses’ headth, after all.”

Lord Robert Manners and Rochford both entered enthusiastically into argument with Alvanley over this piece of impertinence, just as though there had been no ladies present, Philippa thought.

“At this rate,” said the duke to her in an undertone, “you will have learned a great deal about hunting, and certainly a good deal more of the language of sport, before you return to hunt with us, my lady.”