Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I availed myself of the front door and was greeted by a balding butler whom I had not encountered previously.
“Her ladyship is out, sir, but if you’ll leave a card, I will inform her of your call.”
“Lord Julian Caldicott. I have escorted Miss Quiggan home from the Keep and thought to call on my intended, Miss West.”
He visually assessed me as if I were an underfootman new to my livery and incapable of managing its buttons. “Very well. I will see if the young lady is at home.”
Miss Quiggan’s antipathy toward me had apparently been quick to filter down through the ranks. The butler rudely left me cooling my damp heels in the foyer. Five minutes later, he still had not returned.
I busied myself by arranging the umbrellas and parasols in their brass stand and polishing a spot off the mirror over the sideboard.
I was contemplating some unauthorized reconnaissance down the corridor when I noticed the day’s mail in an inlaid wooden tray.
Sitting atop the pile was correspondence addressed to Hyperia from, of all people, Mr. Henry Duquette.
The letter sat in plain sight, a single sheet folded and sealed with cheap white wax. I slipped the epistle into my pocket rather than leave it on display for the whole household to inspect.
Duquette, as a bachelor, might write Hyperia a note of condolence or some other formal sentiments without crossing any lines. Personal letters, though, were an unusual presumption given that he was neither family, close family friend of long standing, nor prospective husband.
He was Healy’s friend, though, and might have news to pass along regarding Hyperia’s dodgy brother.
I was admiring the view out the foyer window when the butler returned at a pace guaranteed to keep visitors waiting longer than necessary.
“If my lord will follow me.”
I walked at his side down the corridor. “I’m not the devil incarnate, you know.
I’m a fellow who likes to see former soldiers back on home turf.
Bryson Carstairs is, for some reason, reluctant to enjoy that boon, despite missing the Keep very much.
One is curious and a trifle indignant on behalf of a friend who served loyally for years. ”
The butler slanted a glance at me that implied my wits had gone begging, which from time to time, they had. Better men than he, though, and better ladies, had given me the same look, as well as the cut direct, the cut sublime, and the cut infernal.
And when I wasn’t even trying to be rude.
Lady Clotilda’s domestic myrmidon stopped before the door to the winter parlor. “My lord might mean well, but that is no excuse for rushing in where he is neither needed nor wanted.” He opened the door and stepped to the side. “Lord Julian Caldicott to call on Miss West.”
“Jules.” Hyperia rose from a wing chair and favored me with a huge smile. “You really should be in bed. Saving a little boy from a miserable death while risking your own life merits you at least the right to a day’s respite from Society.”
The butler peered at Hyperia as if she, too, had parted from her wits. “Would miss like a tea tray?”
“Oh, please, and with some sustenance. Cheese toast or ham pies or whatever Cook can spare. His lordship forgets to eat when he’s bent on heroics. One can have worse failings, but a devoted fiancée does worry.”
I did not stick my tongue out at the butler nor lift my patrician beak to heroic heights. I did return Hyperia’s smile.
The butler blinked several times in succession. “Very well, miss. I will notify the kitchen that comestibles are in order.” He bowed to Hyperia and treated me to the barest nod, though his expression had shifted from unvarnished censure to annoyed puzzlement.
I closed the door behind him and found my arms delightfully full of Hyperia in the mood to express her affections.
“I was so frightened, Julian. Atticus is a mere lad, and slight, and he was terrified and in awful peril. I vow Leander has grown three inches since this morning. Your parting words will stay with him for the rest of his life.”
I breathed in her rosy fragrance and delighted in the feel of her in my embrace. The duchess had spoken the truth: Hyperia West completed some part of me. She settled, soothed, challenged, and vitalized me, and I could only hope she felt the same about her prospective spouse.
“I’m fine,” I said, and the longer I held her, the finer I felt. “Atticus was swilling mulled cider and stuffing himself with biscuits thirty minutes after his mishap. He’ll come right in no time.”
“I will not come right for the next hundred years. I saw you purposely trying to break that ice, knew what you meant to do, and wanted to cover my eyes. I could not look away.”
“The grooms would have pulled Atticus out. Water that cold is a danger in its own right, though, and Atticus could not swim.” I would see that he and Leander learned that skill come summer, for safety as well as enjoyment.
Hyperia eased back and led me by the hand to the sofa, then tugged me down beside her. Being engaged did have a few wonderful, delightful privileges.
“The grooms might not have sorted matters in time, Jules. They are unlikely to be good swimmers, and once ice breaks, the cracks can spread in any direction. Your deeds will become the stuff of local legend.”
“They already have, though not in the sense you mean.” I explained that I’d been thoroughly dressed down by Miss Quiggan, more gently admonished by Algernon, and even warned regarding my own safety by Bryson himself.
“That didn’t take long,” Hyperia said as a soft rap sounded on the door.
I took the tray from the footman, who seemed surprised to see me. He then adopted a scowl that was becoming familiar.
“Thank you,” I said. “Miss West and I will serve ourselves.” I closed the door with my foot. “The kitchen at least is not offering me short shrift. The butler was reduced to quoting Pope.”
“‘A little learning is a dangerous thing’?”
“‘Fools rush in…’ Your panegyric about the day’s earlier adventures was gratifyingly timed. The old boy was taken quite by surprise.” As I had been, though Miss Quiggan clearly did not view my dip in the pond as any sort of heroism. “Have you noticed anybody particularly offended by my inquiries?”
Hyperia poured the tea, adding a dash of honey to mine. “No, but I am your fiancée, and Her Grace has ensured that news has made the rounds. Not even Philomel Delaplane would criticize you in my hearing.”
“Has she criticized me elsewhere? My most plausible theory for Bryson’s banishment is that another bachelor wants him kept out of the courting lists.
Perhaps one of the local belles fancies Bryson or resents Philomel and doesn’t want him to come home and court her for the second-largest portion of the settlements. ”
Hyperia stirred her tea. “If some lady has set her cap for Bryson, then exiling him to Surrey to ensure other women don’t get their paws on him is a Pyrrhic tactic.”
“Bryson won’t marry in Surrey,” I said, turning possibilities over in my mind. “He would have to meet a lady he could fall in love with, and of all the stations in rural life, the gamekeeper is a fairly isolated fellow of necessity.”
I filled a plate with ham-and-cheese tarts, mentally blessing Lady Clotilda’s cook. I’d missed lunch and done a fair amount of tromping and riding about since breakfast. Hyperia was correct that I forgot to eat when preoccupied, but if food was put before me, my appetite returned with a vengeance.
“Would one lady exile Bryson to get even with another lady?” I asked, thinking aloud between bites.
“I grant you,” Hyperia said, “people in love can behave unpredictably, and a woman scorned, or easily overlooked, could get up to mischief, but we lack a candidate for the post.”
“Philomel,” I said, her name bringing together facts, possibilities, and observations in my mind.
“If Bryson offered for her, she’d have to accept him.
She’s getting long in the tooth by bridal standards, and the shire has apparently decreed that Wren cannot marry until Philomel lands a husband.
If Philomel has set her cap for Algernon, she’ll want Bryson kept out of the running. ”
As the oldest, she’d regard herself as entitled to marry the heir. She was more of an age with Algernon than were Wren and Miss Quiggan, and Philomel certainly ran tame about the Keep, probably with an eye toward becoming lady of the manor one fine day.
“A logical suggestion,” Hyperia said, putting another tart on my empty plate, “but as a culprit, intuitively farfetched. Philomel lacks guile.”
Threatening letters took little enough of that, and yet, I agreed with Hyperia. Philomel lacked subtlety, discretion, cunning… Philomel could not be ruled out, but her style leaned more toward parlor dramas and churchyard gossip.
I finished my extra tart. “The whole courting-bachelors theory also assumes we have swains clearly intent on marriage. Algernon appears in no hurry to take a wife, Sandy will have more options if his uncle dies without legitimate male issue, and Bryson isn’t situated to make any offers.”
“And yet, by agreement of all local parties, you are not to ask questions or pry into the past,” Hyperia murmured. “Some sort of mischief is afoot.”
“Speaking of those who pry, Her Grace wants us to set a wedding date.” I heard myself say the words and tried to pretend they were a casual half-jocular complaint. Speaking of mischief…
Hyperia set down her plate of tarts. “You want us to set a date, don’t you, Jules?”
“Of course I do. I realize certain issues remain unresolved between us, but my love and esteem for you aren’t among the matters requiring further discussion. You have agreed to marry me, and I would like to turn that agreement into a happy union sooner rather than later.”
She tried sipping from her tea cup, which was empty. “I love and esteem you as well.”