Mistress of the Hunt

by Amanda Scott

  “Got several daughters, the old earl has.”

  “Yes, but I hadn’t realized he might have one so young. The two I have met are both older than I am. There is a son, too, is there not?”

  “To be sure, young Viscount Rochford,” said Miss Pellerin, bracing herself against the carriage’s sudden lurch forward. “Not but what he’s a good bit older than you are, too, of course. Must be in his thirties at least. Still and all, the countess didn’t die till about seven years ago—maybe eight. No reason she mightn’t have had a late-born child. Old Wyvern stopped going about when she passed on, and Rochford’s been on the Continent, I believe, with Arthur Wellesley—Viscount Wellington, as they’ve chosen to style him since that dreadful battle at Talavera. Such a pity, all this fighting. Men, with all their opportunity for education, ought to recognize that war seldom serves any good purpose. Particularly war with France. Why, a gentleman must ever be better occupied chasing foxes than Frenchmen. He’s a good deal less apt to get himself killed by a fox.”

  Chuckling, Philippa began to point out that not only had Lord Wellington enjoyed a great victory at Talavera, but also victories since at Vitoria and San Sebastían and, furthermore, that he had actually entered France at last, thereby causing many who might be counted upon to know about such things to predict Napoleon Bonaparte’s impending defeat. However, she had got no further than midway through her second sentence when the carriage lurched into and out of a pothole, causing her to bite her tongue painfully. Further attempts at conversation were therefore abandoned while the carriage made its lumbering way down the rutted road, through the village of Whissendine, and beyond to the river crossing. As they made their way across the bridge less than a hundred yards northwest of the tall gray towers, however, Miss Pellerin observed that the Earl of Wyvern seemed to be in residence.

  “Someone is, in any event. Flag flying.”

  There was indeed a green banner waving jauntily in the breeze from the left-hand tower. Philippa smiled at her companion.

  “Perhaps you would care to stop and leave cards, ma’am. The earl is, after all, an eligible bachelor, and a warm one, I believe.”

  “Humph,” said Miss Pellerin. “Warm in the pockets he may be, but if there’s any warmth in his personality, I never heard tell of it. As crotchety an old recluse as one might find, by all I’ve heard. And one doesn’t, as you know very well, Philippa, leave calling cards on single gentlemen.”

  “Well, no,” that young lady conceded, enjoying herself, “but one might extend a gracious invitation to a neighbor to dine. That would be mere kindness, ma’am. He cannot be a recluse entirely, you know. I am certain he came to dine at least once or twice while I was here with Wakefield.”

  “Be that as it may, it would be no kindness if you mean to single him out,” Miss Pellerin said severely. “I’ll not have you matchmaking, Philippa. I should enjoy such meddling in my affairs no more than you do yourself.”

  “No, ma’am.” Philippa was properly chastened. She certainly did not enjoy such meddling, even when she knew it to be well-intentioned, and she had been given no reason to think for a moment that Cousin Adeliza was not thoroughly content with her lot. To be sure, it had taken no coaxing on Philippa’s part to convince her to act as companion. Miss Pellerin had fairly snatched at the opportunity, but her own explanation that it gave her something new to do seemed to be no more or less than the truth.

  Conversation remained desultory at best, for even along the valley floor, the roads were in no great condition. They stopped for refreshment and to rest the horses in Waltham on the Wolds at the Grape and Saber, a charming little inn with a newly thatched roof and a jolly landlord, who insisted upon waiting upon them himself. After the jolting of the carriage, it was a welcome relief to be able to sit quietly in a private parlor for twenty minutes, but that was quite long enough for Philippa, who was anxious to reach Belvoir.

  “Not that we shall arrive earlier than two o’clock or even half-past at this rate,” she said, “but there is no use in attempting to convince Witheridge to push the horses beyond what he considers to be a dignified pace.”

  “Well, I, for one, prefer a sedate journey to one that brings my hat bouncing down over my eyes every few minutes,” stated Miss Pellerin with a look that told Philippa without words what her companion’s view would be of any attempt to urge the old coachman to greater speed. “We shall arrive looking like ladies, my dear, and since you intend to speak to your young stepdaughter on the very subject of ladylike behavior, I would suggest that you do nothing to make yourself appear nohow in the meantime.”

  Philippa wrinkled her nose, but her eyes were twinkling. “You sound just like my mama,” she said.

  “So I should think,” replied Miss Pellerin, getting in the last word before settling herself more comfortably and closing her eyes.

  She roused herself once more as the carriage began its upward journey through the dense woods that covered the hillside leading to the castle. Philippa had been enjoying the solitude and the passing scenery, and since the breezes had blown the clouds away, allowing the sun to shine brightly down upon the landscape, she was grateful for the shade of the winding tree-lined drive.

  Belvoir as seen from a distance was imposing. The Napoleonic War had been a gold mine to the Manners family, as it had been to most of the landed gentry, and the Duchess Elizabeth had not had to stint her remodeling efforts. As the trees thinned and the carriage passed through the main gates, Philippa was conscious of a thought that the new French windows were perhaps a trifle delicate for the solid baronial walls surrounding them, but she did not so much as voice that thought, for her companion was waxing enthusiastic over the cheerful display of the fountains in the gardens, and before she had finished, the carriage arrived at the main entrance porch.

  The steps were let down by an obliging footman in red-and-buff livery, and the ladies descended. They were now on a sort of terrace, and beyond the garden fountains the landscape fell away, providing a splendid view. Philippa had heard it said that on a particularly clear day one could see thirty miles in all directions from the mound of Belvoir, and today she could well believe it. She heard Miss Pellerin draw a long, satisfied breath and knew that she, too, was enamored of the panorama spread before them.

  A scant moment later, Miss Pellerin recollected herself. “Well, my dear, shall we go in?”

  The footman relinquished them to the porter, who in turn passed them on to Mr. Douglas, the duke’s somber, portly butler, whom they followed along an entrance passage lined with arms for more than a hundred men.

  Some moments later, they came to the guardroom, which served as the great entrance hall of the castle. The hall was built in gothic style with a large fireplace at each end and a floor of parqueted black-and-white Nottingham free-stone and contained yet another collection of arms and military equipment, including an impressive number of suits of armor.

  “Mercy me,” said Miss Pellerin, “I’d forgotten how much of this stuff the Manners family had collected over the years.”

  “They have been involved in a number of conflicts since the days of the Conqueror, after all,” Philippa said sotto voce. “And there was the Marquess of Granby, as well, the present duke’s grandfather, who organized the Leicestershire Twenty-first Light Dragoons entirely at his own expense.”

  “ ’Tis a wonder they had this lot left over then, isn’t it?” replied the irrepressible Miss Pellerin.

  Philippa chuckled but changed the subject. “That portrait on the left at the half-flight of the great stair is Elizabeth, ma’am. The companion portrait of the duke is there on the right.”

  “Well, the artist did well enough by her—handsome, isn’t she—but the duke ought to have known better than to allow himself to be got up like an Elizabethan knight. He’d have done better to be painted as he is, and so I shall tell him. Such affectation will merely lead his unfortunate descendants to confuse him with someone else, like as not.”

  The butler
had said not a word, and Philippa followed him up the stairs, smiling as she wondered what her companion would say next. But Miss Pellerin was silent as they proceeded along a passage past a case containing decorations, seals, and other objects, including the ceremonial key to Staunton Tower, the stronghold of the castle. This key, Philippa knew, was ritually presented to any members of the royal family who might visit Belvoir.

  At last they came to a pair of tall pedimented and pilastered doors which the butler opened with neat precision.

  “Lady Philippa Raynard-Wakefield and Miss Pellerin, your grace,” he said quietly, stepping aside to allow Philippa and her companion to enter what proved to be an elegant pink-and-gold saloon.

  Its occupants, two ladies and a gentleman, were gathered around a cheerful fire that crackled beneath a pedimented carved marble chimneypiece. The younger woman, whose dark hair was twisted at the top of her head into a knot from which a number of curls had been allowed to trail becomingly over her ears, was neatly attired in a pale yellow frock with sensible long sleeves and a high neckline, while the older lady had plumped for the height of fashion with a deeply décolletaged lavender silk afternoon gown. The tiny puffed sleeves did little to enhance the lady’s sagging upper arms, but the color very nearly matched her sparkling eyes, and her figure was still quite shapely and slim enough for the prevailing fashions. The dark-haired gentleman seated in a pink-silk-upholstered, gilt-trimmed Kent chair opposite them stood up in a leisurely fashion when Philippa and Miss Pellerin entered the room, but the younger of the two ladies leapt energetically to her feet.

  “Philippa,” she cried, “you are here at last! Was there ever such a coil? I declare, I could have strangled the lot of them when I discovered what they had been about, for I promise you, my Bethie was in the scheme right up to her little arched eyebrows.”

  Returning her gaze with some effort from the gentleman to her hostess, Philippa grasped the two warm hands that had been thrust into her own. “I have had some thoughts about what I shall do to them myself, Elizabeth. May I make you and her grace known to my cousin, Miss Adeliza Pellerin?”

  “Oh, do you know, I believe we have met before, have we not,” exclaimed the duchess, “for I remember your pretty name. ’Tis one of my favorites. We named Bethie after me and my papa, you know—Elizabeth Frederica. And little Emmeline is after my mama, with ‘Charlotte’ for the queen, who stood godmother to her, of course. And then tiny Katherine Isabella is after my dearest mama-in-law. But my next daughter, I promise you, I have already decided to name Adeliza, so someday you will likely have a namesake, Miss Pellerin.”

  “You ought to think yourself honored, Adeliza,” said the dowager duchess in a tone that indicated she was quite tired of being ignored. “Usually when Elizabeth prattles as she is doing now, she talks of nothing but my wee handsome grandson.”

  “Oh, yes, Philippa, you must see Baby George. He is simply the most splendid baby. Prinny and York are to come for the christening, you know, and I simply insist that you and dear Adeliza—you will allow me to call you Adeliza, will you not?”

  Miss Pellerin nodded, somewhat in a daze, and the duchess rattled on, “Well, you must agree to come to Belvoir for the festivities. Little George John Frederick Manners, Marquess of Granby—and isn’t that a mouthful for such a little baby?—is to be christened on his papa’s birthday, the fourth day of January, with Prinny and York to stand godfather. Her majesty has graciously consented to stand godmama, but only if Mama Isabella will stand in for her, for she cannot think the roads will be safe enough for travel in January, you know, but Prinny does not seem to mind. We had a letter straightaway from him by return post when dearest John wrote to inquire.”

  “Elizabeth, you are forgetting your manners,” said the dowager duchess tartly. “Rochford has been standing like a marble pillar and cannot think much of being ignored. I know I don’t,” she added candidly.

  Recalled to her duty, Elizabeth performed the introductions, confirming Philippa’s suspicion that the gentleman was the same Viscount Rochford whose father owned Wyvern Towers, and Philippa found herself gazing into a pair of fine light gray eyes set deeply into a craggy face. Rochford was above middle height but not so tall that he would be at a disadvantage in the saddle; and, with his harsh, weathered features, windblown dark hair, broad, muscular shoulders, and powerful thighs, he certainly had the look of a sporting man. Still, she noted, nothing could be found amiss with his attire. He was properly dressed for an afternoon in a lady’s drawing room, in buff pantaloons that fit snugly over those powerful thighs and shapely calves, and a dark coat that rested upon the broad shoulders without a single crease to mar its fit. His linen was snowy white, and a dark amethyst glinted in the folds of his neatly tied neckcloth. His only other jewelry appeared to be the heavy ring on his right hand, a richly ornamented gold signet carved with the head of a dragon. Though his bearing was military rather than fashionable, it lacked the stiffness she had noted in many men who had recently sold out, as she assumed his lordship must have done.

  She realized Elizabeth was speaking to her and turned, flushing when she noted a sudden spark of amusement in Rochford’s light gray eyes. The man knew she had been staring at him, and his look now seemed to be no more than an invitation to continue her examination at her leisure. Aware of a sudden unfamiliar humming in her mind, she flushed deeper, focusing her attention upon the duchess with some difficulty. “I … I beg your pardon, Elizabeth. I fear I was not attending.”

  The young duchess’s laughter rippled forth. “What were you thinking of, I wonder. I merely remarked that it was a pity the pair of you did not realize you were to come on the same errand. You might have shared a carriage. On the other hand,” she went on without so much as pausing for breath, “you would have been prodigiously crowded with five in the carriage on the return journey, I daresay.”

  Philippa blinked in bewilderment and looked to Miss Pellerin for explanation. That lady’s eyes were twinkling. “It appears we were correct in our surmise,” she said gently. “The Lady Lucinda Drake is indeed Lord Rochford’s youngest sister, and her grace was just explaining that he knew no more of the journey from Bath than you did. His errand is similar to our own, my dear.”

  Philippa turned back to his lordship to discover that he was smiling at her, showing strong white teeth. Though the humming in her mind seemed, most oddly, to descend to her midsection even as she returned his look, she soon took herself ruthlessly in hand, deciding that she had seen that look too often before. He looked, she told herself firmly, exactly like the preponderant number of gentlemen who had approached her throughout the past Season, and if that was not a predatory twinkle in those light gray eyes, one had wasted one’s time learning to discern such looks. By and large, however, one was forced to concede that it was an attractive twinkle. Despite her wish to respond coolly, she found herself smiling back at the gentleman, noting as she did so that he stood a full head taller than herself.

  Rochford bowed slightly and spoke in a pleasantly low-pitched voice. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Philippa. But are you not the widow of Lord Wakefield, my father’s late friend?”

  “Indeed, sir,” Philippa replied, stiffening.

  The twinkle only deepened, and she realized the deep crags in his cheeks were crinkling as though in silent laughter. “I meant no offense, madam. I was merely curious as to why you are ‘Lady Philippa’ and not ‘Lady Wakefield.’ ”

  “Oh.” Philippa relaxed, regarding him ruefully. “ ’Twas a whim of my late husband’s, I fear. He said that ‘Lady Philippa Raynard-Wakefield’ had a lilt to it that pleased him and that since he would no doubt predecease me, it would be as well for me to have a name of my own to distinguish me from whomever his son might choose to marry. My father is the Earl of Toddleigh, you see, so I was Lady Philippa Russell before I married. Then, too, the baron was proud of the Raynard-Wakefield name. The title came before the two families were joined as a requirement of the Ray
nard who gave his daughter to a Wakefield, along with Chase Charley, of course. He wished his name to remain with the estate.”

  “How very interesting, to be sure,” said the dowager in bored tones, indicating the opposite. “Do you enjoy political discussion, I wonder, Lady Philippa?”

  Philippa returned the sharp look she was getting with a calm one of her own. “I believe I can hold my own in such discussion, your grace. I allowed my interest to flag somewhat after my husband’s death, but he—like many others, including yourself, I believe—had a great fascination for the intricacies of the political scene.” Remembering, as she did now, some of the things Wakefield had told her of the dowager’s more outrageous appearances in the gallery of the House of Lords, Philippa hoped the old lady would not take offense.

  The dark blue eyes in the once beautiful face sharpened, but the dowager decided to take the remark as a compliment.

  “I daresay I’ve kept a close watch over the gentlemen in power,” she said on a note of satisfaction. “No doubt that is what keeps some of them up to snuff, for they know I have the Regent’s ear, after all, and a number of other ears as well. I daresay that rotter Fox wished more than once that he had got on my good side from the outset, but he never did, and he lived to regret it.”

  Remembering Wakefield’s tale of how the fourth Duchess of Rutland had roared “Damn Fox!” before a full house at the opera some thirty years before, Philippa was hard-pressed to conceal her merriment. Looking away from the dowager in self-defense, she found her gaze suddenly locked with that of the viscount. His twitching lips nearly led to her undoing.

  Rochford seemed to realize she would be unable to control herself much longer. “Your grace,” he said quietly, turning to the duchess and letting the twinkle fade away altogether, “I hesitate to disrupt this pleasant gathering, but I should like very much to have a word or two in private with my sister before the hour grows much more advanced.”