The Duke's Last Hunt (4 page)

“Of course not, Mrs. Forsythe. Of course not,” said Henry, doffing an imaginary hat to the offended housekeeper. “I’ll be on my best behavior. Thank you for your macaroons and your conversation. I shall return to the other side of the house, and leave you to your domain.”

4

O
llerton came to Eliza’s room first this time to help her dress for dinner. After laying out a shimmery dress of golden lace, the maid began to pull down Eliza’s tresses to re-pin them for the evening. “Your mother did not know what to think, miss, with you disappearing like that this afternoon.”

Eliza squirmed inwardly. An acquaintance in London had told her once that a lady’s maid was the best sort of confidante, but Frances Ollerton, who had been Lady Malcolm’s maid since before she was married, already had a mistress confiding in her. She was capable, she was motherly, but she was not a friend. Eliza was certain that whatever words passed between them at her dressing table would be repeated when Ollerton returned to her original mistress.

Eliza sighed. “I hardly know what to think myself, Ollerton.” It was the truth. If that harebrained scheme of greeting the duke at the door had never entered her head, she would not have found herself involved in Henry Rowland’s prevarications. She had no idea how to extricate herself now from the fib. She would just have to acknowledge the acquaintance as she had when the duke had quizzed her.

“And what does miss think of the duke?” asked Ollerton, quickly plaiting two braids on either side of Eliza’s head to loop around the mass of auburn tresses.

“He is very kind,” said Eliza. And he was. He had been. He had devoted his whole afternoon to showing them the house and the grounds. He had put up with her shy attempts at conversation. He had endured her father’s sycophancy and her mother’s severity. Was that not kindness?

“And handsome?” teased Ollerton, her lined face breaking into a smile.

“Of course,” said Eliza, smiling a little as well. She had never preferred red hair, but that was rather hypocritical of her, seeing as how her own hair was halfway red or more. He was handsome enough, she supposed. He had to be. It was not as if she had another option.

Rising from her dressing table, Eliza stood in the center of the room as Ollerton lifted the golden gown over her head and then laced it in the back. The gossamer overlay was embroidered with flowers and birds. The rounded neckline was the lowest her mother had ever allowed her to wear, showing the delicate lines of her collarbone but still completely concealing her bosom. “Do you remember, Ollerton? I wore this to my first supper party after my coming-out ball.”

“How could I forget, miss? You were a vision of loveliness.”

Eliza sighed. It hadn’t helped, of course. Her father’s sunken fortunes and her own retiring nature were more than enough to deter any possible suitors. There had been no new dresses after her first season, just some extra ribbons and Ollerton’s skillful needle to convert the old ones into the newest fashions. The sleeves on this one were different than when last she wore it. Eliza hoped that it would be enough to keep her from looking dowdy next to Lady Adele, who was certain to have her gowns made up by the best modiste in London.

Ollerton finished lacing the gown and stood back from her masterpiece. “You look even lovelier today than you did three years ago, child.”

“Thank you, Ollerton.” Eliza took the maid’s hand and squeezed it. “Say a prayer for me tonight.”

“I always do. Now hurry, miss! Can you find your slippers yourself? I must go lace your mother and the gong will sound any minute….”

* * *

When Henry went up to
his room, the room he had occupied for most of his childhood and indeed up until three years ago, he found Frederick, one of the footmen, laying out an old set of his dinner clothes—shirt, cravat, coat, pantaloons, and shoes. “Mrs. Forsythe thought you might be wanting these, my lord,” said the footman.

“How thoughtful of her,” said Henry. “Give her my thanks.”

“She said that an’ you wish it, I’m to dress you.”

“Mrs. Forsythe’s foresight is astonishing. I do wish it.”

Henry had packed very little in the one satchel he carried on his horse—at the time, he had not been intending to stay more than the afternoon. But then the jest with the calling card had turned into the jest with Miss Malcolm….

It was fortunate that his old clothes were still here, although he suspected that they would not fit the same as they once had. The years between the ages of twenty and twenty-three can have a great effect on a man, and Henry’s chest and limbs had broadened considerably. He was no young sapling anymore, and the old pantaloons were far tighter than he preferred. Even with Frederick’s help, he could barely shrug into the dinner coat.

“How long have you been a footman here?” Henry grunted, sitting down after the herculean effort of the coat so that Frederick could slide on his shoes.

“Two years, my lord.”

“You seem very apt, very apt indeed. Have you ever aspired to greater things?”

“Like what do you mean, your lordship?”

“Like being the first footman at an establishment perhaps?”

Frederick whistled. “Can’t say as I haven’t dreamed. But there’s others been here longer than me.”

“Well, there’s more places than Harrowhaven,” said Henry, jumping to his feet and then regretting it as the tight shoes began to rub against his heels. “Just think on it, lad, and remember it, and maybe the opportunity will present itself.”

Henry found himself first at the door of the dining room, although Stephen soon came to join him. “How was your garden adventure?” Henry asked insinuatingly.

Stephen’s bare cheeks reddened.

“That delightful, eh?” said Henry. “Don’t tell me about it. I don’t want to hear.”

“’Pon rep, Henry! Nothing untoward happened—”

“Please,” interrupted Henry, plugging his ears with both hands, “spare my feelings as a brother.”

The Malcolms were the next to descend for dinner, Miss Malcolm walking demurely in the shadow of her parents with eyes cast down and hands folded. Stephen engaged Sir Arthur in some small talk about the agricultural productivity of Sussex while Henry ceased plugging his ears and looked over at Miss Malcolm. The golden shimmer of her dress set off her skin far better than the dove gray she had worn earlier, and the slim lines of the skirt accentuated her slender figure. Henry considered complimenting her on her appearance but decided he should save his praise for a moment when Rufus was present.

The dowager duchess and Robert came down next, then Rufus with his friend Walter Turold. Henry had known the moment was coming, but he could not help quailing a little at the sight of Walter’s glower. How many years had it been since he had earned Walter’s disdain? Nearly a decade now, and he could still read the loathing in the other’s eyes. Walter made no effort to speak to him, and Henry both resented it and was glad of it.

The gong sounded to bid them enter the doors for dinner. They all stood there a moment in awkward silence.

“For whom are we waiting?” asked Robert, delicately sniffing the flowers in the vase on the console table.

“For whom do you think?” replied Rufus, a little mean-spiritedly.

The answer soon swept into the room in a cloud of pink lace. “Oh, I didn’t think I would be
last
,” said Adele innocently.

“You are always last, my dear,” said the dowager duchess. She had dressed in purple velvet, a fitting color for a dowager. Everyone looked to her, as the hostess, to sort out the seating arrangements, but she had her eyes on Rufus, and remembering what he’d learned from Mrs. Forsythe, Henry could see that they were full of challenge.

“Mother,” said Rufus carefully. “Now that Adele is here, will you send us into the dining room?”

The duchess smiled grimly. “Very well.” Henry knew that she would keep up appearances for the sake of the family’s reputation, but her quarrel with her second son could not be resolved this easily. “Rufus, you must take Lady Malcolm in. Sir Arthur, please escort my daughter, Adele. Mr. Blount, please escort Miss Malcolm, and—”

“—and I will escort my dear Mama,” said Henry, placing the duchess’ arm in his and leaving Walter and Robert without a partner.

* * *

Eliza found herself seated with
Mr. Blount on one side and Lord Henry on the other, a proximity that made her more nervous than she already was. The dinner party was small enough that talk need not be restricted to those on one’s right and left, but still, she would have to let Lord Henry serve her food and thank him for refilling her cup. Across the table sat the duke’s friend, Mr. Turold. He wore his hair long, in the old-fashioned style, pulled back into a neat queue at the base of his neck. Eliza felt a nagging sensation that she had met him before, but she could not recall the time or place.

As she had foreseen, Lady Adele’s dress was stunning—a white dress of the finest muslin with an overlay of delicate pink lacework and a daring décolletage. “And how did you enjoy your tour of the house, Miss Malcolm?” asked Lady Adele from across the table.

“Very well, thank you,” replied Eliza. She felt that she ought to add something, some comment about the cornices or the columns, but nothing came to her. She lapsed into silence, praying that she did not appear as inept at conversation as she felt. On the far end of the table, Rufus was explaining to her father just how many horses, hounds, and neighbors there would be at the hunt four days from now.

“May I offer you some fish?” said a voice in her right ear. Lord Henry was holding a large platter upon which a gargantuan boiled turbot was staring gruesomely at her.

“Yes, thank you,” Eliza replied faintly, remembering only after he started to serve it that she did not in fact like fish.

“It’s quite good with the anchovy butter,” said her helpful swain, ladling some of that sauce next to the turbot on her plate.

“Excellent,” murmured Eliza, the smell of the anchovies starting to waft into her nose. Determined not to engage Lord Henry in any further conversation, she looked to her left and saw Mr. Blount manfully attacking his piece of roast pheasant. She wished he would dish some onto her plate, but he was paying her no notice and it would be impolite to ask.

The talk of the hunt was still going on, and now Mr. Curtis and Rufus’ friend Mr. Turold had joined in. Eliza picked up her fork and made a halfhearted effort to spear a mouthful of turbot, but the piece of boiled fish disintegrated onto her plate.

“I have a new pair of hunting pistols,” said Rufus, his voice rising with enthusiasm. “The cleanest action you’ve ever seen!”

“I would love to try them,” said Robert. “If you don’t need both, perhaps you’ll loan me one for the hunt.”

“Lud no, it would be wasted on you!” said Rufus. “Walter shall have it, for after me he is the best shot.”

Eliza stared at her plate. She could not eat the fish. She could not do it.

“I am noticing your dress, Miss Malcolm,” called Rufus’ sister from across the table. She was clearly bored with the talk of guns.

“And I yours,” said Eliza. She thought of what her mother would say if she ever attempted a neckline like Lady Adele’s, and a smile nearly rose to her lips.

“I’ve seen nothing like it in town this season,” continued Lady Adele. “Who is your modiste?”

Eliza blanched. It was no crime to wear a dress out of fashion, but it was a subject she had hoped to avoid over the dinner table. “Madame Lavelle.”

“Do you know the shop, Mother?” said Lady Adele with interest. “I do not recognize the name.”

No, she would not recognize it, thought Eliza, for Lady Adele had come out only this season, and this dress had been one of the last to be made before Madame Lavelle had closed her doors.

“I had a dress made by Madame Lavelle several years ago,” said the duchess, setting down her wine glass thoughtfully. “The rose-colored crepe, Adele, but you may have been too young to recall.” She turned to Eliza. “I was not aware that Madame Lavelle still plied her needle.”

“Nor does she,” said Eliza, seeing now that the awful truth must come out. “She made up this gown for me several years ago.”

“Oh!” said Adele, clearly startled that such an enormity could happen or be admitted to. “Several years ago? I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Her outcry drew the attention of the gentlemen at the table, and the hunting conversation, which had hitherto seemed interminable, now came to an unfortunate and untimely end.

Eliza knew that she ought to turn the conversation to some other subject, but she could not stop her face from flaming red or her tongue from sticking to the roof of her mouth. She glanced sideways and saw her mother sitting tight-lipped on the other side of Mr. Blount. No, it was too much to hope for rescue from that quarter.

“Miss Malcolm,” said a cheerful voice on her right. It was Lord Henry again. She prayed that he was not about to ask her how she liked the fish.

“I must confess that you have just saved me from a very awkward circumstance. I was certain that over the course of this dinner Adele would point out to our esteemed company just how strange the cut of my coat is, but no, she has fixated instead on your dress and so I, for the moment, am safe.”

“Why, Henry! It
is
strange!” said Lady Adele, a new monstrosity dangling in front of her like a worm on a hook. “What on earth are you wearing?”

“A dinner jacket, my dear,” said Lord Henry. “And I
defy
you to guess how long ago it was made!”

“Last season?” asked Lady Adele, setting down her spoonful of pineapple cream.

“Wrong!” said Lord Henry. “I’ll give you one more guess.”

“Two seasons ago?”

“Wrong again! A pity we did not set a wager before I let you guess.”

“Then when?” demanded Adele. “How old is it? It’s positively ghastly!”

Mr. Curtis cleared his throat from across the table. “It’s clearly at least three seasons old, Adele. Note the width of the lapels and the garish blue of the fabric. In fact, I doubt anything like that’s been seen since Bonaparte crowned himself Emperor.”

“Alas,” said Lord Henry, with mock solemnity. “Would you not agree that the cut is excellent?”

“Oh, Henry!” said Adele as the whole table broke into laughter. “You’d better send up to London for your real clothes if you’re planning to stay the week, for I think the seams of this one are about to explode.”