Mistress of the Hunt (16 page)

Fortunately, Cupid still had his wits about him and found a gap large enough to accommodate him. Holding one arm protectively across her face, Philippa scarcely felt the branches brushing and tugging at her before she was through and into an open field. At nearly the same moment that she realized she was on her own land, she realized, too, that the innocent-looking rail and hedge ahead of her was in fact the double oxer she and Cupid had practiced jumping some days before. Two rails with a thorn hedge between and a ditch on the far side that she remembered being rather a wide one. As she neared the jump, she touched Cupid lightly with the whip, just enough to remind him to give his best effort, and a moment later she was safely over and conscious of gratitude for the fact that she had not chosen to ride Black Nestor, who might easily have sensed her tension and refused to take such a jump at all.

She was perspiring now, and Cupid seemed not quite so full of energy as he had been. Flecks of moisture beaded on his neck, and she could hear his breath blowing hard from his nostrils, a sound that she had not heard before.

Seconds later a tremendous, thudding crash behind her put all thought of Cupid’s distress straight out of her head and caused her to jerk hard on the reins, bringing the bay to a plunging halt. Fear washed over her even before she turned, and when she looked back, she was unable to suppress the cry of horror that sprang to her lips.

Rochford’s black, half in and half out of the ditch, was struggling to his feet. His master lay several feet away on the grass, unmoving.

F
LINGING HERSELF TO THE
ground, Philippa hurried to Rochford’s side. When he began to stir, she felt a surge of relief, but when he did not immediately open his eyes, panic threatened to claim her again.

“Oh, Rochford … oh, my lord, wake up. Do, please, wake up.”

At the sound of hoofbeats on the other side of the treacherous jump, she leapt to her feet, snatched off her hat, and began waving it.

“Here!” she called. “Over here. Oh, do come quickly. Oh, Jake,” she cried when she saw the first rider, “ ’tis his lordship, and I fear he has injured himself quite seriously. He barely stirs.”

As she was speaking, Jake found a gate in the hedge and using that end of his whip made especially for the purpose, opened it without dismounting and let himself through. He was followed by several gentlemen, of whom Philippa at first recognized only Lord Alvanley. That gentleman’s presence was scarcely calculated to please her, but for the moment she paid him little heed, having thought only for Rochford.

“Oh, Jake, do come look at him, He does not open his eyes, and I am persuaded he must have hit his head when he fell. Please, God, he has not broken his neck.”

Rochford groaned just then, and she hurried back to him.

“Rochford! Oh, please open your eyes.”

“Step back, Miss Philippa, ’n cease thy fatching,” Jake said, dismounting beside her. “Happen I’ll see to ’im.”

“Never mind that, my man,” said a stern voice behind them. “Let the sawbones through. Here, Dr. Livesey, we’ve a body for you to practice on, man. Look sharp.”

Philippa looked up at the man who spoke. He was dressed much as Rochford and Alvanley were, in creamy, snug-fitting buckskins and a well-cut dark coat, but there was a distinct note of elegance in his attire that was somehow lacking in the others, although she had not come to notice the fact before. He carried himself with the same easy confidence as the others, and his manner, like theirs, was one of casual, even amused, arrogance, but his gleaming top boots boasted glossy white tops, and his neckcloth was more intricately tied than theirs. She had thought his voice familiar, although the note of command in it when he spoke to Jake was not, but that one look at him was enough to bring a deep flush of embarrassment to her cheeks.

She got slowly to her feet, allowing the small, thin gentleman who was clearly Dr. Livesey to move briskly past her to kneel beside Rochford. Suddenly, but for her worry about the viscount, she might have wished herself a million miles away, for surely the tale of her escapade would now be spread from the Channel to the Scottish border by the following morning.

“I did not know you numbered amongst Rochford’s guests, Mr. Brummell,” she said, gathering her dignity and meeting the ironic glint in his silver-gray eyes as steadily as she could.

Mr. George Bryan “Beau” Brummell, known even more widely for his cutting tongue than for his sartorial dictatorship, bowed from his saddle. “I do not have that precise honor at present, Lady Philippa, but have taken up my customary residence at Melton Old Club.”

She nodded, for once feeling no amusement at the thought of a club that was restricted by the number of its bedchambers to having only four members at a time. Over a period of years, she knew, a number of the very best gentlemen had been members, and there was, in truth, something highly respectable in everything connected with Melton Old Club. There were said to be no ostentatious displays at table, though everything was as good of its kind as a first-rate cook and the finest wine cellars could produce. It was said, too, that the club’s members and former members were remarkable for their ability to live together on terms of the strictest harmony and friendship. Looking up at the gentleman presently accounted the club’s most famous member, Philippa could hope only that he would somehow find it in his heart to forget to mention to all and sundry her part in the day’s activities.

Then Rochford groaned again and she forgot her own troubles when she saw that his eyes were open at last. Indeed, his gaze was fastened upon her in a manner that could only be described as ominous, but she made no attempt to evade it, for she was too concerned with what the doctor might say.

Livesey was indeed muttering something, but she could not make out his words. She did hear Rochford’s reply, and the strength of his voice filled her with relief.

“Thought I’d thrown myself clear,” he said, his deep tones carrying easily to her ears despite the increasing murmur of masculine voices behind her. “Landed on my right foot, and my ankle gave way. Then—I don’t know—I must have gone top over tail. My head aches like fury, I do know that.”

“And no wonder,” said the doctor acidly, “with the bump you’ve got forming there. Must have hit a rock, my lord, and ’tis no more than you deserve after overriding the fox as you did and spoiling the chase.”

“Glad to see you ain’t stuck your spoon in the wall, Rochford,” said one of the three other men who had followed them. “Daresay you’ll like to know the black did no more than strain a hock.”

The three men had been talking among themselves while one of them examined the big horse, and Philippa was nearly as conscious of their disapproval as she was of Brummell’s and Alvanley’s, not to mention Rochford’s. It was Alvanley, however, who first put the general opinion into words.

“Wouldn’t be a wonder if he
had
thtuck his thpoon in the wall, riding neck-or-nothing like he wath,” he said suddenly. “Lady Philippa, whatever were you about to ride into the field like that? You might both have been killed, you know.”

“Nobody was killed,” said the Beau in damping tones, “though Livesey is quite correct in noting that her ladyship’s impetuous behavior ruined a fine run.”

“Much you care for that, Brummell,” said Alvanley, changing line with the quickness for which he was noted and grinning puckishly. “You never ride beyond the first few fieldth anyway. Darethay you’d have drawn up two or three miles back, were it not for her ladyship’s having added a note of piquanth to the adventure.”

The other gentlemen laughed then, and Brummell looked sourly at the young baron, eleven years his junior and already possessed of a reputation nearly as great as his own for quickness of wit. “Thought you meant to hunt with the Quorn today, my lad.”

Alvanley pulled a long face. “Fortunately, I dithcovered Assheton-Smith meant to hunt Charnwood Forest, and one can never thee those dashed great granite stones amongst all the rotting fernth. Only consolation to hunting that ground ith that if you are killed you have your gravestone there beside you.”

The others laughed more heartily than ever, and Brummell, chuckling in spite of himself, said, “Damme, Alvanley, I wish I had said that.”

“Don’t worry, you will,” snapped Rochford wryly from the ground.

“If you have all quite finished,” said Dr. Livesey, brushing impatiently at his pants legs and glaring at the others, who except for the Beau were now slapping their knees in merriment, “I suggest we set about getting his lordship off the ground and into bed, where he belongs.”

“Nonsense,” grumbled Rochford, beginning to sit up. “I can …”

The doctor managed to catch him by the shoulder, thus saving him from cracking his head against the ground as he slumped dizzily backward. “Certainly, my lord, and you will dance the quadrille after dinner as well. Now, if my patient is of a mind to be sensible, surely someone might send for a wagon to convey him to his home.”

“Good gracious,” said Philippa, “it must be all of five miles or more to Wyvern Towers from here. If he has a headache now, I shudder to think how he will feel by the time he has bounced all that way in a farm wagon.”

“Have you a better suggestion, my lady?” asked the doctor. “I confess it will be a sad trial for him. Besides the headache, he is much bruised, and that left ankle is certainly swelling inside his boot.”

“That settles it, then,” Philippa said firmly. “It cannot be but a half-mile or so to my house from here, and although it is uphill, surely these men can carry him that far.”

“ ’Tis as good as done, ma’am,” said one of the three men whom she did not know. “We can use the gate there to carry him on, or two of us can make a chair for him with our hands, you know. Better than to create riot and rumpus by sending for a carriage or any such thing.”

So it was arranged, with everyone but Dr. Livesey and Philippa taking it in turns to make the chair. Even the Beau took his turn, and if the distance proved to be closer to a mile and a half than a half-mile, the men did not complain, except for Rochford, who insisted that he could perfectly well ride a horse if they would only let him. The others, treating the whole business as a lark, informed him that it was best to keep his injured ankle elevated and that he had, moreover, already proved himself incapable of sitting a horse.

“Indeed, my lord,” said the doctor, attempting to soften the effect of these last words, “dizzy as you are, you might well find it difficult to maintain your balance. Moreover, your own mount is lamed. I cannot think you would prefer to ride pillion.”

Rochford said nothing further after that, but Philippa, riding at that moment between Jake and Mr. Brummell, could not think that these proceedings or the accompanying merriment were likely to improve the viscount’s temper. Nor did she think it would be improved when, a half-hour later, having turned her horse over to Jake and given orders that the other mounts should be seen to, she led the cavalcade into the stone hall, only to find Miss Jessalyn Raynard-Wakefield and the Lady Lucinda Drake hanging over the gallery rail in a most unladylike manner to see what was going forward.

“Good gracious!” wailed Lucinda. “What happened to Andrew? Is he badly hurt?”

“Was there an accident?” inquired Jessalyn of nobody in particular.

No one replied to these questions. Instead, the doctor turned to Philippa, raising his eyebrows. “Is it necessary to take him upstairs, my lady?”

“No, indeed, Dr. Livesey. This way, gentlemen.” She led them through the great stair hall, past the service stair, and through the dressing room to the blue damask bedchamber in the southeast corner of the house, overlooking the park. “The bed was made up fresh yesterday. Is there anything else you will require, doctor?”

“Rid me of his merry escort, my lady, and you will be doing me a signal service. Then, if you have a manservant who can help me get him undressed, I would appreciate your sending him along straightaway.”

“Very well, sir.” She went to pull the bell, and the butler entered with magnificent promptitude. “Do you send Stephen Footman to assist the doctor, Bickerstaff, and then see that these gentlemen are provided with refreshment in the yellow drawing room.”

“Yes, my lady. At once, my lady.”

“Don’t go, Philippa.” It was Rochford, speaking from the bed where he had been placed by his escort with exaggerated gentleness and many ribald remarks. The ominous light had not yet faded from his eyes, and Philippa was grateful for the doctor’s prompt intervention.

“Of course she must go, Rochford. Don’t be daft, man. I mean to examine you from top to toe, and you’ll not want her here for that, I’m thinking.”

The viscount glared and seemed about to contradict him when Brummell said gently, “Don’t be a bore, Andrew.”

Rochford looked away then, and Philippa made good her escape as soon as she had directed the other gentlemen into the yellow drawing room, situated immediately to the west of the bedchamber. Leaving them to enjoy whatever refreshment Bickerstaff saw fit to serve them, she hastened upstairs to the morning room, where she found her cousin and the two girls. Even as she spared a prayer of gratitude to whichever almighty being—Greek, Roman, Norse, or English—had stopped Jessalyn and Lucinda from descending to the lower floor, she discovered that it had been no easy task. To judge by the pelter of questions that greeted her entrance to the room, they had been forcibly restrained.

“What happened, ma’am? Cousin Adeliza would not let us go downstairs.”

“Is Andrew badly hurt? Oh, please, will he live, ma’am?”

“Philippa, what on earth are you about, to have brought all those gentlemen into this house? The girls inform me that there are at least a dozen of them racketing about belowstairs.”

Setting her whip down upon the deal table and stripping off her riding gloves, she answered Miss Pellerin first with a rueful smile. “Not quite a dozen, ma’am, though I fear I have truly brought the Fates down upon us this time—or is it the Furies? I never can keep them all straight.”

Miss Pellerin smiled dryly. “I believe you must mean the Furies, my love. I daresay the daughters of the just heavens have less to do with what you’ve brought upon yourself than have the avenging spirits. The Furies concern themselves, as you must know if you will but consider the matter, with retribution. And retribution, I believe, is what you fear at the moment.”