Friends and Foes (5 page)

He wasn’t coming down. Sorrel tried to hide a satisfied grin. Hancock the butler would be announcing the start of dinner, and the puffed-up Earl had yet to appear. She had, apparently, won the first battle. The realization came with a pang of disappointment. Sorrel had, in the short time she’d spent with the Earl, deemed him a worthy opponent, one not likely to turn tail and run.

She mentally shrugged. Yet another man who didn’t act the way she expected him to.

Sorrel turned her attention to Lizzie, deep in animated conversation with her husband, Lord Henley. Lizzie had always been so full of life. How fortunate for her to find a husband who accepted that—he seemed to appreciate it, in fact.

Lord and Lady Cavratt chatted quite amicably with Lady Lampton. Lord Cavratt, Sorrel noted, held the bulk of the conversation. Lady Cavratt was, by all accounts, extremely shy. Society generally looked upon tongue-tying bashfulness as a nearly unacceptable flaw in a lady. Yet Lady Cavratt had married a man whose title rivaled almost every other of the Peerage in terms of antiquity and respectability. Lord Cavratt did not appear to merely tolerate his wife and her “shortcomings.” He quite obviously adored her.

“Penny for your thoughts, Miss Kendrick,” a deep voice whispered at her side, startling her half out of her wits, though Sorrel managed to hide all signs of surprise.

“For a shilling I might share them, my lord,” Sorrel replied without so much as glancing at the Earl of Lampton. She’d have recognized his patronizing voice anywhere.

“Are your thoughts so valuable, then?” Sorrel heard him sit beside her.

“The value of any item depends on the amount one is willing to pay for it,” Sorrel replied. At this, she did turn toward Lord Lampton, making her statement a challenge. What she expected to see, Sorrel couldn’t say precisely, but his smooth smile and twinkling eyes took her by surprise.

Lord Lampton reached inside his perfectly tailored jacket and pulled a silver coin from his waistcoat pocket. He held it out in front of her between his thumb and forefinger. He raised an eyebrow then took hold of her hand resting on the arm of her chair. He turned her hand palm up and placed the shilling in its center.

“Now, what had so occupied your thoughts when I came upon you?” Lord Lampton asked. “You had not yet seen my Weston, so you certainly weren’t pondering that piece of perfection.”

So, he really was a dandy. The realization was unexpectedly disappointing. “I am still not pondering your attire, my lord.”

“I have paid for your thoughts, I will remind you.”

Sorrel smiled as innocuously as she could. “When you arrived I was pondering how I might cheat you out of a shilling.” She held the silver coin up so Lord Lampton would be sure to see it then slipped it inside her left glove.

He laughed. “Touché, Miss Kendrick. Might I say, a shilling well spent.”

“Next time I will have to charge a guinea.”

“Next time I will know better than to offer payment for your thoughts,” Lord Lampton countered, twirling his confounded quizzing glass on its ribbon. “Especially since I seriously doubt you answered honestly.”

“You didn’t indicate you were paying for an
honest
answer.”

“I see I will have to be more specific in my requests,” Lord Lampton said. “Now, it appears Lady Cavratt is coming to claim my arm for dinner, and I believe my brother Jason is come to claim yours. A word of advice, Miss Kendrick: do not bring up his aspiration to become a King’s Counsel.” Lord Lampton leaned closer to her, bringing with him a pleasing hint of cedar that Sorrel tried hard to ignore, and whispered, “A difficult topic.”

Mr. Jason Jonquil appeared at Sorrel’s side just as Lord Lampton rose. The eldest Jonquil offered Sorrel a bow and a smile, much to her confusion. Had he so quickly abandoned their feud? Did he fear going to battle and hope to broker a last-minute peace agreement? She’d settle for nothing short of surrender. Life had placed her at a perpetual disadvantage, forcing her to grasp at any victory she could claim.

Sorrel noted with a mixture of disappointment and satisfaction that she and Lord Lampton were seated at enough of a distance to make conversation between them all but impossible. There would be no battle over dinner. There would be plenty of time for armed conflict later, time for deflecting Lord Lampton’s obvious attempts to outmaneuver her. If she knew Lord Lampton, and Sorrel felt she’d taken his measure pretty accurately, he had tried to steer her from a conversational topic sure to make the meal more enjoyable. Sorrel took advantage of a lull in conversation after the fish to address her dinner partner. She sincerely hoped Lord Lampton would overhear.

“I understand you have hopes of being a King’s Counsel, Mr. Jonquil.”

There seemed to be a synchronized intake of breath around the table. Sorrel glanced quickly about. Every member of the Jonquil family gazed, wide-eyed, in every conceivable direction except toward Mr.
Jason
Jonquil, who in the very next moment began a rather impassioned denunciation of those holding the very position he, supposedly, reached toward. As her dinner partner continued his criticism, Sorrel turned in near awe toward Lord Lampton.

The Earl raised his glass in her direction and, with a twitch of his very expressive right eyebrow, smiled rather triumphantly. He’d been honest about this touchy subject. He’d actually been offering helpful advice. He had to have known she would have assumed the opposite. Insufferable!

The rest of the meal proved less disastrous but no more successful. Mr. Corbin Jonquil proved quiet but cordial. Very little conversation originated with him. Sorrel tiptoed around topics with Mr. Jason Jonquil, uncertain what else might be a sore spot with the barrister.

By the time the ladies withdrew to the drawing room, Sorrel wished only to disappear into a corner for the remainder of the evening. She would not be so fortunate.

Lady Lampton crossed the drawing room to sit on the sofa directly beside Sorrel’s chair. “I fear my family has not made the most favorable impression on you, Miss Kendrick. My son Jason is well suited to the law, being both astute and well spoken. But he is, I must confess, the least patient of my sons, which has made waiting for promotion to a King’s Counsel rather hard for him to endure.” She smiled so maternally that Sorrel couldn’t help softening toward the woman, even if her eldest son was a rather trying individual.

“And then there is Philip.” Lady Lampton hit on precisely the topic Sorrel did
not
want to discuss, or so she told herself. “Each of my sons has his own strengths and weaknesses. Philip’s are one and the same.” She seemed to sigh as if saddened for her son.

Sorrel didn’t ask the obvious question but waited, quite intrigued.

“He is intelligent. Now before you argue”—Lady Lampton held up a staying hand and smiled knowingly—“as you undoubtedly have reason to, Philip has a quick intellect. It is that sharpness of mind that tends to get him into trouble. He cannot pass up an intellectual challenge, though that is not always the best way to make friends.”

“Rather the opposite, it seems.”

“Yes. Your war.” Lady Lampton smiled at her. “Philip will take this seriously, you know.”

“As will I.”

Lady Lampton watched Sorrel rather closely. “You, too, have a sharp wit—I have seen evidence of it. I believe you and Philip have the potential to wreak havoc on one another.”

“You believe I should back down?”

“Good gracious, no!” The countess looked shocked at the very idea. “As the only female in a household with eight males, I long ago became a rather vocal advocate of a woman holding her own.” With her silver eyebrows raised and her mouth in the early stages of a grin, Lady Lampton looked positively mischievous.

“Have you come to plead for your son’s welfare, then?” Sorrel asked, a smile spreading across her face.

“Precisely.” Lady Lampton chuckled lightly.

Sorrel joined her laugh to Lady Lampton’s. How she enjoyed a friendly companion—she’d seldom had an agreeable conversational partner in the past two years.

“Dare I beg a seat beside you lovely ladies?” Lord Lampton’s arrival quickly dispelled Sorrel’s lightened mood.

“Of course, dearest.” Lady Lampton patted the sofa beside her. “The gentlemen certainly didn’t linger over their port this evening.”

“I could not resist the ever-increasing pull of the drawing room.” Lord Lampton flashed a smile that Sorrel could only interpret as flirtatious. That made no sense. He couldn’t have done so for the benefit of his mother. Yet he certainly would not flirt with his sworn enemy.

“Jason still appears a tad blue-deviled,” Lady Lampton remarked, her gaze fixed across the room on the son in question.

“He muttered something about idiots being permitted to practice law as we left the dining room.” Lord Lampton shrugged and smoothed the sleeve of his midnight-blue jacket. “So perhaps he is still obsessing over his unrealized ambitions. Although I am certain he is simply depressed because I refused to allow him use of my quizzing glass. I do not believe he has the self-possession to do it justice.”

“If you and Miss Kendrick will excuse me, I will see what I can do for Jason before he infects the entire party with his gloomy mood.” Lady Lampton rose from her seat, Lord Lampton standing as well.

“Perhaps you could promise him a quizzing glass for Christmas.” Lord Lampton looked entirely serious. “But only if he is a very good boy and doesn’t badger the bar with his disappointments.”

Lady Lampton shook her head amusedly but otherwise ignored her eldest son’s comment and crossed the room. Lord Lampton retook his seat at the end of the sofa closest to Sorrel.

“I feel I should tell you”—Lord Lampton addressed her with an even expression—“when conversing with Corbin it is best not to bring up Jolly Jaunt, a thoroughbred of his with which he is currently none too happy. Stanley”—he nodded toward the youngest Jonquil present—“does not appreciate discussing Orthez, having been injured during that battle. When Harold arrives from Cambridge, be advised he feels rather strongly about the excesses of society, having set his sights on the Church. Charlie, who will descend upon us from Eton at any moment, sorely dislikes his status as ‘the baby’ of the family.”

Sorrel refused to look at him. Lord Lampton was obviously trying to further embarrass her. “There are certainly quite a few topics best avoided among the Jonquils.”

“There are quite a few Jonquils,” Lord Lampton said. “I imagine, though, every family has its sore spots and difficult memories.”

“Some more than others.”

“Indeed, some memories are more difficult than others. Mrs. Kendrick seemed quite intent this morning on avoiding a topic that seemed uncomfortable for her.”

“My mother avoids all topics that are uncomfortable for her,” Sorrel retorted. “In fact, she avoids people who make her feel the same way. My mother does not believe in being uncomfortable.”

“She is a creature of comfort, then?”

“No more than some.” She eyed Lord Lampton with an accusatory expression.

“You believe, then, I am overly concerned with my comforts.”

“In my experience, most gentlemen are,” Sorrel answered. “Especially those for whom shallower pursuits are paramount.”

“Dandies, in other words.”

“Dandies. Fops. Rakes. What are they but seekers of their own comfort?”

“Which of these less-than-dignified descriptions suits me best, Miss Kendrick? I should like to know your impression of me.”

He wished for her opinion? How would he feel should she offer criticisms as biting as those he’d delivered? His precisely expressed opinion that a lady with a limp could not be considered beautiful still stung every time she recalled it.

“Only a dandy would sport an Oriental at a simple country dinner.” She pointedly eyed his cravat, which had bothered her from the moment he’d made his appearance earlier in the evening. “Though your attachment to your quizzing glass tends to push you beyond dandified toward the foppish. As to your being a rake, I cannot say. Except that I seriously doubt Lord Cavratt would remain close friends with a dissolute gentleman. Whether he is simply deceived in your character remains to be seen. After all, he has maintained his connection to a gentleman who is, apparently, obsessed with his appearance and unnaturally attached to his affectations. That doesn’t, precisely, reflect favorably on his taste in friends.”

Lord Lampton’s expression tightened, his lips setting into a firm line. For a moment he said nothing, and Sorrel began to feel uncomfortable. Her words had not been kind. She knew her tendency to speak bitingly when she felt vulnerable.

“It seems,” he finally said, his tone almost cold, “I have made a very shrewd purchase, Miss Kendrick. For my shilling I have received a quid’s worth of your thoughts.”

“You did ask for my opinion, my lord,” Sorrel replied.

“I had best request no further revelations from you. I fear I can ill afford the onslaught.”

In one smooth movement, Lord Lampton reached his feet, offered a stiff bow, and walked away. Sorrel had the distinct impression she had offended the Earl. She had, perhaps, been blunter than the situation warranted. But a war of words did not abide inconsequential conversation.

Lord Lampton’s dissatisfaction clearly represented little more than the sulking of the defeated. Sorrel would certainly have been declared the winner in this first battle despite her earlier blunderings. Yet watching him walk away, she did not feel triumphant.

War is not for the feeble hearted.

Philip pushed Devil’s Advocate harder, running neck-or-nothing across the snow-dusted hills of Kinnley. Nothing like an ice-cold wind biting at one’s face to clear the head. Of course, a dandy would have objected to the destruction such an activity brought to one’s coiffure. Fashion dictated one appear windswept, not actually
be
windswept.

Contrary to the declarations of General Sorrel, however, Philip was no dandy. Not truly. He certainly did not qualify as a creature of comfort.

The black gelding’s breath came in visible puffs, its sides expanding with the effort of running so hard for so long. Philip brought the magnificent beast back to a trot and pulled his caped coat more closely around him.

The last evening’s conversation still echoed in Philip’s mind. A gentleman intent on nothing but his own enjoyment, she’d labeled him.
For you, shallower pursuits are paramount.
What did Miss Kendrick know of him? On what evidence did she base such outlandish evaluations, he would like to know.

Philip answered his own question.
Observation.
Outwardly he gave every indication of being a dandy. The carefully calculated ploy had reaped rewards but had come at a sacrifice, as well. No one really knew him. He couldn’t allow them to.

Philip sighed, oblivious to his surroundings and hardly noting the cold. He’d rather not think of the years he’d spent under the guise of a dandified fop nor the opportunities it had cost him. The loss would be worth it, he vowed, even if the likes of Sorrel Kendrick failed to understand.

She felt his friendship reflected badly on Crispin, which it didn’t. At least he hoped it didn’t. Crispin hadn’t chosen to cut the connection despite five years of rather absurd behavior on Philip’s part. There had always been loyalty between them. Hadn’t he salvaged Crispin and Catherine’s marriage when no one else had seemed able to—had even played a role in saving their lives? That had certainly not been the act of a man concerned solely with shallow pursuits.

Philip jerked the reins, and Devil’s Advocate obeyed with agitation. At a more sedate pace than Philip would have preferred, but necessary if he were to regain his composure, he began returning to the house.

There were certainly any number of ladies who’d been unim-pressed by him in the past, turned off by his seeming belief in the importance of appearance above nearly all else. And, he added with emphasis, there were quite a few who’d found him dashing and amusing and excellent company.

So why did General Sorrel’s disapproval bother him so blasted much? The argumentative, sharp-tongued lady’s opinion ought to have blown past him like the cold wind. Instead, it clung to him like a damp cloak.

Shallower pursuits? Seeking only his own comfort?
What could be further from the truth? He acted as the head of a family, of an
enormous
family! What man with six younger siblings had time for selfish concerns?

He’d dropped the appropriate comments in the right ears to pave the way for Jason’s career to progress as far as it had for one so young.

He had called in favors and seen a veritable parade of the most sought-after stallions make their way to Corbin’s property in Nottinghamshire to ensure the success of that brother’s lifelong ambition of breeding race horses.

Layton, the second oldest and the closest to Philip’s age, weighed particularly heavy on Philip’s mind. A mere five years earlier, Layton had been settled and happy with a prosperous future stretched out in front of him. Now? Philip let out a deep breath, clouding in the cold air in front of his face. He supported his brother the best he knew how, but Layton’s troubles went too deep for Philip to alleviate. Lud, he wished he could.

Stanley worried Philip as well. No one knew the depth of sacrifice Philip had made from the time that army-mad brother had left to fight for his country. So desperate had he been to see the war end swiftly, before it claimed Stanley as it had so many other young men, that Philip had volunteered his services to the Foreign Office in the hope that he might help end the conflict. He’d given up years of his own life trying to help secure peace. For five years he’d daily dreaded hearing that his brother would not return home, that his own risks and efforts wouldn’t be enough to bring Stanley home alive. The memory of that anguish still brought a sting to Philip’s throat.

Would a true dandy worry so much? He doubted it.

His youngest brothers were still young, but Philip stood by them, supported them in their pursuits. He corresponded faithfully, staying abreast of their experiences and disappointments. He visited them regularly at school.

He was a good brother, by George! His family had their difficulties, but he would not abide a razor-tongued female faulting him for those struggles. Heaven knew he’d done all he could.

Kinnley loomed large in front of him without Philip having noted his approach, so lost he’d been in his own reflections. “Come,” he instructed his obedient mount. “I think that is plenty of exercise for one morning.”

He turned toward the stables in time to spy the retreating figure of his adversary slowly straggling toward the house. Had the general been for a ride? She wasn’t dressed for it and looked far too pristinely put together to have been for a jaunt. As he approached, Philip thought he detected an uneasiness in her countenance.

Curious. What could be disturbing the unflappable Miss Kendrick? Perhaps her inaccurate portrayal of him from the evening before troubled her conscience. Not likely. She didn’t seem the sort to be concerned over any wounds her words had inflicted.

Had he actually decided to flirt with her? Ha! He’d have likely had as much success, and enjoyment, snuggling up to a hedgehog.

After thoroughly brushing and rubbing down his faithful horse, Philip made his way to the house cold and hungry. Seeing Miss Kendrick at the breakfast table, he continued on undetected to his room without stopping to break his fast. He wasn’t running away, he told himself sternly. He simply did not feel like brangling.

“A tray, my lord?” Wilson, his valet, asked after helping Philip from his riding coat.

Philip silently nodded his assent, and his man disappeared without another word. He tossed his loose cravat onto the bed and began fumbling with the top buttons of his lawn shirt. Next came the buttons at his wrists. Finally he pulled off his riding boots.

There. Philip breathed deeply. Much better. No immobilizing collars or heavy boots. He stood in his stockinged feet, his shirt loose and untucked.

A folded letter on his bedside table caught Philip’s eye. It hadn’t been there when he’d left for his ride that morning. He took it in his hand and spun it around. Philip knew the handwriting: Garner. This would be news from the Foreign Office.

He sat quickly in the ladder-back chair beside the spindle-legged writing desk beneath the long, western facing window and broke the seal.

Lampton,

Sorry you couldn’t be in London just now.

Philip automatically decoded the message: the Foreign Office did not wish him to return to Town.

At a particular gathering not two days past, a splash was made by a much emulated gentleman
.

The Foreign Office felt Le Fontaine would be at the coast soon.

There were but two persons present who could come close to matching him in appearance. He was unfortunate enough to have chosen the very event where those two distinguished gentlemen were previously engaged to be.

Garner would be joining him in Suffolk, possibly at Kinnley. It seemed Le Fontaine had likely chosen a nearby landing place.

The newcomer ought to have anticipated the presence of his competition, as the event has, in the past, been attended by those same gentlemen. All in attendance are still in an uproar.

Ipswich. They had nearly intercepted Le Fontaine in Ipswich before. The Foreign Office seemed anxious.

Philip walked to the fireplace and tossed the seemingly innocent missive inside, waiting to see that it disintegrated into cinders before walking back to the window.

Le Fontaine in Suffolk. Philip’s heart pounded a little harder at the thought. Le Fontaine had eluded capture for years, but now he was nearby. Too nearby. Philip had never tailed the elusive French spy in such close proximity to his family.

“Your tray, my lord.” Wilson set the food-laden tray on an end table. “Would you prefer to dress before or after you’ve broken your fast?”

“After, Wilson,” Philip replied, wanting the comfort his current dishabille granted him. He would don his dandy costume soon enough. “After.”

Philip rubbed his eyebrows with his thumb and forefinger. Nothing could be done until Garner arrived. There were some things that simply couldn’t be communicated in writing, not even in code.

“Lud,” Philip muttered. “Garner’s right. I am too old for this.”

Couldn’t Le Fontaine have at least taken a break for the holiday? Didn’t the man know Philip had enough to deal with already? He was in the midst of a war, for heaven’s sake!

Lampton War Tactic Number Six: Females are, by default, the most dangerous of enemies, as evidenced by their tendency to declare war at the most inconvenient times.

He had an enemy somewhere along the coast, as well as one in that very house. Philip began to understand how Wellington felt.

First order of business: eat his breakfast. Then: a dandified transformation followed by a return to the domestic battlefront.

Lampton War Tactic Number Seven: War, like charity, begins at home.

After breakfast, Philip closeted himself in Crispin’s vastly impressive library, pretending to read a recently published treatise on the famed Battle of Trafalgar. He was dressed to the nines and completely uncomfortable.

My mother does not believe in being uncomfortable.
General Sorrel’s declaration entered unbidden into his thoughts.

Philip shook his head in agitation. She would, no doubt, be surprised to learn that his persona often left him deucedly uncomfortable.

Setting aside the book he’d little more than glanced at, Philip made his way to a western window and gazed out over the formal knot garden that had been the pride and joy of the late Lady Cavratt. Winter had bared the bushes sitting beneath blankets of white snow, broken only by the precisely cleared paths.

A brisk walk in the winter sun would be just the thing to clear his mind, Philip mused. But dandies didn’t get their boots muddied. Lud, he’d grown tired of the charade. Years of acting the fop were taking their toll. He reminded himself, for what felt like the hundredth time in recent months, that he had good reason for assuming the frustrating role he had.

Movement down one of the garden paths caught Philip’s attention. Had someone actually braved the elements? Gone traipsing through the mud? A moment more of watching and the brave soul came into view.

Philip narrowed his eyes to be sure of what he saw. Then, in a moment of determination, he went for his overcoat. No amount of dandification could keep him from that garden.