Let it be said, Charles was not mean. He’d made his bed, feathered with the last wealth Eglantine’s family had had to offer, and he’d lain in that bed more or less contently ever since—albeit with myriad opera dancers, widows, and light-skirts.
“What wonderful idea has Charles come up with now?” Charles’s wonderful ideas invariably involved spending money.
A racing stud—as if those were not thick on the ground, and every one of them bleeding coin.
A charitable orphanage—always profitable, if well run, in Charles’s vast and deep experience. When Hecate pointed out that charities should not be profitable, Charles had grumbled about details.
A finishing school for illegitimate young ladies with wealthy, titled fathers, and—of course!—Hecate could be its founding patroness.
Even Eglantine had winced at that notion.
“Charlie says we must have a house party,” Eglantine pronounced around a mouthful of cake, “and Mama-in-Law supports the notion. Technically, she’d be the hostess, and nominally, Great-Uncle Nunn would be the host. London is so unbearable in the summer, and Nunnsuch will be Wharton’s home one day. He and Winston should be spending time there.”
Wharton was Eglantine’s eldest, Winston his toddling younger brother. They were delightful children, thus far, having their parents’ cheerful dispositions and an innocent sense of fun. Hecate gave it about five years before public school and the insidious Brompton talent for mischief ruined them both.
And now the boys were to have their first, nursery-eye view of a house party?
Hecate sipped her tea and mentally counted backward from twenty in Latin. The Brompton family had two main branches. Papa was a cousin at a remove from Great-Uncle Nunn, while Charles had the great good fortune to sprout from the titled side of the tree. Papa resented his titled relations, resented Hecate, and would probably resent a pot of gold if it had the temerity to land on his foot.
The titled Bromptons, by contrast, were a frivolous lot, frequently pockets to let and wits gone begging, and their numbers were legion. They were always scheming, always looking for a way to turn deviousness into coin, usually with disastrous results. Great-Uncle Nunn, the Earl of Nunn, cast a dim and disapproving eye on his dodgy relations and mostly ignored them.
He’d likely show up for the final day or two of this bacchanal, harrumph down the room with the highest-ranking female guest, and declare the whole thing absurd. Of all her Brompton relatives, Great-Uncle was the one whom Hecate respected.
“It’s rather late to be planning a house party, Eglantine. Most of Society has already decamped for the shires.”
“But grouse season is still weeks and weeks away—weeks, I tell you—and Nunnsuch is a lovely property. If we invite a combination of friends and family, with a few neighbors thrown in, we’ll have plenty of guests, but here is the best part…”
She popped another tea cake into her mouth and chewed vigorously while Hecate steeled herself for disaster. What fool had decreed that ladies did not use profanity?
“We shall invite,”—Eglantine’s eyes took on a gleam of triumph—“Lord… Phillip… Vincent!” She clapped her hands like a small child. “It’s brilliant, Hecate. My Charles is brilliant, positively brilliant. Nobody has invited Lord Phillip much of anywhere, and we shall be the first. The matchmakers will be eaten up with envy. A marquess’s brother, his heir for the nonce. We will be the talk of Mayfair.”
The Bromptons were frequently the talk of Mayfair, and for all the wrong reasons. “I wasn’t aware Charles and Lord Phillip were connected.”
“Yes, you were. Don’t be coy, Hecate. Charles still feels badly about Miss DeWitt’s early experiences in Society. A regrettable misunderstanding. She would agree, I’m sure, but no harm done—she married the Marquess of Tavistock, didn’t she? Now pour me a second cup, there’s a dear. These sandwiches look a bit dry.”
Hecate poured the requisite second cup and passed it over. Perhaps a lady was permitted slightly colorful language in French? A few quiet curses?
“Charles abused Miss DeWitt’s trust, Eglantine. Don’t distort the facts. You feel guilty because he offered for you instead of for her, and that was strictly a matter of your settlements being larger than hers.”
In one of his many drunken moments, Charles had confessed to taking liberties with Miss DeWitt. In Hecate’s opinion, Miss DeWitt had had a narrow escape, despite the drubbing Charles’s defection had delivered to the lady’s standing.
Charles opined that he’d had no choice in the matter, given the state of his mother’s finances.
Eglantine slurped her tea and commenced sniffling and blinking. “Why must you be so hateful, Hecate? Nobody will marry you because your disposition is so sour. You can’t let go of the past, and you want everybody to be as miserable as you are. Charles comes up with a brilliant idea, one that could go a long way toward smoothing over any lingering hurt feelings with the new marchioness, and you find fault. Why must you always find fault?”
Because I want you to survive the battles still ahead. Because your firstborn son will face yet more battles and because Charles is a philandering idiot. That side of the family excelled at producing philandering idiots.
“If we see the flaws in our plans,” Hecate said gently, “then we stand a better chance of achieving success. When you invite a man of Lord Phillip’s standing, for example, your guest list will need a few other courtesy lords and ladies. Whom did you have in mind?”
Eglantine’s inchoate tears underwent a miraculous remission. “Mama-in-Law said we must leave those details to you. You would criticize our efforts past all bearing if we even attempted to create a guest list without consulting you first.”
The problem with the Bromptons—the other branch of the Bromptons—was that they believed their own press. Charles had doubtless convinced himself, his mother, his wife, and his horse that this house party would brilliantly patch up all bad feeling between him and his former intended—now the Marchioness of Tavistock.
From there, collateral justifications had doubtless multiplied in his handsome head like baby rabbits:
London was so boring for Eglantine and Mama in the summer—and unhealthful for the children (and devoid of merry widows and opera dancers).
Great-Uncle Nunn rattled around the family seat all by himself, and one must take pity on lonely elders (with whom one needed to curry favor).
Mrs. Rose Roberts lived not five miles from Nunnsuch, and a widow of such wealth and great good looks would always be a welcome addition to a social gathering. That Mrs. Roberts might have been one of Charles’s romping partners last autumn was of no moment.
And—this argument likely topped Charles’s list—poor old Hecate could always use another little project to while away the tedium of her pathetic existence. We must do our part to enliven her dull days. We are her family, after all.
By the time Eglantine had donned her bonnet to make this call, Charles’s house party had become—in his mind at least—the most benevolent, inspired notion ever hatched in the mind of man. Though in all likelihood, the notion had been hatched by Charles’s mother. Not a Brompton by birth, but Edna certainly fit in well with her in-laws.