Page 11 of The Derbyshire Dance (Kendall House #3)

Chapter eight

Regrets

W hen dinner concluded, Nigel felt a modicum of disappointment as Mrs. Brownlee led the ladies to the withdrawing room and left the gentlemen to their port.

Mrs. White cast him a speculative glance as she left the room.

Her hips swayed provocatively as she looked at him over her left shoulder.

He knew that type—restless, rapacious, and eager for male company.

Strangely, however, he felt no urge to investigate Mrs. White’s obvious interest and instead continued to mourn Miss Morrison’s departure.

The only clever conversationalist in the county had left the dining room, and he was to be immured with a half dozen provincial gentlemen to talk about the weather, the countryside, and the roads.

Once alone with the male members of the party, however, Nigel found the Ferris brothers more congenial than expected.

They were dressed in the styles of yesteryear, with silver buckles, stockings, breeches, and even brocade frock coats rather than the more modish dark evening wear.

As the port flowed freely, the two old men were soon regaling him with local stories about the mythical Derby Ram and the headless horseman of Bolsover Castle.

“I saw the horseman once when I was a boy,” said James Ferris, his back curved forward with age, “but Jack never did. Not a once.”

Nigel clucked sympathetically. “I daresay a headless horseman is selective about whom he haunts.”

Jack Ferris slapped his knee with a hoot of laughter. “Hardly, Mr. Lymington. He has no head, you know, to see who's about when he goes riding.”

“I’ll wager even I can see better than the headless horseman,” said James, his grin missing a half dozen teeth. The old fellow was no longer as sharp as his brother, but he still had his old-fashioned charm.

“But he must have some sort of directional sense,” speculated Nigel, “even without eyes, ears, or nose. Or else how would the fellow racket about through the forest or make it into the castle courtyard without hitting the walls?”

“A sixth sense,” cackled Jack Ferris. “One that points him in the direction of the pretty ladies.” He gave Nigel a gleeful grin. “I’ve been observing you at dinner, Lymington, and it seems that you have that sixth sense. What do you think of our beautiful Belinda?”

As the younger Mr. Ferris asked the question, Nigel discovered that Belinda Morrison had been lurking in the back of his mind ever since she had left the room with Mrs. Brownlee, Mrs. White, and her aunt. But it was not until Jack mentioned it that he had even considered her appearance.

Beautiful Belinda ?

She was not what society would deem beautiful with her loamy brown hair and less than classical features, but there was something about her forthright spirit that lit up her face like a sky in the middle of a lightning storm.

“Very charming,” Nigel drawled, keeping an air of affectation in his voice.

It would not do to seem too eager. That was not how the game was played—or, at least, not how it was played in London.

“But egad! She has a way of letting a fellow know when he doesn’t measure up.

I daresay a headless horseman would find himself far too short in her estimation. ”

Jack Ferris gave a hearty laugh at that witticism and repeated it to make sure his brother had heard it.

Nigel, meanwhile, cast an eye over to the corner where Mr. Brownlee was deep in conversation with the vicar.

There seemed to be something more serious to their conversation than galloping ghosts, and more than once he caught the name Morrison floating across the dining table.

“Are there any other sights that I should look for hereabouts?” asked Nigel, keeping one ear attuned to the left as he tried not to ignore the garrulous old gentlemen on his right.

“There’s the Jester’s Arms right here in Upper Cross,” said James Ferris. “You’ll run into Jack there more often than not on cold afternoons.”

“And if you can find your hat again once you’ve sat down,” said Jack, “then you’re more clever than you look.” His old eyes sparkled. “Hats, canes, coats—they’ve a tendency to go wandering off. The jester takes them, you see. Likes to play pranks on folks hereabouts.”

“Another phantom from days of yore?”

“Aye.” Jack leaned in conspiratorially and tapped his drooping nose. “But best to keep quiet about it. The old vicar liked a pint of ale and a pie at the Jester’s Arms often, and he even left a penny for the jester like we all do. But I don’t think the new vicar holds truck with ghostly doings.”

Jack rose to pour his feebler brother another glass of spirits.

Nigel, his attention his own once more, looked back across the room at the vicar.

His profile bore a strange resemblance to their host’s.

They leaned towards each other at the end of the table, clearly engaged in private conversation, but neither man able to modulate the sound of his voice enough to keep it from carrying.

“...but he could always return,” said Mr. Townsend, combing a hand through his dark-blond hair.

“Pfft!” said Harold Brownlee, snapping his fingers in disdain.

“He’s been gone seven years come January.

No fear of him coming back now, except as a ghost. I’m one of the executors of her parents’ will, and as soon as the New Year comes, I can apply to have the boy declared deceased.

It’s just like I told you last week—the house and land’s all hers.

And she’s respectable. Well-spoken. A little older than a man might like, but she’d be a credit to a man of the cloth, and your income would treble or quadruple. ”

“You’ve been more than generous with the stipend,” said the vicar. “I’m not in desperate need of additional income.”

“Nonsense. Every gentleman, even a vicar, looks to increase his fortune. Think of your mother. If your income increased, you could house her here in Upper Cross.”

The vicar pursed his lips. “Indeed.”

Nigel wondered whether any grown man, including a moralistic vicar, would want his mother in such proximity .

“I have noticed Miss Morrison’s way of speaking is a little unsettling,” observed the vicar. “I’ve never heard a Shropshire woman talk so boldly.”

“You could mend it in no time,” said Harold Brownlee dismissively. “There’s nothing about a woman that can’t be changed if a man has a mind to do it.”

Nigel squirmed. He had had those same thoughts before—and tried and failed to bend his niece Louisa to do his bidding.

But to hear the sentiment on someone else’s tongue was a revelation of how repulsive it truly was.

Miss Belinda Morrison was unique. He could not imagine trying to mould her into something other than what she was.

Nigel’s dark eyes flashed with disgust, but instead of making a scene, he rose from his chair and approached his host with a friendly smile. “The port is good, Brownlee. I’m warm to the gills. And I’m learning my way about as well. I hear the Jester’s Arms is the place to go for a proper pint.”

“I’m fond of it myself,” said Mr. Brownlee, rising from his chair and allowing Nigel to split up his tête-à-tête with the vicar. Whatever they had been discussing must wait till they were private once again. “We dined there last week, Mr. Townsend, you must recall?”

The vicar frowned. “It seemed a superstitious place. I had not thought Derbyshire so benighted—”

“Superstitious it might be,” said Mr. Brownlee blithely, “but the ale is strong, and the food is hot. And besides, it’s the only inn in Upper Cross.

” He nodded to Mr. Lymington. “If you have no cook at Audeley House, I wager you’ll be dining there more nights than not.

Their public room is large—I hire it once a year to give Mrs. Brownlee a dance on Boxing Day. ”

“What’s that, Harold?” said James Ferris, shuffling over with a glass of port and spilling a few drops in the process. “Is there to be a dance again this year?”

“Of course there is,” said their host. “I must keep Madge happy and give her something to do with herself. You should see how many hours it takes her to plan out punch and cakes and garlands and music—and how many hours I get to myself because of it.”

The other gentlemen laughed, all save the vicar. “The heavy weight of the cares of this world,” uttered Mr. Townsend.

“Well, Jack and I shall be there,” said James Ferris, gleefully ignoring the vicar’s censorious comment. “And if I fortify myself with enough punch, then perhaps I shall tread a step or two with Miss Lucy.”

“Ha, you sly dog!” said Harold Brownlee, clapping the old fellow on the back in uproarious mirth. Nigel, anticipating the blow, seized the glass of port from James’ hands and placed it on the table before it spilled further.

“Not if I beat you to it, brother,” said Jack Ferris. “And I warrant my legs will last longer than yours.”

Mr. Brownlee began to rally the two brothers on their likelihood of making it through a whole reel. Meanwhile, the vicar regathered his composure and turned to Nigel. “Do you dance, Mr. Lymington?”

“What gentleman does not?” In truth, Nigel particularly loved to dance.

The sound of violin bows on strings always set his boots tapping; he had looked forward to balls ever since he was a stripling boy.

He cast the vicar a teasing look. “But if I were Miss Morrison, I should think you were asking me to dance with a question like that. ”

The vicar took a deep breath, shocked that Nigel was aware of his teatime conversation with Miss Morrison. “That woman can be purposefully obtuse.”

“A rare compliment. Or perhaps she simply enjoys catching you out.”

“Not a very feminine quality,” said the vicar. “But perhaps Harold is right, and she can be trained.”

“Trained?” echoed Nigel. “Like a sheepdog?” His voice had a silky purr to it that would have hinted danger to anyone who knew him better.

The vicar was not one of those people.

“Why not?” said Mr. Townsend. “I had a dog once, when I was a young man. He had high spirits as a puppy, but it was not long before I trained him to obey my every command. He used to wait for me outside the church in Shropshire until I’d finished my duties as curate and then walk home beside me, no matter the weather.

He was a friend that sticketh closer than a brother, Mr. Lymington.

Unfortunately, he…did not survive in London. ”

“How sad,” said Nigel dryly. “Did the town air not agree with him?”

“It was a phaeton, Mr. Lymington.” The vicar’s blue eyes glinted like glass without a curtain of humour to soften them.

“One of those godless society women was driving it around the corner, making a spectacle of herself. She did not see my dog, or if she did, she did not stop. He was crushed by the wheels.”

Nigel blinked. “My condolences.” Apparently, Mr. Townsend had reason to be sententious. Somebody had run over his dog.

“Shall we rejoin the ladies?” asked Mr. Brownlee. He gave a great guffaw. “I think the Mr. Ferrises would like to press their suit with Miss Lucy and secure some dances at the Boxing Day Ball.”

Nigel smiled politely. As long as the vicar refrained from pressing his opinions on Miss Belinda Morrison, Nigel would be content. For, as he had seen at dinner, she clearly did not enjoy a man who questioned her competence or belittled her abilities.

Again, Nigel squirmed inwardly. How often had he discounted his niece Louisa’s opinion or belittled her choices?

He had inherited both his position as duke and his role as guardian at the death of her father, and in his mad scramble to take the ton by storm, he had never stopped to consider Louisa’s feelings, Louisa’s hopes, Louisa’s dreams.

When he had run through the money—little of it as there was—Lady Maltrousse had suggested that he find Louisa a husband willing to split her inheritance with him.

And so he had. He’d found Solomon Digby, a man more at home in a mill or on the docks than he was in a London ballroom.

A man with a prodigiously large belly and a prodigiously bad taste in waistcoats.

No wonder Louisa had taken exception to the plan and run away with Gyles Audeley!

“Are you coming, Lymington?” asked Jack Ferris, poking his head back into the dining room after the rest of the gentlemen had departed.

Nigel took a deep breath. “I think I’m for home. Could you make my farewells to our host and hostess?”

“But the night is young,” urged the old fellow.

“Aye,” said Nigel, “but the port has made me melancholy.” The port and his own poor decisions for the last two years.

Had he really been as insufferably selfish as Horace Townsend?

The vicar was in a position of guardianship as well, spiritual guardianship of his parishioners.

And the way he was regarding Miss Morrison as a potential boost to his income rather than a person to be respected was, quite frankly, disgusting.

But had Nigel’s approach to Louisa been any different?

“Shall I tell Miss Belinda she’s put you into a brown study?”

“No need for that,” said Nigel. He was already rebuking himself for trying to get up a flirtation with her.

“I’ve a bit of a headache, and I’d rather not draw attention away from the good vicar.

After all, this dinner is in his honour.

Just a quiet word to our hostess, if you please.

I’ll find the front door and let myself out. ”