Goddess of the Hunt (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #1)(23)

“I take it Lucy’s made a full recovery.” Henry covered the last few paces to stand at Jeremy’s shoulder. “What was that all about, then?”

Jeremy wished he could say. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other; then shifted it back. “Henry, I think we need to talk.”

“I think so,” said Henry, eyeing him with amusement. “Explain to me, kindly, why my little sister is lecturing you on love.”

The gentlemen convened their council over a bottle of fine brandy. Jeremy had drained one glass and was already pouring himself a second while his friends still savored their first sips. “Something has to be done about Lucy,” he announced in a firm voice intended to convince no one more than himself.

“I’ve been trying to do something about Lucy for years now,” Henry said, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet up on his desk. “I’ve quite given up.”

“Did I miss something?” Felix asked. “What’s the matter with Lucy?”

“Besides the fact that she’s forgotten how to swim, fish, and dress appropriate to the weather?” Jeremy topped off his glass and sank into the chair closest to the fire. His shirt was still damp, and Lucy had absconded with his coat. “She fancies herself in love.”

“Aha,” said Henry. He turned to Felix and whispered loudly, “Apparently she and Jem had some sort of lovers’ quarrel.” Both men erupted in laughter.

Toby chuckled into his glass. “Lucy and Jem? Nowthat’s amusing. But better Jem than that spotty son of your vicar, Henry. He wrote her some perfectly dreadful verses last year.”

“The vicar’s boy was writing Lucy verses?” Henry sat up in his chair, suddenly sobered. “Why does no one tell me these things?”

“I thought you knew.” Toby shrugged. “And as I said, they were dreadful. Even if they weren’t, Byron himself couldn’t touch Lucy’s heart, unless he came bearing pie along with his poems.”

“Let’s ring for tea and sandwiches, shall we?” Felix asked. “I’m famished.”

“It wasnot a lovers’ quarrel,” Jeremy interrupted. “Lucy isnot in love with me.” He turned to Toby. “And neither is she in love with the vicar’s son, you idiot. She’s in love with you.”

“Still?” Toby sipped his brandy. “Blast. I was hoping she’d taken a liking to someone new.”

“You hoped no such thing.” Jeremy set his glass down with a forceful clatter. “You know you encourage her. Just like you encourage everything in a skirt between the ages of thirteen and thirty.”

“Jem,” said Henry, “in case you haven’t noticed, Lucy’s been mooning over Toby for years now. Calf-love, that’s all it is.”

Jeremy groaned. “Henry, in case you haven’t noticed, Lucy’s not a girl anymore. She’s grown out of calf-love. She’s—” He stopped himself, edging away from that sentence as if it were a dangerous cliff.

Henry laughed. “Surely you’re not calling my sister a full-grown cow?”

Jeremy took a breath and began again, slowly. As though speaking to a cow. “Lucy knows Toby is planning to marry Miss Hathaway.”

Felix let out a low whistle. “That is a problem.”

“Which one of you told her?” Toby asked, sounding faintly peeved.

“It wasn’t me,” Felix said.

“Icertainly didn’t.” Henry frowned. “Are you sure she knows, Jem?”

Jeremy paused. He couldn’t very well tell them how he knew that Lucy knew. There was no good way to tell Henry that his sister had visited his bedchamber in her dressing gown. There was no way at all to explain what had happened next. “There are four ladies in the house,” he said with a shrug. “You know how ladies talk. She must know. And now that she knows—”

“She’s jealous,” Felix finished.

“Exactly. She’s jealous.” Jeremy took a triumphant swallow of brandy, pleased to finally hang that label where it rightly belonged.

“So she’s jealous,” said Henry. “I don’t see why there’s any call todo something about it.”

Jeremy shook his head. Could there be another man so thick-skulled in all England? How Henry had managed to get through Eton and Cambridge, Jeremy couldn’t guess. Actually, the answer was obvious. By sticking close to Jeremy. Not that Jeremy had begrudged him the assistance. Since their first year at Eton, Henry had been a friend.

Jeremy’s choice of friends had given his father fits, if one could call the slight twitch of the jaw that preceded a monotone lecture a “fit.” He could still hear the cool disdain in his voice.Warrington , he had intoned after Jeremy’s first year at Eton,it escapes me utterly why you should choose to surround yourself with that collection of miserable, low-born scamps. Who are their fathers? Tradesmen? Farmers? Not a title among them, save a mere baronet. You are in every way their superior, and if you tolerate their company at all, you should at least insist they address you by your title .

But that was just it. Jeremy had not wanted to consort with other boys of his rank, nor be addressed as “Warrington”—the title that, in Jeremy’s ten-year-old mind, still belonged to his older brother. Why should he suffer constant reminders of Thomas’s death, when he could play with boys who knew nothing of it? Boys like Henry, Felix, and Toby.