Friends and Foes (9 page)

“I hope Miss Kendrick is feeling better this evening,” Crispin said to Mrs. Kendrick in the west sitting room that night after supper.

“Oh . . . well . . . It’s nothing, really.” Mrs. Kendrick waved a hand. “Just a trifle . . .”

Miss Marjie and Fennel looked immensely uncomfortable as their mother muttered on. Philip watched the family in confusion.
Just a trifle?
Sorrel had nearly fallen from her horse. She’d been incoherent with fever. Mr. Ryder, the physician, although reassuring them Sorrel would be quite fine, indicated she would need to remain abed for several days. ’Twas certainly more than
just a trifle
.

Catherine, who had been visibly interested in the answer to her husband’s inquiry, seemed equally surprised by Mrs. Kendrick’s dismissive words. She turned to Miss Marjie with a look that practically pleaded for explanation.

“She is improved,” Miss Marjie reassured the listeners. “By tomorrow she will probably be anxious to be up and about. Another two days and she will undoubtedly be herself again.”

“I am very relieved to hear that,” Crispin said.

“She seems remarkably unconcerned,” Stanley whispered at Philip’s side with a pointed look in Mrs. Kendrick’s direction. “Those kinds of fevers are anything but
trifling
.”

Stanley knew the truthfulness of his statement. Philip had personally nursed Stanley through one particularly difficult fever, which the doctors attributed to the wound he had received during the Battle of Orthez. According to every medical opinion Philip had managed to procure, Stanley would be subject to intermittent bouts of infection-induced fevers for the rest of his life.

“It seems,” Philip whispered back to his brother, “Miss Kendrick’s sister has developed quite a knack for treating the fevers. She predicts the invalid will be up and about in only a few days.”

“A vast improvement over the two weeks
I
spent with the same ailment,” Stanley said pensively.

“Perhaps we should investigate their treatment method,” Philip suggested.

Stanley’s eyes slid to where Miss Marjie stood conversing quietly with Catherine. The unmistakable longing in Stanley’s look struck Philip with tremendous force. Had Stanley developed a tendresse for Miss Marjie? After a moment of hurried reflection, Philip decided his brother had indeed fallen under the charms of the younger Kendrick sister. The two had been in each other’s company quite a lot since the Kendricks’ arrival.

Miss Marjie was a pleasant sort of girl, pretty, with a kind disposition. She didn’t have her sister’s striking beauty, but—Philip stopped on the instant.
That
thought didn’t warrant further speculation.

“I am certain Miss Marjie would impart her wisdom,” Philip rather heavily hinted. Stanley’s obvious infatuation with the younger Miss Kendrick was a far safer topic than his own heretofore unacknowledged attraction to the older sister.

“She is a good and kind-hearted lady.” So why did Stanley seem so decidedly
un
happy?

“You could at least inquire after her sister,” Philip said. “It is as good a way to start a conversation as any.”

“I could just as easily ask
you
how Miss Kendrick fares.” Stanley eyed him with something akin to an accusatory look.

Philip smiled. “I am flattered that you think me clairvoyant, dear brother.”

“Not clairvoyant, just—” Stanley seemed to search for a word but in the end simply shrugged.

“What is that look supposed to imply?” Philip tried to keep his tone light but didn’t think he succeeded.

“Are you and Miss Kendrick still at war?” Stanley seemed honestly curious.

“Of course we are. I am certain Miss Kendrick dislikes me as much as I do her.”

Stanley smiled rather impishly. “I am certain she does. Every bit as much as you dislike her.”

Philip had a feeling that, inside, Stanley was laughing. Laughing at him! Philip found nothing amusing. War was not funny!

At three o’clock the next afternoon, Philip came across Fennel making his way up the stairs to visit his sister. Sorrel’s welfare had been inexplicably on Philip’s mind all day.

“How is Miss Kendrick, Poppy?”

After a smile at the nickname Philip had refused to drop, Fennel invited him to check on Sorrel himself.

“Are you sure?” Philip didn’t want to give anyone else the wrong impression—Stanley had been looking at him a little too suspiciously lately. “I have no desire to make myself a nuisance.”

“If you are there, Marjie might not lecture me.”

“Why would she lecture you?”

“Like a fool, I told her I had encouraged Sorrel to ride,” Fennel admitted uneasily.

Philip felt a touch of uneasiness himself. “Was her riding so foolish, then?”

“No,” Fennel replied immediately. “Not at all!”

Philip smiled at the unabashed confidence in Fennel’s tone.

“Sorrel was the best rider in all of Kent before her incident,” Fennel pressed on as they reached the first landing. “She could even outride our Father and did on at least one occasion . . .” Fennel’s voice trailed off as his thoughts seemed to take precedence over his words. Nearly to the top of the remaining flight of stairs, Fennel picked up the conversation again. “Sorrel always loved to ride. She needed to again. I had hoped that, away from Kendrick Hall, she might have a go at it. I didn’t realize the fever would come on as quickly as it did. Fortunately, you were nearby.” Fennel ended with a flourishing smile for Philip.

“It wasn’t exactly a coincidence,” Philip said. “I goaded her into riding and then had the great honor of paying for my mischief by having to return her to the house barely conscious.”

“She won’t exactly thank you for that, you realize.” Fennel paused in front of Sorrel’s door.

“For forcing her hand and getting her to ride when she probably did not truly want to?” Didn’t Fennel realize that Philip expected repercussions?

“If you think Sorrel’s hand can be forced in any way, you don’t know her very well. I meant she won’t be too happy about your carrying her back to the house.”

“She would rather I had left her out in the cold, unconscious and fevered?”

“She would rather have been
alone
in the cold, unconscious and fevered,” Fennel corrected.

Before Philip could probe for an explanation, Fennel reached for the doorknob. Philip stopped him. “Would you ask first if I would be welcome?”

“Of course you would—”

“Humor me, Poppy.”

Fennel shrugged and disappeared inside. Philip smoothed the arms of his jacket and tugged his waistcoat into place. Only a moment later, Miss Marjie appeared in the doorway, her porcelain features lit with a bright smile. “Of course you may come in. You save Sorrel’s life and then expect us to shut you out?”

“I have every confidence Miss Kendrick would have contrived some means of returning herself to the house without my assistance,” Philip replied amusedly. “She is, as I am sure you know, quite resourceful and abundantly independent.”

“And inordinately attached to her walking stick,” a familiar voice added dryly.

Philip turned toward the oversized bed and barely managed to keep his mouth from gaping open. Sorrel sat watching him, propped up by mountains of fluffy white pillows, her dwarfed frame wrapped in a silken robe of ruby red.

Red is her color,
Philip thought. She looked stunning.

A single ribbon tied back Sorrel’s ebony hair, though several stubborn tendrils escaped to frame her pale face. Her nearly black eyes were darker than ever and seemed to pull at him. Philip couldn’t tear his eyes away.

Lampton War Tactic Number Ten: Never visit the enemy on her deathbed. Ever.
Ever.

“You appear to have survived your ordeal,” Philip offered by way of a greeting.

“Sorry to disappoint you.” Amusement touched her reply.

“It would be a fairly easy way to end this war of ours,” Philip said.

“Dying is not nearly as easy as you seem to think.”

Philip watched her more closely for a moment. She certainly didn’t look on the verge of dying. As a matter of fact, she smiled quite mischievously at him.

“Obviously you are feeling better.” Fennel chuckled, giving his sister a peck on the cheek.

“None of that, Fennel.” Sorrel pushed him away, though Philip detected a glimmer of gratitude in her eyes. General Sorrel, it seemed, wasn’t as prickly as she let on. The thought brought a smile to Philip’s face, which he quite quickly held back.

“Wasn’t it kind of Lord Lampton to come check on you?” Miss Marjie spoke rather pointedly to her sister.

Sorrel, obviously far from flattered, turned a challenging eye toward Philip. “Lord Lampton came simply to inquire after my health?” She obviously didn’t believe a word of it. “How extremely thoughtful of him.”

“Actually, I wanted to ask your opinion on the lay of my cravat,” Philip answered, lifting his chin to allow a better view. “My valet came up with the knot himself.”

“Flamboyant, overdone, and positively out of place in your current setting,” Sorrel replied without missing a beat.

“Surely the fever is still affecting your vision, Miss Kendrick.” He feigned indignation. In all truthfulness, he completely agreed with her.

“I assure you I can see it plainly,” she said.

“And I assure
you
that you most certainly have not seen it at all, else you would have nothing but praise for my valet.”

“I could not possibly see it better if I were wearing it myself.”

“It has been my experience that it is impossible to see a neckcloth hanging around one’s own neck.”

“Regardless of where that particular cravat were hanging, it would be out of place, sirrah, and entirely too ostentatious.”

“Come, now!” Philip protested, crossing to the head of her bed. “A closer look, I beg of you. I refuse to believe my indispensable Wilson is anything short of a genius.”

He thought he saw Sorrel roll her eyes, entirely annoyed. Why did he enjoy ruffling her feathers so much?

“Very well,” Sorrel grumbled. “Let me see this mark of perfection.”

Smiling inwardly at the first hint of concession he’d ever had from Sorrel, Philip sat on the edge of her bed and held his chin up quite proudly for her inspection.

“I was wrong, Lord Lampton,” Sorrel said a moment later, much to Philip’s surprise. “It is far
more
ridiculous than I first believed.”

“It is not so bad as all that.” Philip dropped his chin and his pretensions quite immediately. “A bit over—” He stopped short as their eyes met. He couldn’t finish his sentence. He couldn’t quite seem to remember what he had intended to say in the first place. He could only sit frozen in place. Her eyes were black as a moonless night and yet something fiery and intriguing sparked in their depths.

Sorrel broke their eye contact. She looked away almost bashfully, and a completely uncharacteristic hint of a blush stole across her cheeks. Philip couldn’t think of anything except how exceptionally beautiful she looked in that moment, followed immediately by the thought that he’d entirely lost his mind.

“Add this particular knot to my list of affectations, Miss Kendrick.” Philip finally managed to speak, hoping his voice didn’t sound too strangled. “I intend to make it part of my signature look.”

“That is hardly surprising.” The look of impatient civility had returned to Sorrel’s face, but the color in her cheeks had not fled. It softened her response in a way Philip would not have expected. Could it be that Sorrel did not hold him in such deep antipathy as she’d professed?

“I am happy that you are recovering quickly,” he added quietly before rising and making his way to the door. “Thank you for allowing me to visit,” Philip said to Miss Marjie, who, along with Fennel, watched him rather too pointedly for comfort.

Philip had a very strong feeling that he’d made a major strategic error. The challenge, of course, came in identifying exactly what error he’d committed.

*   *   *

“How kind of Lord Lampton to come see you,” Marjie exclaimed the moment the door closed behind Sorrel’s unexpected visitor.

“Very uncharacteristic,” Sorrel said. “What do you suppose motivated such a . . .” How did she possibly put into words the confusing turn of events? “. . . an inconvenient . . . excursion?”

“Perhaps Lord Lampton is not so unfeeling as you suspect,” Fennel suggested. As usual, he sounded far older than his mere fifteen years, far more knowing than a gangly youth ought to be.

“I never said he was unfeeling,” Sorrel defended herself, though she knew she’d implied just such a thing that first evening Lord Lampton had been at Kinnley. She’d accused him of being entirely self-absorbed.

“That could almost count as a compliment,” Fennel said as he plopped onto the foot of her bed and gave her a look of amusement. “Lampton’s top o’ the trees, Sorrel. Charlie says he’s fantastic. The best older brother a fellow could ask for.”

Now
that
sounded more like a fifteen-year-old.

“I am glad Charlie likes his eldest brother,” Sorrel replied dryly.

“Because you don’t?” Fennel spoke almost critically.

Why was he attacking
her
? What had Sorrel done to deserve her brother’s derision? “Lord Lampton has given me absolutely no reason to like him, Fennel.” She knew she sounded defensive. She didn’t care.

“How can you say that, Sorrel?” Marjie said. “He sat beside you at supper only the other evening . . .”

Forced his company on me,
Sorrel silently corrected.

“. . . rode with you only yesterday . . .”

Tricked me into getting on that blasted horse!

“. . . kept you from falling off your horse when you grew ill . . .”

Sorrel stared at her sister in shock. She had no memory of her ride after leaving the stables, the fever having clouded her recollection. She had assumed she’d returned herself to the house. What was this about falling from her horse?

“. . . He brought you back to Kinnley, carrying you
personally
to your bedchamber. Called for the doctor. How can you dislike a man like that?”