The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,161

to be commended for bringing the Cynsters to this.” She paused, then, unusually wistfully, murmured, “I wish Sebastian had lived to see this—he would have been so proud.”

Lady Osbaldestone humphed. “Aye, well—it wouldn’t have been the same, and might not have happened at all if he’d lived. Sylvester would have been St. Earith, which is not the same as St. Ives, and none of the rest of it might have happened as it did, and . . . well, you take my meaning. Fate has her own ways of taking, then giving, and while she took him, she gave you this. I suspect Sebastian would see that as fitting.”

Helena softly laughed. “Oh, yes—you’re right in that. He would definitely see this as what should be—an appropriate legacy.”

Leaving the two grandes dames pointing out and swapping comments on various members of the younger set, Honoria moved on, like any good hostess keeping her finger on the pulse of her widely dispersed guests.

Helena’s grandson Sebastian, her husband’s namesake and Honoria’s elder son, better known as the Marquess of St. Earith, was the most senior of the next generation; eighteen years old and bidding fair to becoming even more lethally handsome than his father, he was standing with a group comprised of the other seventeen- and sixteen-year-old males—budding gentlemen all. Michael, Sebastian’s brother, was there, as were Christopher and Gregory, Vane and Patience’s older sons, Marcus, Richard and Catriona’s eldest son, Justin, Gabriel and Alathea’s older son, and Aidan, Lucifer and Phyllida’s eldest son. They were, Honoria suspected, swapping tales she’d rather not hear.

Males, she was well aware, changed little with the generations.

Luckily, someone had persuaded the fifteen-, fourteen-, and thirteen-year-old lads that overseeing the younger boys playing a spirited game of cricket would be much more fun than listening to their elders fill their heads with adolescent dreams. Nicholas, Demon and Flick’s older son, Evan, Lucifer and Phyllida’s middle son, Julius, Gyles and Francesca’s older son, and Gavin and Bryce, Dominic and Angelica’s wards were actively engaged in the rowdy game presently being waged between two teams formed with the assembled nine-, ten-, and eleven-year old males, of which there were eleven.

Flick, the most tomboyish of the matrons—and the one who had a passing understanding of the rules of the boys’ game—had been keeping a watchful eye over the group; she ambled up to stand alongside Honoria.

Registering the names, the faces, the ages, Honoria grinned. “Twenty-six was a good year for males—we added eight to the score that year.”

Flick frowned. “There were no girls, were there?”

“Not that year, but we had five the next, and the year after we added two girls, but no boys at all.”

“Hmm . . . well, if you’re wondering where our young ladies are”—Flick tipped her guinea-gold head toward the walled garden—“I believe they’re swapping secrets in amongst the roses.”

Honoria smiled. “Predictable, I suppose. Did you see who went that way?”

“Only Lucilla, my Prudence, and Antonia. As for the rest, your daughter appears to have taken on your mantle—the last I saw she had the others, at least all the girls beyond the stage of rushing about madly playing tag, sitting in a circle on the grass beyond the oaks.”

Honoria arched her brows. “Knowing Louisa, I suspect I’d better check that they’re all still there and haven’t decided to embark on some adventure or quest.”

Laughing, Flick nodded and they parted, Flick to continue ambling beneath the trees, pausing to chat with the other ladies while watching over the boys, while Honoria, also pausing to chat here and there, circled the gathering.

She passed close enough to the entrance to the rose garden to glimpse the three young ladies seated on the bench at the far end of the central path. Lucilla’s red hair, highlighted by the sun, burned flame bright. Prudence, Demon and Flick’s fair-haired older daughter, was on Lucilla’s right, while Antonia, Gyles and Francesca’s oldest child, dark-haired and vivid, sat on Lucilla’s left. Lucilla was seventeen, the other two sixteen. The three made a striking picture. Honoria noted it, noted the expressive way they were talking, hands gesticulating; smiling, she left them undisturbed.

By the time she reached the line of oaks bordering the far side of the lawn, more than twenty minutes had passed; she was therefore somewhat relieved to see the bevy of girls still seated on the grass, their dresses a spectrum of pastel hues making them look like so many blooms scattered upon the sward.

Honoria counted, verifying that all twelve girls aged between