Page 30 of How to Lose a Lord in Ten Days

‘Ashford’s new blend does not appear to be sitting well,’ Lady Morton said, a gleeful smile upon her face.

‘Is it a disease?’ Lady Hesse demanded, moving towards the door, as though poised for flight. ‘Does it feel contagious? Get back, get back I say.’

‘Some water, please?’ Lydia called to Reeves. ‘I am so sorry …’

The apology slipped out without conscious thought, but no one heard it – no, indeed, as the spluttering and coughing subsided, three glares that were no less accusatory for their wateriness, were directed instead toward Ashford.

‘What the devil do you mean by giving us such vile stuff?’ Sir Waldo demanded.

‘I don’t – I didn’t—’ Ashford said, looking down at his box as if it might step in to help him explain.

‘So damned peppery !’ Brandon agreed. ‘Near burnt my nose off.’

‘Mine too,’ Prett said through watering eyes. ‘And I have a high tolerance for spice, after my time in India.’

‘Is this some kind of prank?’ Sir Waldo said hotly.

‘Waldo, Ashford did not mean—’ Lady Phoebe said, but Sir Waldo ignored her.

‘Well, sir? How do you answer?’

‘Dear lord, Waldo, it is not my intention to embarrass you,’ Ashford said.

Reeves had arrived back with two other footmen, bearing goblets of water upon trays.

‘Are you well, my lord?’ he said, handing the first to Dacre, who accepted it gratefully.

‘I am not embarrassed!’ Sir Waldo said, his face now maroon with rage and, well, pepper. ‘But insulted! In my own home!’

Lady Phoebe attempted to lay a calming hand upon Sir Waldo’s shoulder, but he shook her off angrily.

‘Did you know of this?’ he demanded of her. ‘A little plot, to humiliate me?’

‘Of course not,’ Lady Phoebe exclaimed.

Lydia stared. Sir Waldo presented as somewhat of a buffoon but was otherwise jocular and friendly; who knew he had such a temper as this?

‘I’m sure Ashford is very sorry, aren’t you?’ Lady Phoebe said, a tight smile upon her face.

‘Of course,’ Ashford said, but he wore an incredulous look as if he, too, could not believe the extremity of Waldo’s reaction. ‘Perhaps you are not used to continental blends?’

‘That is not,’ Mr Brandon looked up, eyes watering, ‘a continental blend.’

‘I heard such blends are all the rage in France this year,’ Lydia put in rather weakly. Her trick might not have worked quite in its intended manner, but no one could argue with its efficacy .

Ashford turned his head, very slowly, to stare at her. Comprehension dawned upon his face.

‘Dinner is served,’ Reeves announced quietly. Ashford was quick to take Lydia’s arm to escort her to her chair.

‘I hope you’re happy,’ he hissed at her as they journeyed the hallways. Prett and Mr Brandon had retired to splash recovering water on their faces, while Sir Waldo soldiered on, red-faced and blinking. ‘What on earth possessed you to do such a thing?’

‘Well, I didn’t know you were going to offer it around!’

‘Now everyone thinks I am trying to poison them – a low blow even for you!’

‘You put a fish in my room!’

Too enraged for words, Ashford threw himself into his chair and pulled himself in with a screech. Barely waiting for the rest of the party to seat themselves, he seized Lydia’s bowl and began aggressively spooning fish stew into it.

‘Oh no, too much soup.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Whatever shall I do.’

Lydia would be the first to admit that matters got rather out of hand, after that. Ashford’s next spoonful did not make it into the bowl, splattering instead onto her lap, so that Lydia was forced to jerk out of the way, thanking the lord she had already placed her napkin over her knees.

‘This is your cousin’s dress!’ she hissed.

Ashford ignored her, continuing to serve only her most abhorred dishes – until she spilled her wine glass over his shirt sleeves, staining their pristine white, at which point he could ignore her no longer.

He retaliated by serving her horseradish instead of stewed spinach, causing her to sneeze violently in the midst of Prett telling the table his account of the Battle of Waterloo.

Lydia answered this by referring to each person at the table by every appellation under the sun save for the correct one, which irritated Ashford to such an end that he burst out a correction in the midst of carving the chicken, at which point Lydia affected a few suppressed tears which won the entire table (already regarding Ashford a little sniffily) over to her side.

The evening was concluded by the pièce de résistance of Lydia causing a small fire with a well-placed napkin near the candle which Ashford had to put out with the wine-soaked remains of his ten-guinea coat.

By the time she retired to her bedchamber, Lydia was tired, dishevelled and not at all certain who had come out the winner.

‘Was he impressed?’ Jane asked, helping her with her buttons.

‘Hard to tell,’ Lydia said gloomily. ‘He was angry, certainly, but the whole endeavour didn’t quite turn out as elegantly as I had hoped.’

‘I meant the dress,’ Jane said. ‘And Prett.’

‘Oh – oh,’ Lydia said. ‘Yes, I think so – certainly an improvement, but I do not know what I shall wear tomorrow, now.’

‘Sunday requires something simple,’ Jane said. ‘I altered a few cambrics this evening – if you can bear to try them, now?’

Lydia stood wearily, and helped Jane try dress after dress – though she would rather have reached her bed, she knew she must help Jane put together a fish-free wardrobe for the next few days.

‘Did you have much luck with the search?’ Lydia asked, as Jane stooped to adjust her hem.

‘Some. We made a complete exploration of Lord Dacre’s chambers – nothing to report – though we could not access Lord Ashford’s. His valet was practically guarding the threshold.’

Lydia’s brow wrinkled.

‘How is Elspeth holding up?’

‘The fun of the hunt is providing a distraction.’ Jane gestured for Lydia to turn. Lydia obeyed, staring toward her bed.

‘I will vouch for her,’ Lydia promised, ‘if it comes to that.’

‘Miss Lydia, I am not certain your good word means much to these people, right at this moment,’ Jane said, needle flying through the material at Lydia’s feet. ‘Dare I ask what you have planned for tomorrow?’

‘Nothing,’ Lydia said. ‘Yet. It has to be something brilliant. Something so exceptional that he cannot help but be entirely impressed – distressed, I mean.’

‘I should certainly like to distress that valet of his,’ Jane muttered.

‘You’d think he was the King himself, the way he swaggers about.

He made such a performance today of instructing the laundry maids on how to wash his lordship’s shirts tomorrow – you’d think they’d never seen cotton, the way he was going on about what his lordship would do if they were not perfect. ’

‘Perhaps Ashford has the most terrible tantrums if his shirts are not exactly pristine,’ Lydia theorized, ‘and his coats not perfectly … tailored …’

She trailed off. She watched Jane’s hands fly over the garment in her lap, quicker than any seamstress she had ever known.

‘How long would it take to alter a gentleman’s riding dress?’ she wondered aloud.

At this, Jane paused in her sewing.

‘What an evil idea,’ she said.

‘ Isn’t it?’ Lydia enthused.