Page 11 of Lady Ferocity (A Series of Senseless Complications #1)

“M r. Percy Stratton, Your Grace,” Thomas said with aplomb, leading that gentleman into the duke’s drawing room.

Valor clapped for Thomas. The young footman had so little experience announcing visitors that he had been regularly practicing in the great hall, with Valor as his willing audience.

Though Mr. Stratton had so recently faced down a tiger and been wounded for his trouble, he was looking very well. His dusky hair looked a shade darker in the candlelight of the drawing room and his dark blue eyes were lively and full of fun. His neckcloth was superb—it was painstakingly complicated and yet full of elegant simplicity.

“Your Grace, Lady Marchfield, Lady Felicity,” he said, accompanying it with an elegant bow.

“There he is, still alive, well done,” the duke said. “I’d slap you on the back in congratulations, but I am not a monster.”

Mr. Stratton looked momentarily perplexed, until Valor said, “Oh, because of the wounds. Papa does not want to hit your wounds. Well done, Papa.”

“Very considerate, Your Grace,” Mr. Stratton said.

“We are told we cannot see the wounds,” Serenity said, “because they are under your clothes.”

“Serenity!” Lady Marchfield hissed.

“It’s true, though,” Serenity said.

“It really is, Aunt. I heard it myself,” Valor said nodding.

“You might as well be introduced to this pile of disappointments, Stratton,” the duke said. “That’s Grace—don’t let her hit you with a roll! Patience and Serenity—twins, though you wouldn’t know it to look at them. That arrival was quite the surprise, I can tell you. There’s Verity—don’t believe a word she says.”

“Papa!” Verity exclaimed.

“It’s true,” Winsome said.

“That’s Winsome, always trying to catch a person out,” the duke said.

“ That’s true!” Verity said with a small smile toward Winsome.

“And there’s the youngest, Valor. Afraid of her own shadow, though she might grow out of it,” the duke concluded.

Valor shrugged, as if to say she had no particular plans in that direction.

“Now,” the duke said, “if I can track down that butler Lady Misery here went and hired for me, we can go through.”

Everyone looked expectantly toward the door. The duke shouted at it. “Mr. Why!”

Felicity bit her lip, as the name Why was very amusing. At the same time, she could not help but notice that Mr. Stratton looked pretty bowled over. She supposed meeting her entire family at once was a lot to take in.

Mr. Sykes-Wycliff appeared at the doors.

“Mr. Stratton,” Lady Marchfield said, “I would like to clarify that this dignified butler’s proper name is Mr. Sykes-Wycliff. Please disregard my brother’s attempts at humor, which nobody finds funny.”

Mr. Sykes-Wycliff nodded sadly. “Your Grace?” he asked.

“We will go through,” the duke said, “no reason to stand around staring at each other in the drawing room.”

The butler, who was looking very pale, nodded and led them through.

Felicity sat on the duke’s right, and Mr. Stratton sat on Lady Marchfield’s right at the other end.

Valor, being the youngest, was in the middle of the table, but they were not so many that they could not all talk together. Her youngest sister leaned forward and stared at Mr. Stratton.

“Can I ask you something?” Valor said.

“Brace yourself, Stratton,” the duke said, “you never know what you’ll be asked when it comes to this string of setbacks.”

“I am braced,” Mr. Stratton said.

“Well, it’s just that, personally, I am terrified of tigers,” Valor said. “I was even afraid of them when I thought they were all trapped in India. Now I’m even more afraid because one is in England. Is it even the only one? Are there more? So I was wondering, were you scared?”

The footman had just filled Mr. Stratton’s wine glass with her father’s excellent hock. He took a small sip and set it down. “I was petrified, Lady Valor,” he said.

Felicity was rather surprised by that. He’d not seemed petrified. He had seemed very calm and confident.

Valor, for her part, nodded in commiseration.

“If you were petrified, why didn’t you run away, then?” Patience asked.

“Never run from a cat,” Mr. Stratton said. “Anybody with a housecat knows it.”

“Do you have a cat?” Serenity asked.

Mr. Stratton nodded in the affirmative.

“What’s your cat’s name?” Winsome asked.

For some reason, Mr. Stratton seemed reluctant to answer. However, with seven young ladies staring at him and the duke laughing at the sight, he did not have much choice.

“Mind you,” Mr. Stratton said, “I got him when I was young. Very, very young.” Mr. Stratton fumbled with his napkin and said, “His name is Blueberry.”

“You have a blue kit-cat!” Valor said, seeming very interested in the idea.

“No, I just liked blueberries. As I said, very young,” Mr. Stratton said.

“Hah!” the duke exclaimed. “Wait until I see Denderby! I’ll say, I understand you have a cat named Blueberry in your house. It’s very eccentric, Sir Pineapple!”

“Papa!” Grace said, “Do not tease Mr. Stratton, or his father when you see him. You are very naughty!”

With that, Grace flung a roll. Felicity supposed it was meant to be sailing toward the duke, but of course it went very wide of the mark and hit Thomas square in the chest. He seemed delighted, and Felicity imagined he had won that bet.

“For heaven’s sake,” Lady Marchfield said. “Do attempt to recall, all of you, that you have a guest at table.”

Most of the duke’s daughters were relatively immune to Lady Marchfield’s complaints. Valor, however, nodded gravely. “Tell me, Mr. Stratton, how are you finding the weather?”

Felicity bit her lip. They had all been advised, at one time or another, to consider the weather a safe and reliable topic of conversation. Mrs. Right thought it was a bit of nonsense, though. Any rube might look out a window to judge the weather for themself—no reason to ask other people what they thought about it.

Mr. Stratton did not laugh at the question, but gave Valor a very thoughtful answer, even comparing this season to the last. She appeared gratified to be taken seriously and nodded gravely throughout. It was really very kindly done.

Felicity was beginning to think she’d never understood Mr. Stratton. He appeared so different to her now. As well, she could not help but be a little charmed that he humored Valor. And that he had a cat named Blueberry.

Coming to Town was turning out to be far more confusing than she had imagined. She hardly knew what she thought about anything anymore.

*

Percy was fascinated by the duke’s family. Of course, everybody had heard how eccentric they lived in the Dales, but in the usual case such gossip was exaggerated. At least a little.

Not so in this case.

Everything the duke did was done with his own particular… was it flair? Personality? Eccentricity? All of those things? The duke had managed, within a short space of time, to name his daughters as disappointments and setbacks, and they seemed not at all perturbed to hear it.

Of course, any person growing up in such a household must take on its habits. That idea was on full display at the duke’s table. Why had Lady Grace thrown a roll at a footman? Why had she thrown a roll at all? As the duke had warned him about it, Percy supposed it was a regular occurrence. Nobody had seemed to pay any mind to it, and the footman who’d been struck had seemed delighted.

Lady Marchfield was the only usual person at table, and she seemed disgusted with them all.

For all that, the duke put on a very good dinner. The chicken fricassee was excellent and the savarin cake he’d just been served was first rate. Nobody would turn their nose up at his wine cellar either. And then, the conversation was a deal more interesting than most dinners he attended.

“Mr. Stratton,” Lady Verity asked, “this may seem a strange question.”

Percy braced himself. Every question coming his way had been on the strange side, so he must imagine Lady Verity was prepared to take things up a notch.

“Were you very drugged up from laudanum after the tiger tore you apart?”

“Uh, the doctor did dose me with it,” Percy answered, perplexed over why she wished to know.

“I suppose after he dosed you, you would even believe you could fly, if someone told you in a convincing manner,” Lady Grace said.

“I do not recall having the notion,” Percy said. He could not help but to notice the duke chuckling softly to himself, though he was himself completely lost on the amusement.

“But you believed Papa when he wrote to you that you had prior agreed to come to dinner!” Valor said, laughing in fits.

The duke began laughing harder too. “That’s right, you never did agree to it!”

So that was why he did not remember agreeing to it—he hadn’t.

He probably would have, though. There was something fascinating about this family. Something fascinating about Lady Felicity too—she was a very different sort of lady.

All of the sisters, but for Lady Felicity, found the joke on him hilarious. Lady Felicity looked vaguely uncomfortable. Lady Marchfield was another story altogether, she gripped her fork and Percy thought the duke would be lucky if he didn’t lose an eye to it.

“I believe the time has come to leave the gentlemen to their port,” Lady Marchfield said through gritted teeth.

Lady Valor began eating her cake as fast as possible, as she was at imminent risk of being dragged away from it. There were various protestations from some of the younger daughters. Lady Patience said. “Aunt, you know our Papa gets too drunk when he is left alone.”

Lady Marchfield countered that he would not be alone, and she would place her trust in Mr. Stratton’s good sense. Then, through sheer force of will, she marched them all out.

The butler, and Percy could not remember what his actual name was since he’d heard him called Mr. Why, poured two glasses of port and set the bottle on the table.

“Do you smoke a cigar, Stratton?” the duke asked.

“No, Your Grace, I do not care for them.”

“I care for them,” the duke said, “but I had to give them up. Set too many fires, you see. One is always laying them down somewhere and forgetting all about them. Can’t burn down the family pile of rocks, eh?”

Percy had no idea who went round losing track of lit cigars, but he nodded as if this was a very common problem.

“Your Grace,” he said, wishing to get some answers to his questions, “was there a particular reason why you would have pretended that I’d agreed to come, rather than just asking?”

“The interest of it, I suppose. Will he come? Will he not? It passes the time in a pleasant manner.”

“I see,” Percy said.

“And then, as I told my girls, I want every last one of them out of my house as soon as possible, but mauled by a tiger is going too far. I would not prefer it.”

Percy would like to know who would prefer it.

“And then,” the duke went on, “I suppose Denderby’s head nearly separated from his shoulders when he discovered where you were going. Sir Pineapple must have raved over it.”

“He did, rather.”

“Yes, he would, wouldn’t he? Tightly wound. I remember him from when I very accidentally set Lady Vanderwake’s curtains on fire all those years ago. From your father’s shouts about it, you would have thought I’d murdered the king. The lady herself was not half as upset about it.”

Percy snorted. “My mother says his temper is always at the ready for any and all occasions.”

The duke picked up his glass of port, and the bottle too. “No way to live, to my mind. Well! We ought to rejoin the girls and that harridan who claims to be my sister. I’ll bring the bottle in. I do not like my daughters to be too long in her company. I would not like any of them to take on her grim habits!”

They sauntered into the drawing room to observe Lady Marchfield at the tea tray, scolding the duke’s daughters regarding their lack of table manners. None of them seemed much affected by it, but for Lady Valor. That poor girl looked some combination of stricken and overtired.

Lady Marchfield’s attention was momentarily stolen away from the duke’s daughters and settled on the bottle of port in the duke’s hand.

“Roland. Is that really necessary?”

“Put your complaints in the icehouse, Lady Misery,” the duke said. “I do what I like in my own household, and anywhere else for that matter. Furthermore, cannot you see Valor is overtired? Go on, my girl—Mrs. Right will take you up.”

Percy looked round for the elusive Mrs. Right, but he saw no such lady.

The duke shouted at the door. “Mrs. Right!”

Nobody seemed the least bit alarmed, but for the poor butler. A stout middle-aged lady came to the doors, and Percy must only assume it was Mrs. Right and that lady was the housekeeper. He could not as easily work out why the butler staggered back at the sight of her, as if she were some sort of harbinger of doom.

Lady Marchfield did not seem any happier to see the housekeeper. She glared at Mrs. Right, and Mrs. Right glared back defiantly. Percy supposed there were hidden depths to Mrs. Right.

With a disdainful sniff, the housekeeper turned her attention to her young charge. “Come, my little love,” she said to Lady Valor, “say your goodnights and we will have you to bed in a trice.”

Lady Valor stood. In a very formal tone, she said, “Mr. Stratton, a pleasure to know you, sir. And I do feel the honor of being addressed as Lady Valor, nobody ever does it.” She then enacted a pretty little curtsy, kissed her father, and was gone.

She was a rather charming little person.

“We ought to play Fact or Fib,” Lady Winsome said.

“Ah yes, a very amusing game, Stratton,” the duke said. “One of these bad dreams of mine thought it up.”

“That is the first lie!” Lady Felicity said. “You are very fond of us, Papa.”

“Nonsense, I can barely stand the sight of you.”

As this interesting exchange was taking place, Lady Winsome and Lady Patience were counting out yellow and blue scraps of paper.

Lady Marchfield rose. “Mr. Stratton, I do not know why you have come, but expect you are sorry for it. Roland, I will see myself out, as I have no inclination to play this ridiculous game. I will see you promptly at eight on the morrow for Lady Cyprion’s dinner, though for the life of me I cannot recall accepting it or who the lady is.”

“Some stiff-lipped acquaintance of yours, I suppose. I’ll have to get very drunk to put up with the company,” the duke said.

Lady Marchfield ignored that threat. “I will guess she has an eligible son for Felicity—that must have been what I was thinking. Lord Marchfield will escort me here and I will go in your carriage.”

Lady Marchfield turned on her heel and made her way toward the door.

“Old Marchfield is trying to give you the slip again?” the duke called after her. “Tell him, he cannot pawn you off on me by dropping you here and speeding off! If he tries it, I’ll drop you at the nearest gin shop! Hah! Then the gin shop people will probably run you up to St. Giles! Who knows what that neighborhood will do about it. Put you on a boat at Portsmouth maybe. Watch out, Boston—things are about to go downhill!”

Lady Marchfield did not deign to respond to any of the various places where she might be relocated.

The duke’s daughters were remarkably unaffected by this exchange between their father and their aunt. Percy supposed he could understand—he was rather unfazed by his own father’s outbursts. When a person was outrageous on a regular schedule, it hardly caught one’s attention after a while.

Lady Winsome put the pile of yellow and blue strips of paper on an ottoman and dragged it to the center of the room. “Now, Mr. Stratton, the game is simple—you will be asked a question. When you answer you may tell the truth or tell a fib, and then the rest of us will guess at it before you reveal which it was. If you fool us, you get a yellow ticket, and if you do not, you get a blue ticket. Papa has already earned one blue ticket for pretending we are bad dreams and he cannot stand the sight of us. Don’t worry, he always loses.”

Percy supposed the duke would always lose, ranged against seven determined daughters.

“Now, if you get two yellow tickets, you win,” Lady Verity said. “But a blue ticket cancels a yellow, so Papa already is in the hole.”

Percy began to worry that this game of theirs might wander into dangerous territory, depending on what questions were asked of him. The questions might well be more embarrassing than having to admit he had a cat named Blueberry.

“I’ll pull rank and start the game,” the duke said. “Stratton, what would you say is Felicity’s best feature?”