Page 13 of Lady Ferocity (A Series of Senseless Complications #1)

F elicity had brought all of her dramatic skills to bear in getting almost to the carriage to set off for Lady Cyprion’s dinner, and then coming to a dead stop and clutching her head. After it was agreed all round that she must have a headache, there was a brief moment of danger when Lady Marchfield said she would send their regrets.

Felicity had pointed out that it would be bad enough for a hostess to lose one guest at the last minute, but three would be impossible to manage. She added that her aunt speculated that Lady Cyprion likely had an eligible gentleman in mind for her, and it would be well if Lady Marchfield set eyes on him and gave him a good going over. That last point had tipped the scales, as Lady Marchfield viewed herself very skilled at giving a good going over. Her poor Papa had dejectedly got in the carriage with his sister and they set off.

After the carriage was safely away, they settled into the drawing room to play lottery tickets. A tray was brought in for Felicity, as she had not yet eaten since she was meant to be dining at Lady Cyprion’s house.

Felicity did her very best to keep her mind on the game, but she could not help thinking of Mr. Stratton. He had come to Lackington & Allen very purposefully, as he had known she would be there. He’d claimed he had not known the time so it must be put down to happenstance.

It was true he had not known the time, as they had not known it themselves. They had meant to set off earlier, but somebody always seemed to need to go do something before they left. Grace had changed her bonnet three times. Serenity had wept over a dead bee in the garden. And then finally, a search of the house had to be made because Valor lost track of Mrs. Wendover, who would be upset if she did not say goodbye before she left. The raggedy stuffed rabbit was found under Valor’s bed in its usual location, though it took some time to discover it, as Valor had sworn she’d already looked there.

Their late arrival begged the question of how long Mr. Stratton had waited. They arrived near four o’clock—he might have been there all day.

She was not such a fool that she did not see that it indicated a partiality. She was also not such a fool as to ignore a bit of partiality on her side too.

When she’d seen him there, she did experience a little flutter of something. And then, she did notice that she had not given Lord Rustmont a thought in quite some time. Her ideas went round and round and all she could settle on was that she was beginning to like Mr. Stratton. Very much, actually.

She did not wish her feelings to run ahead of reality, as she thought they might have done regarding Lord Rustmont. She silently vowed she would wait until Lady Lewellyn’s ball to allow them to go any further. What would he do? Would he put himself down on her card? Would it be for a dance of any significance?

She would have to bide her time and see what came of it.

They had imagined their father would not return from Lady Cyprion’s dinner until quite late, but it was not an hour before he was back in the door.

“Papa?” Felicity asked. “What has happened?” Then remembering she was meant to be abed with a cold compress on her forehead, she said, “Also, my headache is quite gone.”

Felicity supposed her father would tell her why he’d returned so early if he could only stop laughing. Something had entirely set him off. Felicity had not seen him laugh so hard since Mrs. Biddleton’s Christmas party. The decorative pine boughs on her mantel had been knocked over by her stumbling butler, fallen on top of Baron Richards’ head, and made him spill his claret all over his shirt.

Just now, her father was quite out of breath with laughter and each moment it looked like he might have come to the end of it, he started up again. He was mopping his eyes and he was red in the face.

Though she loved her father dearly and thought his temperament quite perfect, she was cognizant of the idea that not everyone in the wide world perceived his charms. He was prone to doing and saying things he found amusing, which some others might not. In truth, what often amused him the most was seeing his listeners faintly shocked.

She could not imagine what he’d done at Lady Cyprion’s dinner. Had the lady thrown him from the house? It was not out of the range of possibilities.

Finally, her father’s laughter had run its course and quieted down to chuckles and snorts. Mr. Sykes-Wycliff remained standing by the doorway, staring in horrified fascination. Mrs. Right had brought the duke a glass of brandy, as he had been pointing at the decanter through his laughter, but the butler had not seemed to understand the message.

The duke took a long draught. “Never have I been more entertained in my life. Now Mrs. Right, you must own to being the author of this joke. Lady Misery would have never put that appointment in my book!”

“I, Your Grace?” Mrs. Right asked, eyes wide.

Felicity was quite sure Mrs. Right had been the author of whatever had happened. After all, it was she that had ensured that Felicity did not go.

“And you, Felicity!” the duke said with a snort. “Very clever to come down with a headache! Glad you did, wouldn’t have been right to go.”

“Papa,” Serenity said, “you really ought to tell us what happened at Lady Cyprion’s house. Was she very stiff-lipped and then you teased her and she went mad like our aunt does?”

“There is no Lady Cyprion,” the duke said, wiping tears from his eyes. “It was a cyprian party.” The duke paused. “Ah, you younger girls perhaps should not know anything about that . Let’s just say there was not a stiff-lipped lady among them.”

“Do you mean to say, Papa,” Lady Felicity said, hazarding a guess at the situation, “that the ladies there were, well they were… of low morals?”

“The lowest!” the duke said with a snort.

“How did you know, Papa?” Valor asked.

“Never you mind how I knew,” the duke said with a chuckle.

“Was it the ladies’ clothes?” Valor pressed on. “The vicar always says that clothes can advertise your morals.”

“I think the vicar meant the lack of clothes, Valor,” Winsome said. “He’s very determined that every lady wear a fichu.”

“Yes, well,” the duke said, “the clothes were definitely a tip-off—not a fichu in sight.”

“I suppose our aunt went positively mad,” Patience said. “I cannot imagine what she had to say to you in the carriage.”

This, for some reason, sent the duke into a new round of heaving laughter. It was some minutes before he could recover himself. Then he said, “That’s just it, I left her there!”

Felicity pressed her lips together to stop from laughing, though everybody else was not as successful. Particularly Mrs. Right, who was laughing behind a handkerchief, her shaking shoulders giving her away. Valor laughed along with everyone, though Felicity doubted very much she understood what she was laughing about. The only person not gripped with hilarity was Mr. Sykes-Wycliff, who stood clutching at the doorframe.

“Papa,” Felicity said, attempting to control her laughter, “I think you are making that up. You did not leave our aunt. How could you have?”

“Simplest thing in the world,” the duke said. “Knew what I was looking at in an instant and slipped right out before my carriage had time to pull down the street. I hope she’s having a good time!”

That hope was punctuated by the loud crash of the front doors being flung open from the front hall.

Not a moment later, Lady Marchfield came through the doors. She was heaving in breaths and her bonnet was quite askew. This very naturally sent the duke into more paroxysms of laughter.

Felicity was quite sure Lady Marchfield was on the verge of giving her father the what-for of the century. Instead, her aunt turned her eyes on Mrs. Right. She pointed and shouted, “You!”

Mrs. Right threw her chin up and said, “Yes, your ladyship?”

“Do you think I do not know it was you who put that shameful appointment in my brother’s book?”

“I cannot think what you mean, your ladyship,” Mrs. Right said calmly. “ You manage the duke’s calendar.”

“I would never accept an invitation to a party of that base nature. Never!”

Mrs. Right shrugged. “Everybody makes mistakes now and again.”

“Roland, you must do something about this!”

“Must I, now? Seems to me you can’t prove how that entertainment got into my book. It looks like your handwriting, after all.”

“That is another thing! She forged my handwriting!”

“Prove it,” the duke said jovially.

“And then, to leave me there, with those sorts of people! I was forced to hail down a hackney just to get away!”

“We understand none of the ladies wore fichus,” Valor said. “The vicar would be shocked to his shoes.”

Lady Marchfield stared at Valor. Then she turned to the duke. “If you are not careful, Roland, you will ruin your daughters’ chances of a good match. What if Felicity had gone? What if word had got out that Lady Felicity Nicolet had been seen in the company of… those women!”

“Lucky she had a headache,” the duke said. “She’s right as rain now, though.”

“Lucky…” Lady Marchfield said softly. From Felicity’s view, her aunt was making rapid calculations in her head. “Do you suggest that your eldest daughter has been pulled into this by that wretched housekeeper?”

“Felicity was not pulled into anything,” the duke said. “She had a headache and very sensibly stayed at home.”

Lady Marchfield’s hands were clenching and unclenching and Felicity thought her aunt would very much like to box her brother’s ears. She turned to Mr. Sykes-Wycliff, who was just now blinking and unblinking his eyes in a nervous fashion.

“Call the duke’s carriage!” she shouted. “I will go home this instant and inform my lord of what I have been subjected to this night. He will know how to answer this insult!”

“Bet he tells you the answer is in the Far East and you should go looking for it,” the duke said. “He’ll say—don’t trouble yourself about hurrying home!”

“My lady,” Mr. Sykes-Wycliff said, his voice all a-tremble, “the coachman has just put the horses away.”

“Get that coachman back on his box or I will drive the team myself,” Lady Marchfield said in grim determination.

Mr. Sykes-Wycliff fled the room to do as he was bid.

The next minutes were spent listening to Lady Marchfield lecture the duke, and then lecture Felicity and then give a dire warning to Mrs. Right—she had better watch her step or she would find herself thrown to the street with no reference.

Of course, nobody but Lady Marchfield thought there was the least danger of it.

Her final words to the duke were, “Grow up, Roland. For all of our sakes, grow up.” She turned on her heel, practically ran over the butler, and left the house.

“What an evening, eh?” the duke said, pouring himself a second glass of brandy. “Never been so amused in my life. By the by,” he said, looking at a very shaken Mr. Sykes-Wycliff, “I will need nine pounds in ready money on the morrow to settle a bill. And I want it all in pence.”

“In pence, my lord?”

“In pence, put it in a flour sack.”

Naturally, their father was questioned quite closely by his daughters as to why he might need over two-thousand coins, but he would not say. All they could gather was that it amused him.

At the mention of the morrow, Felicity’s thoughts drifted to the ball. Then they stayed there. As her father relived the amusement of the cyprian party over and over, her thoughts were filled with Mr. Percy Stratton.

She was beginning to even be a little fond of his given name, Percy, despite her earlier claim that it was a good name for a goldfish.

*

Mrs. Right could not be more pleased. Her plan to send Lady Marchfield to a cyprian’s party had come off without a bump. After her girls had gone up to bed, she spent a comfortable hour with the duke as they sipped their brandy and he described the goings-on of the evening that he’d chosen not to advertise to his children. This, all under the wide-eyed gaze of Mr. Sykes-Wycliff.

How it had unfolded exceeded even her hopeful imagination. The carriage had arrived at a rather regular white stone house on Cork Street. There had been nothing going on out of doors that would have indicated anything amiss, which made perfect sense—any lady of that persuasion looking to ally her fortunes with a lord must be painstakingly discreet.

A liveried footman had opened their carriage door and helped Lady Marchfield to the pavement. Another older fellow in matching livery had opened the doors. Everything had an air of solid respectability.

They had proceeded in and found a lady greeting her guests.

That was when the duke’s suspicions were first roused. The line was all gentlemen, and the lady greeting her guests went a bit wide-eyed at the sight of Lady Marchfield.

Lady Misery, it turned out, was a rather unobservant creature. They reached the head of the line and Lady Marchfield said, “Lady Cyprion, charmed. This is my brother, the Duke of Pelham,” and then had proceeded right into the drawing room.

As for himself, he’d begun to guess at the lay of the land. He took one quick peek into the drawing room, saw ladies in various states of deshabille hanging on the arms of attending gentlemen. There was even a lady who had located herself on the lap of her preferred conversationalist. Lady Marchfield stood in the middle of the room, as motionless as a statue.

He hightailed it out the doors and laughed all the way home.

It was all very gratifying.

As for Mr. Sykes-Wycliff, he’d spent the better part of this morning collecting nine pounds in pence. Mrs. Right could not imagine what it was for, nor what he’d had to do to get it, but he was currently slumped at the servants’ table. The sack of coins had been given over to one of the coachmen.

Charlie, the senior footman, came into the room and said, “His Grace needs a padlock.”

“A padlock?” Mr. Sykes-Wycliff asked.

“That’s what he says,” Charlie said nodding. “He needs it for tonight.”

Charlie sat down and helped himself to a biscuit.

Mrs. Right, always willing to grab at an unexpected opportunity passing by, shook her head sadly.

“What?” Mr. Sykes-Wycliff asked nervously. “Why do you shake your head? What do you know?”

“Well now, if you look at it rightly,” the housekeeper said, “it is just good commonsense on the duke’s part.”

“What commonsense? Commonsense for what?” Mr. Sykes-Wycliff asked nervously.

Charlie gave Mrs. Right a quick wink to let her know he was in on this game.

“I suspect the duke can feel it coming on,” Mrs. Right said.

“Feel what coming on?” Mr. Sykes-Wycliff shrieked.

“I did mention,” Mrs. Right said, “not to answer the door in the middle of the night if the duke knocks.”

“That’s right,” Charlie said, “else he’ll clobber you.”

“But our duke is a very considerate sort,” Mrs. Right said. “Never means to clobber anybody. So I reckon he’s going to lock himself in his bedchamber tonight to avoid doing it. You see what I mean by the consideration?”

Mr. Sykes-Wycliff leapt up from his chair. “That is it. That is absolutely it! After what I witnessed last night, and the descriptions of all this, well, this, downright dangerous behavior, I will not spend another night in this house! I will not lock myself in my quarters so that I am not clobbered or run round the moors attempting not to be killed! It is all madness!”

As Mr. Sykes-Wycliff jogged from the room, Mrs. Right called after him. “Charlie here will get your valise out of the storeroom.”

The housekeeper and footman smiled and nodded to one another.

This visit to Town was turning out to be very jolly, indeed.