Page 3 of Lady Ferocity (A Series of Senseless Complications #1)

P ercy had called a conference of his friends in a private room of White’s. As he had considered his plan to appear the keen but hapless suitor, he’d realized that he could not do it alone. This plan would take whatever sort of army he could throw together. At the moment, he was down to two friends who had not yet been yoked into matrimony. They would comprise his army.

He was calling his plan Operation Sadly Hopeless .

Lord Magnon appeared skeptical. “So the idea is that you pretend to woo a lady who wants nothing to do with you.”

“Exactly,” Percy said.

“Stratton,” Wiles said, “where do you propose finding this lady who will be agreeable to refusing to consider a proposal?”

Percy rubbed his chin. That was indeed turning out to be the problem.

“He doesn’t know,” Magnon said.

“I do not know yet ,” Percy said. “It will have to be a very particular lady. As it has turned out so far, I’ve got two refusals.”

“You’ve gone round asking ladies?” Wiles asked.

“Of course I’ve asked,” Percy said. “I’ll get nowhere if I do not ask.” He paused, thinking of how to explain how the idea had gone over. Or not gone over, as the case was. “Well, as it happens, Miss Sprig claimed she was mortally offended—seemed a bit of an overreaction really. It’s her third season, why not at least look as if something is in the works?”

“She did not view it that way,” Magnon said.

“She did not. And then there was Lady Jane—she’s a cousin, you’d think she’d help a relation out.”

“But she declined too?” Wiles asked.

“She said I was an idiot.”

“That about sizes the whole thing up,” Magnon said.

Percy poured a second round of brandy and raised his glass in the air. “I will not be chained!”

“We’ll all be chained eventually, one way or another,” Wiles pointed out.

“Then revised—I will not be chained this season!”

Magnon sighed. “What is it you want us to do?”

“Buy your tickets for Almack’s,” Percy said. “There is no place in the wide world where so many na?ve ladies gather. There is bound to be somebody there who will happily have nothing to do with me, while I pretend to be smitten. I’ll find a lady who disdains a new-minted title or has aspirations to become a duchess or just doesn’t like the look of me. There must be a hundred ladies who would refuse to wed me.”

“Probably even more,” Wiles pointed out.

“Again, what is it you want us to do?” Magnon said.

“Keep your eyes open and make inquiries,” Percy said, a little concerned over how slow Magnon was to catch on. “Dance, ask questions, find me the right lady.”

“This is doomed,” Wiles said.

“It can’t be doomed,” Percy said. “It’s the only idea I’ve got.”

“You could always find a lady you like and wed her,” Magnon said.

“I will not be chained!”

“So you said,” Wiles said. “As for me, I believe I will take the sensible route and look about for a lady I like. I’ve got to marry at some point so I might as well find somebody I like.”

Percy sighed. Of course they’d all have to marry at some point. He just did not see why that point needed to be this minute.

“In other news,” Magnon said, “my mother waxed on about the Duke of Pelham returning to Town to launch a daughter. I interrupted her with the strong recommendation that she does not attempt to engineer a match between myself and that duke’s daughter.”

“As you had every right,” Percy said.

“Perhaps the right, but there was no point in it. As it happens, I was too precipitous in crossing her. There is, in fact, nothing to cross. She was telling me of that gentleman’s arrival to warn me off. She says that when she last saw the duke, he was vulgar, drunk, and had set a lady’s curtains on fire. He was as unpredictable as a cornered badger. She does not expect an improvement and would not care to be related by marriage to him.”

“Good fun, though,” Wiles said, “to see what he’s like now. With any luck, he’ll have half the hostesses in Town fanning themselves. After all, what is one to do with a deranged duke? One wishes to know a duke, and yet not know a deranged person.”

“A deranged duke?” Percy said softly. “Would not a deranged duke have a deranged daughter?”

“Who’s to say?” Wiles said.

“I bet he does,” Percy said. “I cannot know too much until I clap eyes on the lady, but a deranged daughter might be just the thing for my plan. Think of this—every lady who comes to Town comes for one thing only, a husband. It would follow that a deranged daughter would come for… not a husband. And then, she is a duke’s daughter, one might suppose a lowly mister destined to be a viscount would be quite under her deranged shoe.”

“Your feats of logic continue to astound,” Magnon said.

“More like feats of fantasy,” Wiles said.

“I will not be chained!” Percy said.

Really, it was the phrase that kept his spirits up. He had to keep his spirits up. Nobody ever won a war against their father if their spirits flagged. He would not be chained. Not this season, anyway.

Fingers crossed that the duke’s deranged daughter would see fit to help him out.

*

Mrs. Agnes Right had been housekeeper for the duke for nineteen years. Other servants had come and gone, most notably a butler whose mind collapsed on one glorious spring day. All along, Mrs. Right had gone on steady.

There were some who could not hold up against the duke’s eccentricities, but she was well-used to his bizarre habits and they did not ruffle her feathers one bit. In truth, she was fond of the old soldier.

As for his girls, well, it felt as if they were her own children, they were all that close. She had been there to run to at all hours and she had guarded their futures carefully.

Mrs. Right had made certain that her girls had every tutor they would require and shielded those tutors from the more uncomfortable aspects of the duke. It was essential that her girls learn to dance well, and draw middling, and she taught them embroidery herself. They’d had a French tutor until they were at least conversant. The music tutor had not fared as well, and Mrs. Right had quietly closed the pianoforte and no longer bothered to have it tuned. They’d even had a governess for a very short period of time, though that lady had decamped one early morning, leaving behind a note that only said: GOODBYE .

People had come, people had gone. Just now things were very comfortable. There was the duke’s valet, who was no trouble to anybody as he was a private person who did not stick his nose in. The two footmen were clever enough to know their lives were made easier without a butler. The cook was left to his own domain and managed his own staff. The housemaids were a good sort of girls who made sure to do just enough. The stables were its own world entirely and run under the stablemaster. None of these people had need of a butler, and all of these people were satisfied with Mrs. Right taking on the mantle.

The duke’s girls were satisfied with her too. All along, it was Mrs. Right who was the girls’ constant presence to rely upon. She’d always felt that she must be the protector of these seven young ladies.

She felt particularly protective at this moment, now that Felicity was to be shown round the viper’s pit some liked to call London. The poor girl was to be led forward by one of the preeminent vipers—Lady Marchfield.

That unpleasant lady had been in the house on Grosvenor Square all the day long, sniffing round, inspecting every corner, and threatening to hire a butler.

Let her go ahead and hire a butler. Mrs. Right would drive him out as fast as he came in. The last one, Mr. Herring, had fled the house over five years ago. Everyone presumed it had been the duke’s fault, but the truth was Mr. Herring could not cope with the various salvos she’d fired in his direction.

Mrs. Right snorted as she remembered sitting at the servants’ table and making an announcement. “I would very much appreciate it, Mr. Herring, if you would stop making eyes at me or brushing up against me in the corridors. Make no mistake, my bedchamber door will remain firmly and forever locked.”

What was a butler to say to that? He denied it vehemently, but it predictably sent the gossip in the house into a frenzy. Mrs. Right had helped the talk along by pretending at being the modest and injured party. She’d touched her cheeks with rouge to appear always blushing and she got into the habit of clutching her shawl tightly round her, as if to ward off impertinences.

Then of course she had been free with switching the dinner menus around. The duke was in the habit of leaving a note on his desk in the morning regarding what he wanted for his dinner. Mrs. Right had assiduously collected a pile of them and switched them with abandon. After Mr. Herring had gone in and read the old note she’d placed there, she would tiptoe back in and return the original. The duke wished for beef and got a ham instead. Day after day.

The duke was very particular about his dinners and went mad each time they were not what he wished for. He fell into the habit of asking Mr. Herring if he were going senile.

That had been the beginning of Mr. Herring’s mental collapse. After that, it had only taken a few light pushes to send that butler plummeting off the cliffs of insanity. The final shove was slipping a copy of Fanny Hill into his rooms for a maid to find, firmly painting him as a rake of the highest ill-repute. That was particularly hilarious, as Mrs. Right was certain Mr. Herring could not seduce a post.

She sometimes wondered where he was now.

Yes, Lady Marchfield, bring in any butler you like. However, be prepared for the consequences.

She quick-knocked on Felicity’s door and strode in. Mrs. Right was everything to the girls, including lady’s maid, which was another thing Lady Marchfield was intent on changing.

Her dear girl was in front of the looking glass, having made significant headway on her hair. A marvelous dress of dark blue silk lay on the bed.

If Lady Marchfield had done anything helpful at all, it was to arrange a wardrobe for her niece. She’d had it all composed ahead of time and then a modiste turned up with six assistants to take in the dresses to fit.

“My girl, you look very well.”

Felicity smiled into the glass. “I hope that is true, Mrs. Right, but I cannot be sure—you have always praised all of us to high heaven.”

“And why should I not?”

She really meant it too. Felicity had piles of rich brown hair, streaked with the color of late honey due to her habit of leaving her bonnet behind all summer. Her large brown eyes were as soft as a doe’s. Her delicate features belied her nickname—Ferocity. One first looking at her must conclude she was a modest and careful young lady. One who crossed her would find out otherwise. She was entirely perfect.

“I cannot imagine what this evening will be like,” Felicity said.

“Aye, I heard the whole palaver about it between your father and Lady Marching Orders,” Mrs. Right said.

They were to attend Almack’s and it had been an anxious two days for Lady Marchfield, waiting for the vouchers. At one moment she was certain they would come, and then the next she was despairing of it. It all seemed to hinge on whether the patronesses would have any recollection of the duke. Lady Marchfield was praying that they would not. If they did, she said, all was lost—nobody who’d ever met her brother ever went out of their way to do so again.

The duke, on the other hand, could not at first recall anything about Almack’s. When the vouchers arrived, he was reminded of several sojourns there and claimed he would not go. Why should a duke put up with that gaggle of clucking hens?

Lady Marchfield explained that it was absolutely essential to Felicity’s success. The duke had considered that information and then said, “Well, if it will get her out of my house and into some young fool’s house, then I suppose I’ll have to put up with it.”

“This is my first real venture out in Town and I am determined to enjoy it,” Felicity said. “After all, who knows who I will meet there?”

Mrs. Right put the finishing touches on Felicity’s hair. “Aye, it’s both happy and sad for me. You’re set to take your rightful place in society, I can’t be against it. But then, you’ll wed some fella and when will we ever see you?”

“Oh I imagine I could talk my husband round to visiting often,” Felicity said.

“We are rather remote—the Dales are not for everyone, alas,” Mrs. Right said.

“I am beginning to think, considering what I’ve heard my aunt say, that Papa is not for everyone either.”

“No, he certainly is not,” Mrs. Right said.

“Any gentleman wishing to approach me must express a regard for my father.”

“Quite right,” the housekeeper said. “If a gentleman cannot even be counted upon to pretend at a regard for a girl’s father, what is he even worth?”

“Do you suppose he’d have to pretend?” Felicity asked.

“Probably. Young gentlemen can be surprisingly persnickety and not likely to take a joke. They get their backs up, you see. It’s the youth in them—trying to be manly and ever on the watch for any perceived slight.”

“Hmmm. Papa does like to sling round a slight or two. But really, if other people knew him as we do… if even my aunt understood him as we do. He really is a dear, if one digs down deep enough. Very deep, naturally.”

“Very, very deep,” Mrs. Right said.

The door burst open, and six sisters piled through it.

Predictably, Grace did not make it far. Fortunately, she fell on the bed and was very clever at lending the operation a certain panache, as if it were done on purpose. Mrs. Right had high hopes the girl would become better acquainted with her feet before her own season.

Patience and Serenity pushed at each other, each wishing to be first. Verity examined her sister’s dress knowingly and said, “Exactly how I pictured it.”

Winsome stared at Verity with her usual suspicious mien. Verity was forever claiming to know things and Winsome was forever arguing that she did not.

Valor yawned, as she really ought to be abed.

“I do hope you dance with all sorts of handsome gentlemen, Felicity,” Grace said.

“And you will tell us all about it over breakfast,” Patience said. “We ought to get up very early, there is no reason to lie around in bed. Or you could even wake us up when you come in.”

Serenity dabbed at a tear in her eye. Mrs. Right could not imagine what set her off, but the girl was easily touched. She had wept over more sunsets than could be counted.

“Just be careful, Felicity,” Winsome said. “Do not be taken in by a rogue.”

“Are there rogues at Almack’s?” Valor asked, twisting her hands together. “What are rogues?”

“Nothing you need concern yourself over at your young age, I’m sure,” Mrs. Right said. “It’s the vipers, the feckless gentlemen, and the fan-waving furies a person’s got to look out for.”

“Oh yes,” Valor said, “I remember you saying that, Mrs. Right. Be careful of them, Felicity—do not let any of them sneak up on you!”

“I will be on my guard,” Felicity said.

“I forgot to say,” Grace said, “our aunt is toe-tapping in the drawing room and Papa just poured himself a second glass of brandy.”

“Gracious, we’d better get you dressed, girl,” Mrs. Right said. “It would not be well to send your father to Almack’s after he’s gone a bit under the table.”

At that idea, Felicity jumped from her seat and was quickly buttoned into her ballgown.

*

Percy gazed round Almack’s ballroom. So far, Operation Sadly Hopeless was humming along at a good tick. There had been the question hanging in the air of whether his family would receive vouchers. As much as his mother would like to forget it, they were only a second-generation title, and his father was only a viscount.

However, the viscountess was the daughter of an earl and had long been acquainted with the Countess of Westmoreland—they squeezed in that way.

His father had been pleased to see his son put his name down on a number of lady’s cards. Though, the viscount would be less pleased if he understood his son was on the hunt for a key player in the theater troupe primed to perform in Operation Sadly Hopeless . Percy was keeping an eye out for the deranged daughter of a deranged duke as being one of the more promising candidates.

“I say, Father, I’ve heard the Duke of Pelham brings his eldest daughter to Town this year.”

“Pelham?” his father said. “I’d hoped he’d got himself lost on the moors and was dead by now. I do not suppose I am alone in that wish either.”

Percy nodded knowingly. “Because he’s deranged?”

“The man is a danger to society.”

“Who cares?” the viscountess said. “He’s a duke—she’ll have a pile of a dowry.”

The viscount seemed to consider this. “True, true,” he said. “In any case, if you brought her home you would not be bringing him home. As long as she’s nothing like him!”

“That’s very good sense,” Percy said, knowing his father was particularly fond of hearing about his good sense.

His mother practically snorted at the idea. His father whispered heatedly, “I warn you!”

“In any case,” Percy said, “do you see him?”

The viscount scanned the ballroom. “There he is, the unpleasant fellow. Probably still laughing about setting fire to Lady Vanderwake’s curtains. I suppose the young lady standing by him is the daughter. And there is Lady Marchfield, the duke’s sister, just turned to speak to Lady Westmoreland.”

Percy had no idea how Lady Vanderwake’s curtains had gone up in flames, nor did he much care. He followed his father’s eyes and his gaze landed on an older gentleman with the sort of generous middle that advertised a friendliness with port. A stunner of a lady stood by his side.

She was positively cracking. What a pile of hair, and those large dark eyes set in such a delicate face. She looked the bright ingenue, but was she deranged? He had really become convinced that it would be far easier to draw a deranged lady into Operation Sadly Hopeless than a not deranged lady. At least, so claimed Magnon and Wiles, mostly because they thought he was himself becoming deranged.

This woman did not look deranged. For that matter, the duke did not look particularly deranged either.

Of course, he was not positively certain what derangement looked like in every case. All he had to go by was Lord Bakerston from his own neighborhood. That old fellow liked to ride round on his horse shouting at people. All the things he complained about seemed to center around “they.” Nobody knew who “they” were, but supposedly “they” were after his money, his coveys, his horses, his silver, his wine cellar, and sometimes his wife, though that lady was long dead. Other than that, he was a cheerful sort of fellow and would come in for a cup of tea and be satisfied not to mention “they” once he’d been assured that all the doors were locked against them.

“The duke doesn’t look deranged,” Percy said.

The viscount snorted. “Oh really? Last he was in Town, aside from setting curtains afire, he stumbled, spilled a brandy on a baron from Cornwall, demanded satisfaction from the fellow though it was his own fault, and then slept through the appointed time. Apparently, when he was finally roused, he said he could not be bothered with it. Go and talk to him. Then you’ll see.”

“I believe I will. Where has Lady Westmoreland got off to—I must get on the card of the deranged duke’s daughter.”

“Very spirited, Percy,” his mother said. “God speed.”

Percy hurried off and was not long in locating Lady Westmoreland. That pleasant lady had rather a soft spot for him, as she did like a gentleman who was a cooperative guest and Percy was strict in his manners. He made sure to always turn up in good time and he made himself available to escort a lady round a dance floor when needed. He would keep his eyes open at a musical evening and look appreciative. He would partner at whist, though he did not particularly enjoy the game. He was, as one hostess had aptly put it, handy to have around.

Lady Westmoreland’s permission to put himself down on the duke’s deranged daughter’s card was happily yielded. He was also in receipt of the information that her given name was Lady Felicity.

He swerved his way across the crowded room and presented himself forthwith to the duke and his daughter.

“Your Grace, Lady Felicity,” he said. “Mr. Percy Stratton. Lady Westmoreland has graciously given me permission to put myself down on Lady Felicity’s card, if she is agreeable.”

The duke looked him up and down. “A mister , is it?”

“I am the eldest and only son of Viscount Denderby,” Percy said, to assure the duke that he would have a title someday.

“Mister for now though, eh?”

Percy was not sure where this was going. It was no surprise that he only being a mister at this point in time had been noted. It was surprising, however, that it had been said out loud.

“Denderby? Who is Denderby? Never heard of him,” the duke said.

Again, how was one to answer?

“Well, I suppose I must keep my eyes on the goal,” the duke went on. “Launch this daughter out of the house and into somebody else’s as fast as possible. Then it’s just six more to go—my dream is within reach!”

“Really, Papa,” Lady Felicity said. “Mr. Stratton, my father likes to jest.”

“I do not jest, I mean every word. Seven daughters bleeding me dry, what else am I to wish for?”

“I’m sure I do not know,” Percy said weakly.

Lady Felicity handed over her card. “You’d best put your name down and begone before my father explains how he plans to bar the door against his daughters at Christmastime.”

Percy hurriedly scribbled his name down. He was hardly cognizant of the idea that it was the dance before Almack’s wretched idea of a supper. His thoughts were too full of the understanding that the duke really was deranged. He’d had his doubts—after all, the ton was fond of exaggeration. But in this case, it seemed the ton had not gone far enough in their descriptions of eccentricity.

Lady Felicity might very well be deranged too, though it was too soon to say. It had been very strange that she’d found her father’s comments somehow amusing. Another lady would have sunk through the floor to hear her father espouse such ideas.

And then, what was she talking about when she pointed out her father would bar the door against her at Christmas? Somehow, she thought that funny too.

She certainly seemed as if she might be deranged, which was both convenient and a pity. It was too bad that such a lovely lady should be not quite right in the mind. On the other hand, it was essential to his plan.

As his thoughts began to settle, he realized that the dance he’d put himself down for was ideal. He would lead Lady Felicity into supper, and it would give him time to fully outline Operation Sadly Hopeless .

He could not say where it would all go, but he instinctively felt that he had a better chance with Lady Felicity than he did with the other rather staid ladies he would dance with. After his encounters with Miss Sprig and Lady Jane, he would have to be careful in assessing the lay of the land. If he told too many ladies of the plan, it would likely get back to his father.

As for the Duke of Pelham, well, one need only keep well clear of that interesting individual. Percy would certainly work to keep his father away from the duke. A prickly viscount and a highly eccentric duke coming together could not be good for anybody, and his father had already expressed disappointment that the duke was not dead on the moors.

Percy made his way to Lady Violet for the first, all the while keeping his eye on Lady Felicity.

She was collected by the Earl of Rustmont. He hoped she would not be bowled over by that gentleman. He was a Corinthian of the first order. Percy found him really rather annoying, what with showing off his skills at everything, and being a handsome sort, and being an earl, and being ungodly rich, and pulling off the Oxford raised brow that Percy could never get the hang of.

As the raised brow was free and appeared urbane, Percy had spent a deal of time trying to work out how to get one brow to raise ever so slightly while the other remained where it was. His brows insisted on working as a team so whenever he tried it, he only ended up looking surprised.

Certainly, she would not be impressed by Rustmont’s title, his money, or his single brow-raising. Lady Felicity was looking like his best chance and he would not like her to drift in another direction.