Page 5 of Lady Ferocity (A Series of Senseless Complications #1)

P ercy watched with trepidation as Lady Felicity dropped her fork in reaction to his proposal to create envy in Lord Rustmont’s breast. She turned to him. “ You will do it?”

“Yes, why not? I do enjoy a good ruse now and again.”

“Hm, well, it would be best if whoever the gentleman is, he is not of the slightest interest to me.”

Though Percy was not at all interested in her either, it did sting to be brushed off so lightly. He was generally well-liked, and he had reasonable prospects, so it seemed a bit far to say not the slightest interest.

Lady Felicity, having noted his expression, said, “It is only your youth, you understand.”

“My youth? Lady Felicity, I am a man, not a youth.”

“Perhaps not yet,” she said.

“What does that mean?”

“Well really, Mr. Stratton, you strike me as some combination of smarmy and callow. I am sure those qualities will have fled in a year or so. Our housekeeper has explained the situation with young gentlemen—it is not your fault, it is just the way of the world.”

Percy’s teacup clattered to his saucer. Smarmy and callow? According to her housekeeper?

“I see,” he said. “As it happens, I find you eccentric and off-putting and I doubt those qualities will have fled in a year or so. We shall make a perfectly hateful couple.”

“Eccentric and off-putting? Do not be absurd, you are only lashing out over your hurt feelings. Furthermore, I have not yet agreed to this idea of making the Earl of Rustmont envious,” she said.

Percy had never in his life wished to tip a lady off her chair, but he would not mind doing it at this moment. However, he must keep his goal in mind.

“Who else will you find that will pretend to be smitten with you while being no such thing?” he asked curtly. “You can be assured that I would be in no danger whatsoever of falling for your charms, whatever they may be. And wherever you may have hid them.”

Lady Felicity entirely ignored that latest salvo. “Well, I suppose I could try it out. After all, if it does not work or becomes too irritating, I can simply call it off,” Lady Felicity said. She said it to him, but it was as if she were saying it to herself.

It was promising that he’d gained her agreement, but not as promising that she could call it off at any moment. Or that she was insulting in the extreme. He would have to think about that.

“Very well, Mr. Stratton,” Lady Felicity said.

“Excellent,” Percy said, though he was not entirely certain he meant it at this juncture. “I presume you will attend Lady Jillerbey’s candlelight picnic on Friday.”

“I have no idea, actually. My aunt has confiscated all the invitations and is dictating where we go.”

“Then you will go, I am sure. Lady Marchfield and Lady Jillerbey are as thick as thieves. Rustmont will go too, he always does.”

“If the earl will be there, I am sure we will come.”

What did that mean? He’d just said she’d go because Lady Marchfield and Lady Jillerbey were as thick as thieves.

From behind his chair, they were suddenly interrupted by Lady Felicity’s father.

“Sick of this place yet?” the duke asked his daughter.

“Rather,” Lady Felicity said.

“Excellent,” the duke said. “I told your aunt if I stay one more minute, I will throw some of that wretched cake at somebody. Probably her.”

Lady Felicity rose, and laughed while she did so. “I suppose she took that as well as can be expected.”

“You know her ,” the duke said, putting his arm out for his daughter. “She doesn’t take anything well. You could tell that lady the sun was shining and she’d throw up her hands in despair and call it wildly inappropriate.”

Lady Felicity nodded, as if Lady Marchfield’s temperament was settled between them. She glanced down at Percy and said, “Mr. Stratton.”

The duke followed her gaze. “Goodbye mister!” he said jovially. With that, he led his daughter away and they were gone.

Percy sat back. What an evening.

He’d accomplished his aim; he’d got a lady to agree to his farce to put off his parents’ matchmaking scheme. But what a lady he’d come up with! He hardly knew what she’d say next.

Of course, how could she be anything other than what she was with such a father to guide her? Had Almack’s ever seen a gentleman throw insults in every direction, drink from a flask, rip a feather out of a lady’s hair and hit her with it, and then threaten to throw cake at her in the dining room?

He was certain all of that could not have got by the Patronesses, and that was only what he’d seen himself. There was probably more.

However, that eccentric gentleman was a duke, so he suspected not much censure would come his way. Percy sometimes thought the idea of rank in England had led to some very bad behavior!

*

Felicity was in conference with her sisters, those six individuals piled on her bed as the sun rose over the rooftops. Patience had not let anybody sleep in and had shaken everybody awake and dragged them into her room.

“So it is absolutely confirmed,” Grace said, “that the Earl of Rustmont is the leading man of London?”

“I must think so,” Felicity said. “He is very handsome. Mind you, there were no end of handsome gentlemen about, so the leading man of London must bring more. Really, it is a certain air he carries about with him.”

“Certain air?” Serenity asked, turning away from the sunrise that had just now brought a tear to her eye. Serenity was particularly affected by nature and claimed every sunrise was different, though Felicity couldn’t see much in the idea.

“A certain air,” Felicity said. “It is as if he has no need to be jolly or approve of all the world.”

“Are you sure he is not a rogue, though?” Winsome asked.

“Oh Felicity,” Valor said, gripping at the bedspread, “Winsome did warn you about the rogues, though nobody will tell me what they are.”

“He is not a rogue, I am sure,” Felicity said.

“I suppose he was very struck by you and came out and said so?” Patience asked.

That was a sticking point.

“Not in so many words,” Felicity said. “You see, there was a regrettable incident—a lady dancing near me reeked of rosewater.”

Her sisters knowing her so well, there was hardly a need for extensive explanation. They could well guess at the situation.

“Did you sneeze?” Grace asked.

“Violently, I’m afraid.”

“I would have died,” Serenity said.

“Nobody dies of a sneeze,” Grace said. “But, was it very noticeable?”

“The earl was forced to hand over his handkerchief,” Felicity admitted. “So, that was not a promising beginning. However, it will all turn out well.”

“I see,” Verity said, nodding knowingly.

“See what?” Winsome asked Verity.

Verity turned up her nose, declining to explain what she did or did not see.

“I was able to discover that the earl has a weakness,” Felicity said. “It turns out he will go mad for me if he thinks another gentleman has gone mad for me. I have dug such a gentleman up—his name is Mr. Percy Stratton. He will pretend interest in me, thereby driving the earl to fly to my side.”

“Why?” Winsome asked. “Why should this Mr. Stratton wish to involve himself?”

“Well… he did say he enjoyed a ruse,” Felicity said. “I suppose that is why.” Though, now that she was looking at it, perhaps it did seem a rather flimsy reason.

“That seems a rather flimsy reason,” Winsome said.

“It is a perfectly well-known reason,” Verity said, “as everybody knows.”

“I did not know,” Valor said.

“In any case,” Felicity said, “the Earl of Rustmont will be at Lady Jellerbey’s candlelight picnic on the morrow and the plan will unfold.”

“Papa and our aunt had a shouting match yesterday about that picnic,” Grace said. “First, Papa said he would not go, as an indoor picnic sounded idiotic. Then our aunt said she was glad he would not go, as he was likely to cause trouble. She would be happy to take our Felicity herself. Then of course you can guess what happened…”

“Papa has now insisted he will go,” Felicity said.

Grace nodded.

Felicity was not certain when Lady Marchfield would ever figure out that if you wished to steer her father one way, you ought to suggest he go the other way.

Valor suddenly laughed. She said, “Papa told our aunt that she would be lucky if he didn’t overturn all Lady Jillerbey’s candles and burn her house down. She clutched at her heart. It really was very funny.”

They all laughed at the idea. Really, their father could be very amusing.

Mrs. Right knocked on the door and came in, followed by two maids with trays.

“Jenny told me you were all up and I imagined you were starving,” she said. “I thought to have brought up tea and toast to hold you over until your proper breakfast.”

“You did bring a cup for yourself, Mrs. Right?” Felicity asked.

“I should be heartbroken if you did not,” Serenity said.

The housekeeper nodded. “I saw into the future and perceived that you will wish to tell me about Almack’s, and I will wish to tell you about a certain butler who is set to arrive.”

“A butler!” Valor cried, as if the idea were terrifying.

Of course, it might very well be terrifying to her youngest sister. Valor had been too young to remember the last butler who’d been in the house. She’d only heard the stories of that gentleman’s final day, which may have been exaggerated for interest.

“Is it Mr. Herring come back?” Grace asked.

“No,” Mrs. Right said grimly, directing the maids with the trays, “I reckon that fellow is weeping in somebody else’s house these days. It is some fellow named Mr. Joseph Sykes-Wycliff.”

“He has two family names,” Valor pointed out, as if this were further reason to be frightened of him.

“Will his mind collapse like Mr. Herring’s did?” Felicity asked, all curiosity. That had been a day of real excitement in the house.

Mrs. Right poured the tea and passed cups round. “No doubt,” she said. “It is only a matter of when.”

With that genial idea, they proceeded to have a very merry pre-breakfast.

*

The last place Percy would purposely find himself was in the breakfast room with his father at eight o’clock in the morning. However, the viscount had left strict instructions with his valet that he was to turn up at the appointed hour.

He busied himself at the sideboard, hemming and hawing and taking this or that thing and then pausing to reconsider.

“I can sit here all day if necessary,” the viscount said.

Percy gave up his delay tactic and sat down.

“Well?” his father said. “You’ve been to Almack’s; you’ve had a look at every eligible lady in Town. What’s it to be?”

Now was his moment to spring the ruse on his father. He did his best to sound casual. “As it happens, I was very struck by Lady Felicity, the Duke of Pelham’s daughter,” he said. He gulped his coffee as that idea settled.

The viscount shook his head violently. “No,” his father said, “it cannot be her.”

“Why ever not?” Percy asked, hope growing by the moment.

“I simply insist. Anybody but her.”

This was a very convenient stance, and delightfully not one Percy would comply with.

“You said, as long as her father was not coming along with her, it would be fine,” Percy pointed out. “She is a duke’s daughter, she’s got a good dowry, and right in the beginning of this project of yours you demanded a lord’s daughter with money who was pleasant to look at. Remember? Because you said the estate could do with an infusion and you could not abide homely children?”

The viscount, never liking his own words flung back in his face, as it was a particular habit of his viscountess, harrumphed.

“She is everything you asked for,” Percy said.

“I know what I said!” the viscount shouted.

A footman clattered a plate on the sideboard, but Percy remained unperturbed. If a person was to be perturbed every time the viscount shouted something, that person would spend a great deal of their life dropping plates.

“Stratton,” the viscount said, “I failed to take one thing into consideration because it is an outlandish thing to have to take into consideration. After what I viewed last evening, Lady Felicity is out of the question.”

Percy presumed his father referred to the lady’s unusual behavior when she danced with Rustmont. “It was only a sneeze,” he said.

“You are so na?ve,” the viscount said. “Her father the duke is entirely mad, you would not believe the things I witnessed!”

Of course, Percy would believe it. But he did not say so. “One cannot condemn a person by what they think of a parent,” he said. “That would be too unfair.”

“They can if they can see very well that the daughter has inherited her father’s tendencies. Do you see what that means? It is in the line—any children from a union with Lady Felicity will be just the same. I will not tolerate deranged grandchildren! We cannot have a deranged future viscount!”

Percy worked to keep the amusement from his expression. One, because most of the time they had a deranged viscount right now. Two, this was unfolding better than he’d ever imagined. He’d planned to be the hapless and hopeless suitor. Already, he’d convinced Lady Felicity to assist him. Now his father was gamely stepping in front of the footlights to engage in this farce of a play, turning his son into a doomed Romeo. The viscount would be Montague and the duke would be Capulet.

Percy was poised to be hopelessly smitten with a lady his father would not accept, even if she could be convinced to accept, which she could not. Unlike Romeo and his completely stupid situation, Percy Stratton was as safe from matrimony as a fish swimming free in the sea and would not need to kill himself over it.

“Father, I am entirely set on Lady Felicity. I did not sleep at all last night for thinking of her. I will not have anybody else. My heart is no longer my own.”

“Your heart is… get it back, you scoundrel!”

Percy shook his head sadly. “What you ask is impossible. There are things in this world that are beyond our control. Love will not be ordered to retreat at will.”

Percy bit his lip. He sounded very much the vapid philosopher with that idea.

“I forbid it. I forbid a match between you and Lady Felicity. I will not sanction it. I’ll cut off your funds!”

“Ah, that would be terrible,” Percy said. “I will be left to mope about the house day after day. However, I will persevere! I will not give up on love! Also, if I am destitute, I will be here in the house rather than out and about in the company of the ton’s ladies. You know, those other ladies you hope will catch my eye. But it matters not! I am all in for Lady Felicity!”

The viscount rose from his chair, knocking over a glass of orange juice as he did so. He whipped round to the butler, who was fussing with the sideboard as if he’d heard nothing at all untoward.

“Tell the viscountess I will see her at her earliest convenience!” he shouted.

His father stormed out of the breakfast room and stomped up the stairs.

Percy leaned back and sipped his coffee. Operation Sadly Hopeless was off to a rousing start.

*

Mrs. Right had thought long and hard on how to outfox Lady Marchfield’s idea that the house required a butler. They’d all got along just fine without Mr. Herring for the last five years and there was no need to upset the equilibrium of the house.

The problem with a butler was that he was bound to be a bit too impressed with himself. Mr. Herring had made that clear enough. How many hours did he drone on about standards before she’d put a stop to it? The servants’ table back in those days had been a dreary place indeed.

Now, she sat at the servants’ table in Grosvenor Square and there was Mr. Joseph Sykes-Wycliff sitting in her rightful place at the head and droning on just the same as Mr. Herring had always done.

“Naturally,” Mr. Sykes-Wycliff said, stroking the rather ridiculous tuft of hair on his chin, “I must be concerned that there has been no butler to lead the staff forward for over five years. I am certain there will be much work to do to reestablish standards.”

“In all fairness,” Mrs. Right said, “we did always hold out hope that Mr. Herring would be found and returned to us safe.”

“Found?” Mr. Sykes-Wycliff asked. “I understood that gentleman resigned his position.”

Mrs. Right covered her mouth and made a great show of looking as if she’d accidentally allowed a secret out. The rest of the staff, who’d been thoroughly briefed and did not want a butler any more than she did, all looked away from Mr. Sykes-Wycliff.

The butler began to look alarmed. “If you say you hoped he was found, do you then imply he was somehow lost?”

“The moors are a vast place, Mr. Sykes-Wycliff,” Mrs. Right said. “And the duke… well, less said the better about that.”

“What about the duke?” Mr. Sykes-Wycliff asked, a note of anxiety creeping into his voice. “I have not even met His Grace yet, Lady Marchfield is to introduce me when she arrives to the house.”

“All I say,” Mrs. Right said, glancing round the table, “is lock your bedchamber door at night and do not be fooled into opening it up by any soft knocking you hear.”

As Mr. Sykes-Wycliff stared at the rest of the servants, they all nodded sadly.

“Soft knocking,” he whispered. “Lady Marchfield said nothing about soft knocking.”

“No offense to Lady Marchfield,” Mrs. Right said, pleased with how worried the fellow was beginning to look, “but she don’t know the workings of the household. Just think, when we return home, we’ll be miles and miles from another human soul. A person might scream as loud as they liked on them moors with nobody but the circling buzzards to hear.”

“Why would someone scream? What buzzards?” Mr. Sykes-Wycliff said, his tone going up an octave.

Mrs. Right shrugged. “The Dales are not for everybody, alas.”

“I am not at all clear what you hint at, Mrs. Right, but I intend to demand answers!”

Everyone at the table lost their composure and guffawed into their tea.

“Demand from who, Mr. Sykes-Wycliff?” Mrs. Right said, shaking her head at the foolishness of the notion. “Demand answers from who?”

The butler did not look as if he knew.

Mrs. Right, rather a master at painting horrifying pictures in a person’s mind, was also rather good at the timing of the thing. She’d made a good start with Mr. Sykes-Wycliff. Now, she would let him stew in it for a while.

She rose and said to the rest of the staff. “We’d best get to our work. We all know the duke’s moods in the early evenings.”

Everybody hopped up and scattered. Mrs. Right left the butler to ponder precisely what the duke’s moods were in the early evenings.

If she knew anything about the Duke of Pelham, His Grace would assist in the effort to drive this new butler from the house. She could not guess what he’d say or do, nobody ever could, but whatever it was, it would be alarming to Mr. Sykes-Wycliff.