Page 8 of Lady Ferocity (A Series of Senseless Complications #1)

M rs. Right was slowly but surely working Mr. Sykes-Wycliff right out the door. Of course, she did not work alone. The entire staff were enthusiastic participants and the duke played his own part whether he realized it or not.

Now all she need do is stay on course and bring in the final reinforcements.

She’d hurried into Felicity’s room and congenially found all the sisters there, but for Valor, who was still asleep. That was well—Valor did not have a strong stomach for intrigue and she was too young to keep a secret for longer than ten minutes.

“Mrs. Right,” Serenity said, “Felicity was just telling us of Papa leaving our aunt at the candlelight picnic and how she had to run after the carriage.”

“It really was very funny,” Felicity said. “As soon as Papa saw her, he ordered the carriage to speed up. I did feel sorry for her though, so I convinced him to stop and let her in. She was very out of breath, and then when she regained it she gave Papa a rousing what-for. She said he was no better than a toddler. Then he threatened to drop her off at the nearest gin shop, so she finally gave it up.”

“She ought to have known how it would be, though,” Mrs. Right said, shaking her head. “She should have kept her eyes firmly on the duke at all times. Now my girl, how did you get on with defeating Lord Rustmont?”

Felicity nodded. “I have not yet succeeded but I know why and what I will do. I am to have two suitors chasing after me. I should have known right from the start that one gentleman pining over me would not be sufficient. The odious Lady Mary had at least five last evening.”

“She sounds horrible,” Mrs. Right said, perfectly amenable to despising Lady Mary, though she’d never set eyes on the woman and knew not a thing about her.

“I rather think she is horrible, though I have not been introduced to the lady,” Felicity said. “The important thing is that an elevated individual like Lord Rustmont cannot be overcome with just one supposed suitor. I am only glad I realized it. Mr. Stratton is to bring his friend Mr. Wiles into it.”

All the sisters seemed well satisfied with this development.

“Just be careful you do not fall in love with either of those two fellows,” Winsome counseled.

“Impossible,” Felicity said. “Mr. Wiles is exceedingly strange and Mr. Stratton, well… he thinks Papa is strange!”

Mrs. Right thought Mr. Stratton probably had his head screwed on right. Anybody who didn’t perceive the duke as strange did not have their eyes open. It did not preclude one holding a vast affection for the man. It was just sensible to face facts.

“I suppose neither of your two gentlemen is particularly handsome,” Verity said. “As far as I know, gentlemen like that never are.”

“You don’t know anything about it,” Winsome said, always ready to challenge what Verity did or did not know.

“Felicity must settle the question,” Grace said, “as she is the only one of us who positively does know.”

Felicity chewed on a biscuit from the jar on her bedside. “Mr. Wiles can be dismissed immediately—he is far too nondescript. As for Mr. Stratton, well for one, his given name is Percy, which I cannot like. If I owned a goldfish, I would name it Percy.”

Verity nodded and murmured, “Very common name for a goldfish.”

“But what does he look like?” Winsome asked.

“Well, he is rather tall, I will give up that point. He has dusky colored hair, dark blond I would call it, and blue eyes. They are a very dark blue, which I do find superior to light blue in a gentleman. His clothes are really very good—I do not believe any gentleman could have bested his knot last evening. And then, I’ve noticed there is something in his expression that makes it seem as if he meets the world with good nature. I suppose there are some who might think his looks were rather suave.”

“That is quite a lot of good things, Felicity!” Serenity pointed out.

“Is it?” Felicity said, looking a little perturbed to hear it. “Of course, whatever charms he may have are mightily outweighed by other less attractive aspects of him. Mr. Stratton is the sort of gentleman best admired from afar and not spoken to directly.”

“I look forward to getting a look at him next season when it is my turn,” Grace said.

Mrs. Right noticed Felicity seemed very struck by that idea. Perhaps her dear girl was not quite as immune to Mr. Stratton’s charms as she imagined.

“Now, Mrs. Right,” Felicity said hurriedly, “what goes on below stairs with the new butler? Will you tell us?”

“We are well on our way to being rid of him,” the housekeeper said. “I hope I can count on my girls to play their part?”

As all the sisters nodded vigorously, Mrs. Right proceeded to outline what had been done so far to convince Mr. Sykes-Wycliff to pack his bags and begone. Then, she explained the girls’ role in the operation.

They were to drop hints to the butler that he’d have little chance of encountering old age if he were to travel to the duke’s seat in the Dales. In particular, they were to warn him never to agree to participate in the servants’ hunt. It might seem amusing to have the staff running round the moors while the duke hunted them all with his fowling piece. However, the duke was a very bad shot and often hit things he did not mean to, like a footman the year before. That poor lad was back living with his mother in the village as he still had a limp. Of course, they were all thankful it was his leg hit, rather than his heart or his head.

“That is a jolly good idea, Mrs. Right,” Grace said.

Felicity nodded. “I am certain we can frighten him into leaving.”

“It’s for his own good,” Patience said. “He will feel better about himself if he goes to a house that actually needs a butler.”

They all nodded at Patience’s rather thoughtful assessment.

“Aye, it’s a kindness,” Mrs. Right said. “Now, we should not bother Valor with these ideas, as she would be up with night terrors, fretting over a servants’ hunt that never was. Never mind her inability to keep it to herself, the dear little mite.”

“She ought not know of it,” Serenity said. “She’s already terrified of Mr. Sykes-Wycliff on account of the stories we told of Mr. Herring’s final hours in the house.”

Mrs. Right pressed her lips together. There had been no ‘we’ about it. Verity had been the author of a wild tale that included Mr. Herring attempting to set the house on fire and burn it to the ground, but for it being a damp sort of day and he could not get a flame going. Poor Valor still had night terrors over the idea that he might slip back inside in the middle of the night on a drier sort of day and finish what he started.

No matter. Her plan was unfolding perfectly and Mrs. Right was certain they’d be rid of Mr. Sykes-Wycliff by the end of the week. Then, she would begin to tie Lady Marching Orders in knots so she had no time to dig up another butler.

She had not worked out her whole strategy for that harridan yet, but she had by happenstance come upon one idea already. Lady Marchfield was in the habit of taking all the invitations from the front hall salver and examining them to decide which would be appropriate to accept. Then she would write out her responses and leave them for a footman to deliver after noting them in the duke’s calendar.

Mrs. Right had noticed she’d not got to them this morning and had a look herself. She’d gone through them and found something delightful. It was called a Cyprian’s party. The description of it was: “A genial place where a gentleman could encounter certain ladies of sophistication, wit, and passion in a private and confidential setting.”

A pile of courtesans looking for their next benefactor—of course they’d invited the duke. And of course, Lady Marchfield would throw it right in the bin.

Mrs. Right wrote out an acceptance to the invitation for the duke. Then, careful to imitate Lady Marchfield’s handwriting, she put it in the duke’s calendar as Lady Cyprion’s dinner, confirmed for the duke, Lady Felicity, and Lady Marchfield, along with the time and address.

“Now Felicity,” Mrs. Right said, “you know how sometimes I might ask you girls to trust me without explanation?”

Felicity nodded. “You have never steered us wrong,” she said.

“No never,” Serenity said. “Why, remember when you told us to take our fowling pieces up to the attics and fire out the windows when we caught sight of Mr. Weatherby coming to court you on your afternoon off? We never saw that fellow again.”

“It was quite necessary,” Mrs. Right said, “though I did not like to say why at the time. That person was very pushy. He would attempt to steal me from you.”

“Just so,” Patience said. “We did not know why we fired over the head of Mr. Weatherby, but it turned out to be for a very good reason.

“What is it we’re to do this time, Mrs. Right?” Grace asked.

“This is just for Felicity. On Tuesday next, Lady Cyprion is to hold a dinner. I wish you will pretend at planning to go until the very last minute, and then claim a headache. I wish the duke to take Lady Marchfield alone.”

“Gracious, it’s so mysterious!” Winsome said. “We might never work out why, like we did with Mr. Weatherby.”

“Oh, I expect you’ll know why, when all is said and done,” Mrs. Right said.

“You can count on me, Mrs. Right,” Felicity said.

Mrs. Right sighed contentedly. Her girls were really very good sorts. As a further cheer, Lady Marchfield would shortly find herself surrounded by courtesans.

It was very pleasant to think about.

*

Percy’s valet had taken his time with his clothes and accomplished the rather spectacular knot he called The Radcliff . Of course, he named it The Radcliff since his name was Radcliff. His valet’s sole ambition in life was to inspire envy and he wanted all the envious to know that his knot was invented by him. Percy might have thought the notion rather conceited, but for the fact that it really was well-done, and he appreciated the looks at it he got from other gentlemen. It was a Mail Coach somehow ending in a Barrel Knot—complicated and elegant. Nobody but Radcliff could understand how it was done, least of all Percy.

While Radcliff was working his magic with Percy’s neckcloth, he’d chattered on about the latest gossip he’d picked up from who knew where. According to the valet, news of Lady Felicity’s odd performance at Almack’s was widely spoken of. There was speculation that she was prone to fits of the inherited variety. Radcliff had even heard that there was betting regarding whether there would be a repeat performance.

Percy just hoped none of this talk reached Lady Felicity’s ears. She seemed to have a bit of a temper and it was not as if her father would rein her in. Percy could not imagine what she would do. After all, it was not as if she was well acquainted with reality and facts. He’d been surprised over her surprise when he’d mentioned the duke’s eccentricity. How did she not see it?

Now, he was roaming round Lady Albright’s annual rout—a rather eccentric event itself. The lady kept a menagerie of animals, some in enclosures and some roaming free, some inside and some out of doors.

Percy recalled that last year her Tamarin monkey, Hugo was his name, had decided he was fed up with the crowd and its associated noise. In retaliation, he’d leapt from a chandelier into Lady Annabelle’s rather elaborately done hair. The monkey proceeded to tear at it as if he were determined to get to the bottom of it. As the lady screamed and pins flew in all directions, Lady Albright only admonished Hugo for being a mischievous imp before luring him away with a slice of pear.

Percy doubted Lady Annabelle would make a second appearance. He did, however, think that Lady Felicity would make an appearance. She’d told him that her father, the duke, would bring her, as he said it sounded hilarious. Her aunt, Lady Marchfield, had counseled against it and refused to accompany them. That had seemed to be no matter as apparently the duke did not like his sister much.

Percy could well believe it, considering what he’d witnessed at their departure from the candlelight picnic. For all he knew, Lady Marchfield was just now wandering round the Seven Dials, the duke having pushed her out of his carriage.

“I still do not see what precisely we are meant to do,” Wiles said, brushing a red squirrel off the sideboard and pouring himself a glass of hock.

“Where is the confusion?” Percy said. “Lady Felicity will arrive and we’ll follow her about like two lovesick lotharios. If Rustmont turns up and sees it, wonderful. But the real point is that my father sees it and becomes convinced I am set on Lady Felicity even though she prefers you.”

“Does she know she is meant to prefer me?” Wiles asked.

“No, but she can barely stand the sight of me, so I think it should be obvious enough.”

“Where is your old gentleman anyway?”

“He’s around here somewhere,” Percy said, watching Lady Albright’s red squirrel creep back on the sideboard and begin collecting grapes. “He got waylaid by Sir Reynolds, but he’ll catch up to me as soon as he can—he tracks me like a hunter on a stag.”

“Is that a deer?” Wiles asked.

Percy looked at his friend. “Yes. It’s a male deer. How could you not know that?”

“No, I mean over there,” Wiles said, hooking his thumb.

Percy glanced at the far corner of the room. Indeed, a full-grown doe had made herself comfortable on a settee, her wide eyes taking in the room. He shook his head and turned away.

“There she is, there is Lady Felicity,” Percy said, looking toward the doors to the drawing room.

He waved, so he might look enthusiastic. One never knew if one’s father was observing by peeking round curtains, he must be on his guard every second.

Lady Felicity was really looking terrific. He had noticed before that candlelight did something very well for her hair. There were so many different shades running through it—browns and golds, and even hints of red. He’d really never seen anything like it and it made other ladies’ hair color seem rather flat and uninspired. And then, those big brown expressive eyes. He supposed if she came with a usual temperament and a usual family, Rustmont and his ilk would be at her feet.

Percy braced himself as her father escorted her toward him. “Your Grace, Lady Felicity,” he said with a bow. “Lady Felicity, I believe you know Mr. Wiles. Your Grace, may I present Mr. Harry Wiles.”

The duke eyed Wiles up and down. “Gad, Felicity, you are collecting an awful lot of misters.”

“Mr. Wiles is the eldest son of Baron Davies, Papa.”

“A baron, eh?” the duke said, seeming amused. “Just got your toe on the ladder! Well, it could be worse—you could be a baronet!”

As Percy had expected, Wiles looked ready to fall over. Encounters with the Duke of Pelham were always going to be unsettling. He should have warned him that all the duke would ever know about him was that he was currently a mister.

“Hah!” the duke said, looking at the squirrel on the sideboard. “Here we are always trying to keep those rascals out and Lady Albright has invited them in.”

“Oh, and there is a deer, Papa.”

The duke’s eyes traveled to the settee. “If only I had my gun, eh? Then we’d have a good dinner on the morrow.”

“I do not suppose Lady Albright would thank you for shooting up her drawing room, though.” Lady Felicity pointed out.

Percy did not suppose any rational person would appreciate it, particularly not an animal lover such as Lady Albright. It was said she lived on fish and vegetables, as she did not care to eat the meat of anything with legs. Percy had always wondered if that meant crabs were out.

“I suppose she would not like it,” the duke admitted. “A messy business, killing things. Your mother was very put out when a bird got into the drawing room and I shot it in midflight. She said I ought not be firing a gun around so many young children.”

Lady Felicity nodded knowingly, as if it were simply a matter of course that a mistress of a household might object to gunfire in the drawing room.

“Indeed,” she said, “A wood pigeon. I remember we buried it in the garden and gave it a proper funeral.”

Wiles was rather wide-eyed. Percy thought he’d probably get used to it, though. He was, himself, not nearly as perturbed by the duke and his daughter as he’d been in the beginning.

“I wonder, Mr. Stratton,” Lady Felicity said, “if Lord Rustmont attends this evening? He was so very helpful in the search for the pineapple. I would like to thank him for his efforts.”

The duke snorted. “Probably doesn’t know it was all for naught, though, does he? Looking for a pineapple that never was.”

Percy decided to ignore that comment, as it was beginning to dawn on him that the best strategy for responding to a deranged duke was no response at all.

“I have not yet encountered Lord Rustmont,” he said. “Perhaps we may stroll to the back garden? That is where some of the larger animals are to be found and he may well be there, admiring them.”

“I wonder at a fellow admiring animals rather than ladies,” the duke said, “but all right—let us see what sort of lunacy Lady Albright has got up to back there.”

With that genial assessment, they set off.

*

Felicity held every hope that Lord Rustmont would attend Lady Albright’s rout, and equally hopeful that Lady Mary of the frothy blond curls and piles of admirers would stay at home. Nobody needed a diamond of the first water flitting about the place.

Perhaps Lady Mary was terrified of animals. There were such women, she knew. Valor was terrified of an old bull in one of her father’s far fields, convinced he would break down the fence and skewer her, though the bull never even looked her way.

Mr. Stratton had done as he was asked and brought Mr. Wiles into the ruse, though Felicity was not certain how convincing a suitor that fellow was. He looked ready to fall over even conversing with her father. He did not seem made of very stern stuff.

No matter. It was two gentlemen following her around and certainly Lord Rustmont would note it.

Mr. Stratton had put out his arm as they prepared to make their way to the gardens, though Felicity had been forced to hint to Mr. Wiles that he ought to take her other arm. He really was not much of a romancer.

Of course, her father found it hilarious and said to Mr. Wiles, “A little slow to the mark, eh, Mister?

This seemed to discompose Mr. Wiles even further.

They made their way out to the hall and encountered Mr. Stratton’s father, the viscount, on his tiptoes, peering round in every direction.

“Still looking for that spectacular pineapple?” the duke said jovially.

Viscount Denderby only stared at the duke. Then he stared at Felicity and her two accompanying gentlemen. “I was looking for my son, in fact,” the viscount said rather coldly.

“Now you’ve found him,” the duke said, “hanging on one side of my daughter while the other mister takes the opposite side.”

“Lady Felicity,” the viscount said, “I wonder if I might steal my son away. I have a notion of showing him something in the back garden.”

“I bet it’s another missing pineapple!” the duke said, laughing at his own wit. “Don’t fall for it, that’s my advice!”

“Papa, really. Perhaps we might all travel there together, Lord Denderby,” Felicity said. “That is precisely where we were headed.”

The viscount nodded, but Felicity could see very well he was not happy with the idea. Well, it was his own fault for thinking her father was deranged and herself eccentric in some manner. What an idea.

They went through the doors to the garden and found it well lit with torches placed throughout.

To the right was a very long sideboard that seemed to be a series of doors off their hinges laid atop brickwork. Two young stoats were making a terrific mess, running up and down it and pausing to help themselves to an item. It all seemed to be a game—there was plenty there for them to eat, but they seemed more interested in stealing away what the other one had in its mouth. One of them had just stepped on butter carved as a swan and left a very distinct footprint.

“Oh Papa,” Felicity said, “they are so charming. Do you suppose we ought to get a pair of stoats of our own?”

The duke shrugged. “Ask Mrs. Right—she’ll know if we ought to do it.”

“Excellent notion, she is sure to know. Oh, there is Lord Rustmont,” Felicity said, looking across the garden to the larger enclosures that housed Lady Albright’s more interesting creatures. “Gentlemen, do escort me there.”

“Ah hah!” the duke said, “the game begins! Eh, Denderby?”

Lord Denderby did not seem to know what the game was, and Felicity hoped her father would not inform him of it. The lord was so stiff and might not appreciate his son participating in a ruse to make another gentleman envious of the attention.

That idea was rather confirmed by the look on Mr. Stratton’s features—he looked almost panicked.

“Let us go,” Mr. Stratton said hurriedly, pulling her forward.

They made their way toward Lord Rustmont’s party. He stood with three other gentlemen she did not know and was currently frowning, and one brow raised at one of them in that marvelous way he had. Felicity was glad Viscount Denderby had declined to accompany them. As she glanced behind her, she noted the lord just staring after them.

Of course, Mr. Stratton’s father had made his dislike of her own father known, so she should not be surprised. Her dear father would remain unscathed by the viscount’s low opinion, though, as he so rarely deigned to notice anybody’s disapproval. Their local vicar was concerted in his efforts to avoid the duke, even though it was her father’s living that fed him. The fellow sometimes went to such lengths as jogging in the opposite direction, but it was all water off a duck’s back for her father. He was forever calling after the vicar as he sped away, shouting, “Cheer up, old fellow.”

“Lord Rustmont,” Felicity said, calling for his attention from his friends.

The lord turned and he looked positively glorious wearing his signature disdainful expression.

“Lady Felicity,” he said gravely. “Your Grace, Stratton, Wiles.”

“Rustmont,” Mr. Stratton and Mr. Wiles said in unison.

“Yes, yes,” the duke said, “everybody has said everybody else’s name, what a palaver. Now, what have we got here?”

Lord Rustmont stood aside to reveal two enclosures. One was a simple wood fence, as one might find on any English farm. It was meant to keep in a magnificent looking beast—a stout horse, but a horse that was striped black and white.

Good heavens, Lady Albright had a zebra.

The other enclosure was far more secure. It seemed to be wholly enclosed by metal bars spaced close together and rising up to curve, forming a roof. There was a sturdy-looking gate on the front of it.

Felicity could not see anything in it, though. She hoped it was not a float of crocodiles. She had seen a picture of those beasts in a book once; they’d all been creeping up a riverbank while some poor fellow had his back turned gathering reeds.

“There is a tiger in there,” Lord Rustmont said, following her gaze. “He stays well in the back, as he does not appear to enjoy the festivities.”

“As well he would not,” the duke said. “I don’t suppose a beast dragged all the way here from the Far East would be enjoying himself in a London garden.”

Felicity thought her father was right. It would be one thing to welcome into the house some local stoats who would be fully capable of departing it if they did not like it. But a zebra and a tiger? She supposed both must find themselves lonely and wondering where they were. Particularly the zebra, as she was sure they traveled in herds just as horses liked to do. Where is the lead mare? Where is the stallion and colts and fillies? It must be very confusing to feel as if there should be a crowd around one and yet be alone.

She could not actually say how social an average tiger was.

Now that she was really considering the matter, she concluded that if Lady Albright loved animals as she claimed, she would have left them where they belonged.

She shook off the idea, as it was something that would deserve consideration on another day. Then she shook off Mr. Stratton and Mr. Wiles from either arm. She took a few steps forward toward the tiger’s enclosure to show Lord Rustmont that she was stalwart in the face of such a terrific beast. Felicity imagined such a thing must be seen as an alluring quality and assist him in imagining her as the mistress of his house. Anybody running a household must have iron nerves. She’d seen that well enough from Mrs. Right.

As she peered into the darkness of the enclosure, a voice behind her said, “Do smell this, Lady Felicity—Lady Albright’s roses.”

A handful of roses was waved in front of her face. Predictably, the scent ran up her nose and itched and tickled it relentlessly. What was this person doing? Who were they? She did not recognize the voice.

She did not dare turn round to find out, as she would not like Lord Rustmont to see her scrunching her nose again.

Behind her, her father laughed uproariously. “Trying to make her sneeze, are you? You’ll be lucky if she doesn’t clobber you for it, and I won’t stop her either!” he said.

Whoever had attempted to make her sneeze was all too successful. The fit that was coming upon her was even more violent than what she’d experienced at Almack’s.

She tapped on her nose, and then she pinched it, staying turned away from Lord Rustmont. He could not be a witness to another sneezing attack. He would begin to think it was an everyday occurrence!

It was hopeless, she could not fight it off. Her body wracked with sneezes to expel the offending odor, and she fell against the door to the enclosure.

The latch made a rasping sound and disengaged. The door slowly swung open. Felicity stared at it, almost uncomprehending what she was looking at.

There was a sudden shout. “Close it! Close the gate!”

Felicity fumbled with it as men began to join in on the shouting. Ladies screamed. There was a stampede to the doors of Lady Albright’s house.

Her hands shook and she could not get the latch to engage.

Then, two large, amber-colored eyes ringed in midnight black emerged from the shadows of the dim enclosure and stared at her, unblinking. The eyes were housed in a head that was larger than she could have ever imagined—four times the size of a man’s own.