Page 12 of Lady Graceless (A Series of Senseless Complications #2)

M iles had to give the duke credit—while the gentleman held no compunction over joking about Miles shipwrecking his boat, he’d not shown a flicker of surprise over Lady Margaret’s appearance.

He certainly must have been surprised. The turban had been a new and alarming addition to her repertoire. It was not so much the idea that she wore a turban. It was that it was an eye-popping shade of green silk while her dress was bright purple brocade that billowed out in all directions as if her maid had put her into every crinoline in London. When he’d first spotted her coming down the stairs, he had the impression of Lunardi’s hydrogen balloon being filled for its flight.

In the carriage, he’d even floated the idea of hiring a dressmaker, but Lady Margaret said the older styles suited her, as Lord Harraby had rightly pointed out.

Lady Grace, on the other hand, looked perfection. She wore a violet silk dress with a delicate tulle overlay in the same shade, embellished with silver thread using a restrained hand. Her blond curls were wrestled into order, though some of the bolder of their number had escaped their pins. Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks bloomed. There could not be a prettier lady in all London.

He was placed on Lady Felicity’s right, as she would hostess for the duke. Lady Grace was on Miles’ other side. Lady Margaret was to the duke’s right, with Lady Valor on her other side.

Miles had not thought the younger sisters would be at table, but then he supposed the duke did not constrain himself to any preconceived notions on how things were done. In any other house, the younger girls who were not out would be taking their dinner above stairs with a governess. Nobody not closely associated with the family would likely be aware of their existence until they were older. As far as he knew, the duke did not even employ a governess. Just a rather frightening housekeeper who had no use for a butler.

“Lord Dashlend,” Lady Grace said, “you mentioned you were to dine with one of your father’s oldest friends last evening. I pray it was enjoyable.”

It was a perfectly polite question and Miles intended to answer it perfectly politely, though it would not be a truthful answer. “Yes, it was very enjoyable. May I ask how you found Lady Luthering’s ball?”

“Oh very nice,” Lady Grace said. She paused and then said, “Your cousin was there. Lord Montclave. He took me into supper.”

“Did he,” Miles said. He found he did not like that idea at all. Montclave was no gentleman for a lady like Lady Grace. Montclave was no gentleman, period.

Lady Grace nodded. “He spoke of you, actually.”

“I do not know why he should,” Miles said, careful to keep utter disdain from his tone.

“I am not entirely certain why he did either,” Lady Grace said.

There was something sad in the way she said it. What had Montclave said about him?

Before he could press for an answer, the sound of the door knocker being soundly rapped was heard in the dining room. Mr. Button directed the footman to continue serving and hurried out to the front hall.

Shortly after, a matron’s raised voice was heard by everyone at table.

“Never fear, Mr. Button, I have received your communication, and I have come to sort out this shameful situation.”

The sound of the voice seemed to send chills down the spines of the ladies at table. Lady Valor disappeared under it with her rather worn-out stuffed rabbit.

The duke took a long swig of wine and said, “Lady Misery has arrived. We are in for it now!”

For some reason, the duke seemed to think the idea vastly amusing.

“It is Lady Marchfield, my aunt,” Lady Grace said softly.

“Why does everyone seem to be so stricken over her arrival?” Miles whispered.

“We told her the wrong day for the dinner,” Lady Grace said. “She was told it was to be on the morrow. She is on the verge of discovering the ruse.”

To his other side, Lady Felicity, who had obviously overheard, said, “Oh my.”

“She can be very cross,” Lady Grace said, by way of explanation. “And so, when Verity said the wrong day, none of us corrected her.”

Out in the hall, Mr. Button was speaking and Miles could tell he was speaking rapidly, but it was not so loud that he could make out the words.

He could hear Lady Marchfield’s response, though.

“Lead me in, Mr. Button!”

“Here we go,” the duke said, raising his glass as if there was cause for celebration.

Lady Marchfield stormed into the dining room. She halted, and Miles thought it took her a moment to comprehend what she was seeing. As far as he could gather, having been told the wrong day for the dinner was just now dawning on her.

“Roland,” she said in a rather deadly tone, “step out into the hall for a moment.”

“What now, Lady Misery? Say your piece, if you will—I need not get up on my feet for it.”

“You will not like what I have to say in front of your guests.”

“I never do like what you say!” the duke said, laughing at his own joke.

Lady Marchfield, who Miles was only vaguely acquainted with, looked as if her head would explode.

“Very well, you uncouth excuse for a duke,” she said.

Miles dropped his fork. That was rather direct.

“Aside from hosting this dinner tonight, when I was told by your daughters that it was to be held on the morrow, I received this missive from Mr. Button.”

She waved the letter back and forth threateningly.

“That woman has finally gone too far,” Lady Marchfield said.

Who that woman was, Miles had not the first idea. Until he recalled that the duke’s housekeeper had been dead set against having a butler in the house.

“Hand it over,” the duke said. “Let me see what you’ve got yourself in a lather over.”

Lady Marchfield practically threw it at the duke. He swept it up from the table and scanned it.

Then, inconceivably, the duke read it aloud.

Dear Lady Marchfield,

It is with deep regret and trepidation that I must communicate some very uncomfortable developments. Mrs. Right has taken to accusing me of improprieties. She refers to herself as an innocent maiden and trumps up wild accusations out of nowhere and always in front of the staff. She seems to have them all fairly bewitched, as they believe these outlandish claims.

I am not at all certain that this situation is tenable. I am not certain I can continue on in a household dominated by an aging matron who can convince the staff that I, or anybody, frankly, has designs on her. Personally, I have never had designs on any lady and if I did ever have designs, those designs would not be directed at Mrs. Right!

With all due respect,

Harold Button

The duke laid the letter on the table and heaved with laughter. He turned to the footmen. “Well? Has Mr. Button been making eyes at our Mrs. Right?”

One of the footmen shrugged and said, “That’s what it looked like to us, Your Grace.”

The other footman was biting his lip, had gone red in the face, and pinched his leg.

The duke’s daughters attempted a bit more decorum, but as most of them had napkins firmly pressed over their mouths and shoulders shaking, he could guess they found the situation equally amusing.

“Designs on my housekeeper, Mr. Button?” the duke asked facetiously.

The youngest, Lady Valor, piped up from under the table. “What are designs?”

Lady Marchfield glared toward the area of the table that question had emanated from, seeming to just have comprehended that the empty chair had so recently been occupied by the youngest and that youngest had dived under the table at her approach.

Of all of them, Stratton seemed entirely unsurprised by this unusual scene.

The duke attempted to speak several times, but he could not manage it between gasps of laughter.

“Mr. Button,” Lady Marchfield said gravely, “I had hoped that my brother would, for any better phrase for it, grow up. I had hoped he would finally become cognizant of his standing as a duke and the outrageousness of his housekeeper. That clearly is not to be. I cannot in good conscience leave you in this house. You will pack your things—I happen to know of a very good situation that has just come up and I will see that you get it! I will await you in my carriage.”

With that, Lady Marchfield turned on her heel and stormed out.

Mr. Button, who had lingered by the sideboard appearing unsure where the whole thing was going, suddenly puffed his chest out.

“Your Grace,” he said, looking down his nose, “I give my resignation, effective this minute. Furthermore, you can tell that old harridan downstairs that neither I, nor anybody else in the world, will ever have designs on her. She can very safely leave her door unlocked for the rest of her days!”

Mr. Button strode from the room, head held high.

The duke finally caught his breath. “Au revoir, Mr. Button!” he called after the departing butler. He beamed round the table. “I suppose the moral of this story is one never knows where entertainment might come from.”

Lady Margaret, who had been taking everything in, said, “Those two people seem very high-strung.”

The duke nodded. “My sister is strung like a bow and ready to snap at any and all moments. She does not comprehend that I am beholden to nobody, including herself, and I am free to run my household as I see fit. That misconception provides for hours of amusement.”

Lady Margaret nodded, as if this was an accepted fact. She pulled up the tablecloth and peered underneath it. “Come child, there is no cause to be hiding under there. The monsters are gone.”

Lady Valor emerged. “What are designs?” she asked.

This caused the duke to heave with laughter all over again. Lady Margaret said, “Apparently, Mrs. Right has accused Mr. Button of attempting to court her.”

Lady Valor collapsed in giggles. “That is so stupid, though. If she got married she would have to leave us—she would never do it!”

Miles supposed it was just as well that the accusations that had just flown around the dining room had gone over Lady Valor’s head.

The footmen took up the service again, looking exceedingly cheerful.

The table returned to some semblance of normality for a half hour, but Miles was beginning to think normality could not hold in the duke’s household.

Mr. Button’s departure, which he chose to daringly do through the front doors rather than the servants’ entrance, was capped off by the three-legged dog growling and biting at his pant leg. The dining room doors had been left open after his storming out of it and now everyone peered out to watch the butler struggle with the canine of the house.

Miles had no idea what was to come next, but Lady Winsome and Lady Patience had begun suggesting that when they were all gathered in the drawing room, they might play a game called Fact or Fib.

Stratton, who had been rather sanguine throughout the recent goings-on, began to look alarmed.

If Stratton was alarmed, Miles supposed he better be too.

He did not know what he’d been expecting from the Duke of Pelham’s dinner, but it was rather more lively than he’d imagined.

*

Montclave had found himself at loose ends this particular night. He was received in some houses, but not every house. The high and mighty took little notice of a country baron and it was probably a further strike against him that he currently resided in Lord Doanellen’s house.

He might have wiled away the time drinking Doanellen’s brandy, but Mrs. Featherby was fluttering round the house, making things uncomfortable.

With no money in his pocket and no club to go to, he had contemplated walking the streets for a few hours. With any luck, he could return home to find Mrs. Featherby retired for the evening.

As he mulled over which direction to walk, he recalled it was the night of the Duke of Pelham’s dinner. Dashlend and Lady Grace would be in the same house together for an extended period of time. As long as he was walking somewhere, why did he not walk to Grosvenor Square and see what he could see?

He might see nothing at all, but then there were times when the servants forgot to pull the curtains at sunset or closed them but left a gap. Especially when the house was sent topsy-turvy over an entertainment to be hosted. If he understood servants at all, it was that they silently resented the extra work of it, and that brand of resentment showed itself in things being not exactly as precise as they should be.

Though, even if the duke’s servants were scrupulous and made no small mistakes to express their dissatisfaction, it gave him a direction that did not feel entirely pointless.

Montclave strode through the dark streets and arrived at the square not a quarter hour later. He slipped into the shadows as the duke’s door had just been flung open. Lady Marchfield came steaming out of it and got into her carriage.

She did not immediately depart though.

Why was she just sitting there? Had somebody said something to offend her and she’d made a dramatic exit and now waited for the duke to beg her pardon and lead her back into the house? If she planned to go, why did she not go? He wished she’d move on, as the drawing room curtains had been left open. There was nothing to see at the moment, as he supposed they were all still in the dining room, but there would be.

Montclave climbed the fence into the square, where he might be better hidden amongst the foliage. He would like to light a cigar, but that would give him away to the watchmen.

Over a half hour must have passed and Montclave was beginning to think this was how it would be for the rest of the evening. Lady Marchfield sitting in her carriage and himself hiding in bushes.

But then, the duke’s door flew open once more. A man who must certainly be the butler was attempting to shake off a dog who’d got hold of his pant leg. The three-legged dog he’d heard about from Lady Grace.

The fellow had a portmanteau in one hand. He finally did shake off the dog and shut the door behind him. Inexplicably, he got into Lady Marchfield’s carriage and they set off.

What in the world did he just witness? Was Lady Marchfield having some sort of assignation with a butler?

No, that could not be it. For one, it was Lady Marchfield. Montclave doubted she even tolerated assignations with her own husband. And two, if a butler were to slip away on account of a lady, he would hardly do it in the middle of a dinner and through the front doors.

It was mystifying. It was also interesting. He did not know if there was anything to be done with the information. However, he did know he would not have the information if he’d stayed at home to listen to Mrs. Featherby’s inane blathering. How long could that lady talk about the charming, enameled pin she’d seen at Rundell she’d probably help herself.

Stratton only nodded. “You’ll be grateful for a drink, Dashlend. I heard mention of Fact or Fib.”

“Yes, what is that game, exactly?” Miles asked. “I do not believe I am familiar with it.”

The duke laughed surprisingly heartily at that inquiry. “It is a chance for my daughters to quiz you mercilessly, denounce you as a fibber if you do not answer the way they wish you to, and trounce you at it. You cannot win, therefore it’s best to just pour a deep glass and let them have their way.”

Miles looked to Stratton, who nodded sadly. “They’ll ask you questions, then they decide if it is a fact or a fib. Doesn’t really matter if they’re right—they decide. Then they’ll give you a ticket—blue for fib and yellow for fact. Two yellow tickets wins the game, but a blue ticket cancels a yellow ticket.”

“Don’t even bother attempting to keep track of it, you’ll be drowning in blue tickets no matter what you do,” the duke said.

“They can ask anything at all?” Miles asked. It sounded as if it could get very personal.

Stratton nodded. “I am fully prepared to be asked if I stare at my wife while she’s sleeping. I do not, by the by. Not often, anyway.”

The duke chuckled. “We put old Stratton through the mangle last year. I thought he might jump out the nearest window.”

“I might have, had one been open.”

“Well,” the duke said in a genial tone, “if a gentleman has not got enough stalwartness in him, he’s got no business in this house.”

Miles did not comment, but he thought that must be true. It was only a dinner, and yet he’d seen a matron barge in and name the host “an uncouth excuse for a duke,” a letter written by the butler was read at the table, accusing the housekeeper of delusions in matters of the heart, the butler had dramatically exited from the house while shaking off a three-legged dog, and now he had Fact or Fib hanging over his head.

Being lost at sea was not as harrowing.

“What’s it to be, Dashlend?” the duke asked. “Are you to make a run at my Grace?”

Miles was momentarily stunned. Make a run? Did he inquire into Miles’ intentions? He had not set any intentions yet. Not firmly. Or maybe a little firmly but not written in stone. Not yet.

“Do not answer him, Dashlend,” Stratton counseled.

“Hah!” the duke cried. “Stratton begins to know me too well! No matter, we ought to rejoin the ladies. I’ll bring the bottle, you two bring your glasses.” The duke paused. “Ought I to bring in a glass for Lady Margaret? My instincts tell me she would not be opposed.”

“That is very astute, Your Grace. Though, I believe the lady prefers brandy.”

“Charlie?” the duke said. “See to it. You’ll need to be on your toes now that we’ve sent Mr. Button packing.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Charlie said, seeming delighted.

Miles took a deep breath. He was to go in and face Fact or Fib. Afterward, he was to lead a tipsy elderly lady to his carriage, get her in there, and then make certain she reached her bedchamber without breaking her neck on the stairs on account of wine and brandy. He must bring all his stalwartness to bear.