Page 13 of Lady Graceless (A Series of Senseless Complications #2)

G race had been pleased that Lady Margaret had made it a point of taking her aside in the drawing room and making various sorts of comments and asking questions, all of them round the subject of Lord Dashlend.

Her sisters were all in a corner, conspiring together on what sorts of questions they would pepper Lord Dashlend and Mr. Stratton with. Even Felicity was in on it.

Lady Margaret said, “I always wonder, when two people have met under extraordinary circumstances, if fate did not have a hand in it.”

Grace had wondered just the same, though the vicar had often railed against praying for things like love and luck—he said God had more pressing matters to attend to.

“I suppose he looked a very interesting picture, emerging from the sea,” Lady Margaret said.

“Very dashing,” Grace admitted.

“And there you were, a regular Queen Boudica, bravely facing the elements to rescue him.”

Grace felt her eyes go a bit wide at that picture. There had not been any particular elements to face and she’d been there with her family. She really could not claim any resemblance to Queen Boudica.

“He told me your eyes were olive-colored, and that it lent a sophistication to your appearance,” Lady Margaret said.

“Did he? Did he say that?”

Lady Margaret nodded.

Just then, the drawing room doors opened. The duke had not kept the gentlemen long at their port. As was his usual habit, her papa had brought the bottle in with him.

“Lady Margaret,” the duke said, “I’ve sent for the brandy decanter. I think you will not be opposed?”

“Gracious no,” Lady Margaret said. “These old bones do need to be greased up on occasion.”

“We ought to get started,” Patience said. “Else Valor gets too tired to play.”

“I am not tired,” Valor said.

“No, but you will be.”

Valor sighed, as if she was much put upon. “It is one of the problems of youth—I do get sleepy!”

Patience set the piles of blue and yellow tickets on an ottoman and dragged it to the center of the room.

The footman returned and poured a modest amount of brandy into a glass for Lady Margaret. Then he noticed the lady frowning at it and topped it up.

Valor was waving her hand back and forth at the duke.

“All right, all right, Valor is to go first,” the duke said.

“Mr. Stratton,” Valor said, “do you stare at Felicity when she’s sleeping?”

Mr. Stratton seemed not the least bit alarmed to be asked. He nodded, “Only once or twice.”

“Fibber!” Verity cried. “We already talked about it and we are sure it is at least three times.”

Felicity giggled and handed her husband a blue ticket. “In the hole already, my love.”

They moved round the circle to Winsome. “Lord Dashlend, what was the first thing you noticed about our Grace?”

Though Grace had expected the question, or something very like it, it was still painfully embarrassing.

“Oh, well, let us see,” Lord Dashlend said. “I suppose it must have been her eyes.”

“Liar!” Winsome, Verity, Patience and Serenity cried.

“It was her hair,” Winsome said. “Everybody knows it.”

“Well of course, that is very good too,” Lord Dashlend said.

Grace thought she might die of embarrassment. But then, she also could not help but to be flattered by his noticing her eyes. Lady Margaret had said as much.

How funny it should be her eyes. All her life, she’d thought she’d been somehow cheated out of a blue color. She’d thought blue superior. Now she understood that Lord Dashlend did not find blue superior.

“I’ll go, I’ll go,” Patience said. “Grace, what was the first thing you noticed about Lord Dashlend?”

Grace had been fully expecting the question and had, therefore, composed an answer.

“Well, I would say his bearing. I was certain he was a gentleman, even though he was washed up on the beach with no coat.”

The sisters stared at each other, as if attempting to decide whether the answer would be a fact or fib. Serenity said softly, “I thought it would be his hair, he has very good hair.”

The other sisters nodded.

“It must be true, though,” Verity said. “Grace is very bad at fibbing.”

“Fact!” Valor said, handing Grace a yellow ticket.

“Duke,” Lady Margaret said, downing her brandy. “I have one—what is it you wish for your daughters?”

“That is all too easy, Lady Margaret,” the duke said. “I hope to get every last one of them out of my house with all speed.”

The shouts of fibber echoed throughout the room and the duke was promptly in possession of a blue ticket.

“This is how it starts, Dashlend,” the duke said. “They get you in the hole and you can never get out.”

This earned the duke a second blue ticket, though it was perfectly true.

The game went merrily on until Valor fell to a sulk over not being asked anything. Then the duke asked her if she was overtired. She said she’d never felt more awake in her life and was instantly named a fibber.

Mrs. Right came to collect her and take her to bed. Valor delivered a pretty curtsy to Lord Dashlend and she held Lady Margaret’s hand and said, “Goodnight, my friend. I am almost done writing you a letter and I’ll send it to you first thing in the morning. Also, Mrs. Wendover sends her deepest regards.”

“What a charming young person,” Lady Margaret said after she’d gone. “Well now, after that brandy I find I am quite in my cups. Dashlend, be so good as to call the carriage, and then pour me into it.”

*

Montclave had watched as the gentlemen entered the duke’s drawing room. In that first moment, he’d thought they did not stay very long over their port. But then, he noticed they all held glasses and the duke had a bottle in his other hand.

He supposed that was one of the advantages of being a duke. One might look over the various rules and procedures of society and discard them at will. He would not mind having that sort of power himself.

What followed was a game of some sort. It involved bits of blue and yellow colored paper and Montclave had no idea what game it was. All he could tell from it was that men got the majority of the blue tickets, while the ladies received mostly yellow tickets. Whatever it was, they seemed to find it very jolly.

It was rather too comfortable a scene. It was only the duke’s extended family attending this dinner, but for Dashlend and Lady Margaret. Even Lady Marchfield had attended, which gave some sort of societal stamp of approval. Though, he might never be able to work out why she’d left early with the butler in tow.

When Dashlend and Lady Margaret departed, he’d wondered if his cousin was somehow keeping the lady inebriated to gain her cooperation in some matter. Dashlend had supported her and then picked her up and put her in the carriage, as she did not seem as if she could do it herself. Perhaps the devil had designs on her house or hoped to be the sole benefactor of her will?

Worse, Lady Grace and a slew of sisters had followed them out to the pavement. Dashlend paid his compliments to them and then said, “Until tomorrow at Almack’s.”

As far as he could gather, they’d had some conversation about meeting there for the Wednesday ball. It was aggravating in the extreme, as none of those idiot patronesses had ever seen fit to send him a voucher, and certainly would not countenance it while he resided in Doanellen’s house. He’d already heard both Doanellen and Mrs. Featherby complain about it. Doanellen got one every year, but for this one. Mrs. Featherby claimed the patronesses were jealous.

The patronesses were many things, but jealous of Mrs. Featherby was not on that list.

Montclave watched the carriage set off and then jogged behind it, staying a good distance from it and keeping to the shadows so that he would not be spotted. He was determined to discover where Lady Margaret would be taken.

Then he did discover it. Lady Margaret was just now living in Dashlend’s house. Why, though? Was he after Lady Margaret’s money himself? Or had Dashlend somehow discovered that he, himself, had pressed Lady Margaret for money? It would be just like Dashlend to spitefully cut off that avenue of funds. That fellow would like it all too well if he were forced to return home for lack of it.

Montclave had slowly walked back to Bolton Street, considering his options. Dashlend was getting too cozy with Lady Grace. Dashlend had somehow moved their elderly cousin, Lady Margaret, into his house and out of reach.

He must get control of the situation. But how to do it?

Montclave was certain he would find no success in wooing Lady Grace unless she had firmly turned from Dashlend. That had to be accomplished first.

The most effective thing would be to convince Lady Grace that Dashlend preferred some other lady. There was nothing a woman despised more than to understand someone else was preferred. It put a woman’s back up like nothing else could.

Should he start a rumor?

No, that was too dangerous. If he sent round the idea that Dashlend was pursuing some lady or other, it would be well to remember that the lady had a father who would not be amused. That father would work very hard to discover the source of such talk.

He was not so stupid as to find himself on an early morning green, facing an outraged father.

The knowledge of Dashlend’s supposed preference must be subtly communicated to Lady Grace herself, not gossiped about all over Town.

Then it came to him, as the right idea always did when he kept his thoughts moving forward.

He would send two sets of flowers to Lady Grace. Only, one of those bouquets would appear to be mistakenly delivered. It would seem as if Dashlend had ordered two arrangements and the florist had made a mistake in the addresses to be used.

Both of the bouquets would arrive to the duke’s house, both would be from Dashlend. The one with the note for Lady Grace would be something pedestrian that indicated mild friendship. The one addressed to the duke’s house but with a note for another lady, Lady Lavender perhaps, would send the message of love.

Montclave paused, smiling into the night air. It would not only point to love, but there must be some hint toward Lady Grace’s insecurity. It must point out the other lady’s skill on a ballroom floor, perhaps.

Lady Grace would see that Dashlend sent his love to another lady, and it had only been the florist’s mistake to wrongly deliver the bouquet. She would feel she had discovered a secret, and it was not a secret that favored her.

There was only one flaw in the plan that he could see. What if Lady Grace were to order the flowers for the other lady forwarded on to their right destination?

That could be managed. She would not send them directly. She would send the flowers back to the florist, as what else could she do? It would be too humiliating to send them on to the lady, explaining what had happened. He could arrange things with the florist. He’d pay extra for the florist to take them back and forward them nowhere. Any florist would be happy with that proposal, as he could resell the flowers.

He must just find a florist who would take him on account.

Montclave whistled the rest of the way to Lord Doanellen’s house, satisfied that he was about to shake things up. When they settled, they were bound to settle in his favor.

*

Grace had thought she might like to skip an appearance at Almack’s altogether. After all, her father was agreeable to forgo it as he did not care for the patronesses’ idea of supper. He further thought it was not at all a necessary appearance for a duke’s daughter—they needed nobody’s approval. As for Grace, herself, she felt she did not require so many elevated matrons’ eyes examining her dancing and its grace. Or lack of it.

But then, Lord Dashlend had said he would attend and asked if she would too. Of course she would go. She would jump up and down in her bedchamber to steady herself, and then she would go.

If only the rules were not so strict. If only she could swan in, dance with Lord Dashlend and ignore everybody else.

She had made her curtsy to the patronesses, who had none too subtly inquired why they had not seen her the week before. Her dear papa explained that Grace had been struck down with a cold and did not wish to displease the ladies by appearing with a red nose.

They all nodded in sympathy and approval, as evidently a red nose would have been ill-received.

As they left the matrons behind, her father whispered, “As deep and thoughtful as rain puddles, that lot.”

Then, there he was, waiting by the cloak room. Lord Dashlend was waiting for her. She was certain that was what had brought him there.

He bowed. “Your Grace, Lady Grace.”

“Well met, Dashlend,” the duke said. “Now, I will give you a hint before you put your name down on my daughter’s card—we will on no account stay for that ridiculous excuse for a supper.”

“I see,” Lord Dashlend said. “Then I’d better take the first, if Lady Grace is agreeable.”

“I am most agreeable,” Grace said in a rush, and likely far too enthusiastically.

Lord Dashlend smiled. He penciled in his name and handed her a card as her father handed her cloak to a footman. “I took the liberty of retrieving a card.”

“Very efficient, Dashlend,” the duke said, laughing.

It was very efficient, Grace thought. And certainly it must be more evidence of his interest.

“Here we are,” her sister Felicity said, approaching them. She was accompanied by Mr. Stratton, who was looking in high spirits.

“My dear wife informed me that we must turn up in force once she was apprised that Lady Grace would attend this evening,” Mr. Stratton said. “Well, Dashlend, you survived Fact or Fib, so I suppose you can stand up to anything now.”

Lord Dashlend laughed. “A most interesting game,” he said.

“Will we see Lady Margaret?” Felicity asked.

This seemed to give Lord Dashlend pause. Then he said, “You would be hard-pressed to miss her, I think. Lord Harraby brings her.” At the mention of those two people, Grace saw the lord’s eyes widen as he looked past her. Softly, he said, “It is more astonishing than my imagination could conjure.”

Grace peeked over her shoulder. There indeed was Lady Margaret. Lord Harraby escorted her forward as she left a line of stunned patronesses in her wake. The lady had seemed to reach very far back into her wardrobe and retrieved a yellow striped damask gown with a short train that was lifted on either side to give the lady the appearance of her hips being four times their usual width.

“Here we go,” the duke said, chuckling. “She’s gone for panniers.”

Lord Harraby looked exceedingly proud to lead Lady Margaret through the throng, making way for her. It was well he did, as the lady did need room to get through.

“Here we all are,” Lady Margaret said. “Goodness, it is rather wonderful to have so many friends these days. My social calendar has really filled up.”

Grace could not help but be charmed by the lady, regardless of what interesting fashion she chose to wear.

“When I set eyes on Lady Margaret this evening,” Lord Harraby said, “I was transported back to my youth.”

Lady Margaret fanned herself. “Lord Harraby is most considerate of me. He has hired a giant of a fellow to carry me in and out of his carriage.”

“The lady deserves nothing less!” Lord Harraby said.

Grace thought that was a very sensible idea, as she did not see how Lord Harraby would accomplish the operation on his own. Especially not with the oversized dimensions of her dress.

“Lord Dashlend,” Lady Margaret said, “I wonder if you would retrieve a card for me.”

Lord Dashlend looked taken aback. “Ah, I see, you will dance?”

“Only the first with Lord Harraby,” Lady Margaret said. “He was quite insistent, you see. Look, I brought my dance fan.”

Lady Margaret unfurled a fan that had perhaps seen better days. It was covered in tiny writing, each fold outlining the dance steps for… dances that had been popular long ago.

“We’ve poured over it,” Lord Harraby said, jerking a thumb toward the fan, “it all came back to us as if it were yesterday.”

“I feel quite up to tossing aside my cane and taking to the floor, but perhaps I ought to save my steps,” Lady Margaret said.

“I’m saving my steps too,” Lord Harraby noted, no doubt the reason why somebody else must retrieve the lady’s card. “Your Grace, if you might carry those two chairs over there into the ballroom, we will sit until it is time for us to go forward in the endeavor.”

With that, the couple toddled off toward the ballroom.

Her father snorted and motioned to Mr. Stratton. They picked up two chairs that sat against the wall and followed the couple.

Lord Dashlend held out his arms to Grace and Felicity. “Shall we follow this circus?”

Grace laughed. “I feel we ought to ensure we are in Lady Margaret’s vicinity, in case she or Lord Harraby require assistance of some sort. I am rather afraid they will not know the steps.”

“Indeed, or have the stamina they are hoping for. Lady Margaret is my relation and living in my house, I must be certain she comes out of this unscathed. Let us keep the couple nearby the chairs Lord Harraby very boldly ordered the duke to carry in, lest they require them at some point.”

“I do so like interesting people,” Felicity said.

Lord Dashlend laughed and they followed their party into the ballroom.

The duke and Mr. Stratton had already situated Lady Margaret and Lord Harraby in their chairs. Lord Harraby looked longingly in Lady Margaret’s direction as he seemed to be sitting further away from her than he would like. However, her panniers demanded their own space.

The musicians were already tuning and the ball would soon begin.

“Lady Grace, Lord Dashlend, Your Grace,” Lady Lavender said, approaching them.

“Lady Lavender, well met,” Lord Dashlend said. “Do you know Mr. Stratton and Lady Felicity?”

“I’ve not had the honor,” Mr. Stratton said with a bow.

“A pleasure, Mr. Stratton, Lady Felicity.”

“Goodness, you are pretty,” Felicity said. “I suppose you must be this season’s diamond of the first water.” She looked mischievously at her husband and Mr. Stratton had the good grace to pink. When his unusual courtship of Felicity had begun, he’d pointed out another lady as the season’s diamond of the first water. Felicity had inquired why she was not thus named and Mr. Stratton had very ill-advisedly told her she could be a diamond of the second water—things had gone downhill from there.

Lady Lavender was looking elegant and graceful and all the things Lady Lavender was. She really was a diamond of the first water. Lord Dashlend was penciling in his name on her card, which very ridiculously gave Grace a pang. What else was he to do?

She did not know what he’d put himself down for, but she dearly hoped they would not dine together. Her papa might disdain the patronesses’ offerings at table, but it did permit for extended conversation.

Grace had never viewed herself as a lady who would fall victim to jealousy and envy, but whatever she felt just now, it was very like those two things.

The musicians gave the signal that the ball was to begin. Lady Lavender’s first partner came to collect her. Lord Harraby pulled Lady Margaret from her chair and she boldly flung away her cane. That item hit Lord Rasherby in the legs, but she did not seem to notice.

Lord Dashlend led Grace to their places.

The Duchess of Devonshire called the dance and the orchestra struck up. What followed was not a moment in time that Grace would soon forget.

Lady Margaret and Lord Harraby had no acquaintance whatsoever with the steps. This seemed to occur to them rather rapidly. Lady Margaret shrugged, Lord Harraby smiled. Then they proceeded to execute steps that had no relation whatsoever to what had been called, or the tempo being played. Grace presumed they were the steps memorized from a fold on her fan.

That, in itself, might not have posed an unsurmountable problem. That was, had those two people been in the ballroom alone. They were not, however.

Dancers dodged them, stared at them, leapt out of the way of Lady Margaret’s panniers, and some even kindly attempted to do something like the steps they were staggering through. Grace’s part of the line of dancers had devolved into some sort of unmanageable chaos, the only people seeming not to notice being the elderly couple who caused it.

Lord Dashlend had just grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the way of another surge forward by Lord Harraby. They both began to laugh uncontrollably. It was too ridiculous.

It was not many minutes, though, when it became apparent that Lady Margaret and Lord Harraby began to run out of steam.

As they attempted some sort of allemande, Lord Harraby shouted, “What do you think, my springtime? Have we acquitted ourselves?”

“Yes, indeed,” Lady Margaret said, “we have acquitted and now we may quit.”

The couple unceremoniously staggered out of the line, sending the other dancers into further disarray. Both of them appeared none too steady on their feet. Lord Dashlend hurried after them and steadied Lady Margaret as Grace’s father, who was guffawing at the whole spectacle, pushed forward a chair for Lord Harraby.

The couple sat down, heaving in breaths, as Lady Margaret’s panniers spread out like a bird taking flight.

Lord Dashlend returned to her. “My apologies, Lady Grace.”

“Whatever for, Lord Dashlend? If you can persevere through Fact or Fib, I suppose I can do the same through… what this was.”

They spent the rest of the dance laughing, though far more organized in their steps than they had been.

The rest of the ball was not half so interesting. Grace was engaged to dance with various gentlemen who were all very genial. They were not as genial as Lord Dashlend, however. She worked to make conversation and watch her steps so she did not falter, but spent more time looking at Lord Dashlend than anything else.

Sometimes he caught her looking and he smiled. Sometimes she caught him looking at her and she smiled. All in all, it was lovely.