Page 15 of Lady Graceless (A Series of Senseless Complications #2)

G race watched Lord Dashlend set off from the road and across the grass at a trot, quickly picking up speed to a gallop. He was an expert horseman and a pleasure to watch. As for where Lord Montclave went, she did not know nor did she particularly care.

“It seems that Grace has two suitors, Papa,” Patience said.

“I certainly do not,” Grace said. “Nothing at all has been said.”

Patience ignored this for the fan-waving that it was. “Which do you prefer?” she asked the duke.

“I’ll leave it up to Gracie,” the duke said. “If my collection of nonsensical daughters cannot reasonably pick out a mate for life, I’d wonder what their governess was doing all these years.”

Grace laughed. “Papa, Miss Pynchon was only with us for a few months. Remember? She disappeared one day and just left a note.”

Both Patience and Verity doubled over in laughter. Patience said, “It only said ‘ GOODBYE .’

“That’s right,” the duke said. “I forgot she did not last long. Well, I’m sure our Mrs. Right has packed some sense into your heads about such things. Felicity seemed to do all right for herself.”

“I favor Lord Dashlend,” Patience said. “For one, we met him first and while it was very foolish to become shipwrecked, it was at least interesting. For another, I do not care for Lord Montclave. Why? He doesn’t laugh. What are we to do with a fellow who doesn’t laugh?”

“It’s my understanding,” Verity said, “that people can be taught to laugh.”

“I don’t believe it,” Patience said. “And anyway, who has the time to bother with it? It’s the sort of thing one learns as a child.”

Grace did not participate much in the long debate about Lord Dashlend and Lord Montclave. There was no reason that she should. Her thoughts felt very settled on the matter. Lord Dashlend was superior to Lord Montclave, as Lord Dashlend was superior to all other gentlemen.

In any case, she would see them both at the ball on the morrow. She had high hopes that Lord Dashlend found her in the foyer first.

She planned on jumping in her bedchamber for at least an hour before she set off for the ball to be sure her head would cooperate with her feet. She had acquitted herself well enough at Almack’s, but at Lady Montague’s ball there would not be the distraction of Lady Margaret and Lord Harraby to cover any little missteps she may have made.

Everything must be perfect.

*

Montclave left the park irritated. He’d been lingering and looking in the park for days and just when he spotted the duke’s carriage, Dashlend made an appearance. Apparently, his cousin had been told when to come.

It was clear enough that the duke favored his cousin. It was also clear enough that the duke leaned heavily to the eccentric. He’d thought to approach their carriage on the duke’s side, rather than go directly to Lady Grace, thinking that would somehow ingratiate him. It would have, had the duke been a more regular sort of man. But it had not.

He entered Doanellen’s house, only to find Mrs. Featherby lounging in the drawing room. He forced himself to be cheerful and speak of the weather, and then hightailed it up the stairs to his bedchamber before she could wax on about something she saw in a shop that Doanellen ought to buy her.

As he paced back and forth, he thought through what must happen next. He briefly considered ideas to keep Dashlend away from Lady Montague’s ball, or at least make him late so he would not be lurking in the foyer. The only thing that came to him was loosening his horse’s shoes, but that was associated with too much peril if he were caught.

He would have to depend on the flowers scheme doing the job and turning Lady Grace away from Dashlend. Then it would not matter if he were in the foyer or not. The deliveries had been arranged, as he’d finally found a florist on a side street who was happy to believe in the integrity of the credit of a well-dressed baron. This very afternoon, two arrangements would be delivered at the same time—one of yellow daisies, addressed to Lady Grace and speaking of friendship, the other of pink roses addressed to Lady Lavender and speaking of new love.

The note to Lady Grace would say, “To new friendships.”

The note allegedly for Lady Lavender would say, “To the most graceful lady at the ball. I allow the flowers to speak for themselves.”

Lady Lavender’s flowers would seem to be misaddressed, putting Lady Grace into an exceedingly uncomfortable position. Not only would she believe that she’d accidentally peeked into Dashlend’s real inclinations, but that Dashlend admired Lady Lavender’s grace. A sore spot for a lady who had been named Grace, but was lacking in it. Then, Lady Grace must return the arrangement to the florist. The florist had already been told to expect it and keep the flowers for himself for resale. The shopkeeper did not pretend to understand the thing, but was led to believe it was a typical gambit for a dandy of the ton . The fact that the fellow had believed he was a dandy said all too clearly that he did not know the first thing about it.

Really, he did not see how the flowers could fail. If he were a lady and received those two arrangements from a gentleman, he would be irate.

There was a soft knock on the door. “Enter,” he said.

One of Doanellen’s footmen came in with a letter on a silver salver. “This just arrived, my lord. The messenger said it is from your dowager and must be delivered upon arrival.”

Montclave took the letter and dismissed the boy. He tore it open. His mother would not have written if there was not news. What had she found out?

Son—

I write this in haste. It is told to me that Dashlend has written his father. The earl is in such high spirits over it that he has risen from his bed and talks to all in sundry about it. Dashlend wrote him about his near-miss at sea and how it has given him perspective, and how he has come to recognize his duty to the family. Dashlend went so far as to mention a certain Lady Grace Nicolet, daughter of a duke. It seems as if a proposal is in the offing. Do not allow it to occur.

Your ever-hopeful mother.

Montclave laid the letter down. He had not expected things to move quite so fast. Dashlend had, for all intents and purposes, made a declaration to his father. How long would it be before he made a declaration to Lady Grace herself?

His cousin might propose at Lady Montague’s ball. After all, what was stopping him?

And if he did, would that not collapse any ideas he may have stirred up in Lady Grace with the flowers’ ruse? Would not the truth come out? That Dashlend had not sent either of those posies?

He wracked his mind for an idea of what else he could do, but nothing came to him. He realized he’d have to fall back on his mother’s oft communicated counsel—sometimes, one must just go into a situation and look for the opportunities.

Baron Montclave would be eyes wide, looking for an opportunity.

*

Miles had made up his mind—if Lady Grace would have him, he would wed. How could it be otherwise? She was the most charming lady alive in both looks and manner. He’d been so struck by her the moment he laid eyes on her. It was not at all sensible or careful, but it was real all the same. Her family was exceedingly odd, but he liked them very well and would be happy to be connected to them. They might go on eccentric, but Lady Margaret was right about them, they were a family of good character. For that matter, he could not very well turn his nose up regarding a little eccentricity when he had Lady Margaret on display.

It was funny that he now viewed the married state so differently than he had in the past. When he’d thought of it before, there was no particular lady associated with it. That had run his thoughts toward boredom and duty. A wedding was just something to be accomplished, like seeing that the wine cellar was in good order, or the tenants were both paying and content, or arranging to have a leaky roof repaired.

As he’d floated on his wrecked boat for two days, it was as if he’d traveled the River Styx, and then been pulled from the underworld into a new age, a new era. And then, if the fates had a hand in his survival, as surely they must have, Lady Grace was waiting for him on that beach.

He had originally, when his thoughts began to travel toward marriage, counseled himself to be cautious. To look around. To see if there was anyone else he preferred.

There was not. How could there be? There would never be, and he would be a consummate fool to let her get away. That idea really spurred him on. How many gentlemen had dithered with their thoughts until it was too late? They finally came to their conclusion to find the lady had accepted another? A lady as perfect as Lady Grace did not drift round long before somebody moved in to secure her.

“Moreau,” he said, as his valet fussed with his dressing table, “I will wear my best coat to Lady Montague’s ball on the morrow. See that it’s in good order.”

Moreau slowly laid down a brush. “See that it is in good order?” he said, his tone full of faint outrage. “What does the great Lord Dashlend think Moreau does all day, if it is not to keep his things in good order? Or perfect order, if one is to be accurate?”

“No need to get on your high horse about it.”

Moreau laughed. “Moreau is amused that anybody imagines he owns a horse, much less a high horse. No, poor Moreau does not have such luxuries.”

“I see. So if you had a horse, you would ride him regularly.”

Moreau sniffed. “Perhaps. But we will never know, as Moreau will go in the carriage.”

Miles smiled to himself. Moreau made very free with his carriage and delighted in being seen round the town, peering out of it.

“This best coat idea,” Moreau said thoughtfully, “is there some reason for it? I do not recall you ever going to great lengths to impress Lady Montague.”

“There is a lady I wish to impress, though it is not Lady Montague. It is Lady Grace.”

“Impress how? How impressed is she to be?” Moreau asked suspiciously.

“Impressed enough to accept me, I hope,” Miles said.

“Mon Dieu,” Moreau said. “Lord Dashlend comes to the great city of London, full of ladies everywhere, and he goes right to the strangest family in England.”

“I do not think it is your place to provide those sorts of opinions,” Miles said sternly.

“Of course not, my lord. Poor Moreau, only a valet, cannot have opinions. But there is one opinion that shall not be wrenched from my breast! I will never stay in a house with that duke, because that duke has a valet I would like to smother in his sleep! Have I received any note of thanks for returning his oldest set of clothes looking better than they did when they were foisted upon me? No I have not!”

Miles stared at his valet. The man really was impossible. However, he was in too high spirits to be bothered about it. “You ought to go below stairs and calm yourself with a cup of tea,” he said.

Moreau shook his head sadly and did as he was bid. Cook would shortly be hearing all about the oldest set of clothes and the barbaric English failure to send a note of thanks. As the cook was French too, and they delighted in commiserating with one another over the inferior English, they should both be happily occupied for at least an hour over it.

After the door closed, Miles sat on the balcony overlooking the garden, thinking about what he would say to Lady Grace. His whole future would hang on that moment, and he had to get it right.

*

Everyone had gathered in the drawing room after their ride in the park and a tea tray and rather expansive tray of cakes and biscuits had come in. Cook had gone so far as to make his famous miniature apple cakes with a generous coating of icing. Mrs. Right told them the cook was in a celebratory frame of mind on account of the departure of Mr. Button.

Very shortly after this communication, a letter arrived for the duke from Lady Marchfield. It was almost as if the very mention of Mr. Button had conjured a missive from the ether.

The duke tore it open and scanned its contents.

“Well now, it seems our Mr. Button has been satisfactorily settled in a house full of regular people, which we are not.”

“Do we wish to be regular, Papa?” Valor asked, rearranging Mrs. Wendover’s pelisse, given to her by Mr. Stratton the season before. As she did so, Nelson watched longingly, no doubt wishing to get hold of the stuffed rabbit and make off with her.

“We are a ducal family, Valor,” the duke said. “We do not need or want to become some sort of pedestrian regular people. Your aunt has that stance well in hand, to everyone’s boredom and irritation.”

Grace thought that was all perfectly true. Though she did, at times, feel sorry for Lady Marchfield. The lady did really believe all the precepts she flung round, as grim and tedious as they always were.

Grace had written her a note the day before, just a pleasant one to smooth things over. Lady Marchfield had answered, claiming it was not Grace’s fault that she had a lunatic for a father.

“What happened today in the park?” Serenity asked. “We saw Lord Dashlend and Lord Montclave at your carriage when we hung out the windows, but we could not hear what was said.”

“They were both very pleasant,” Grace said, availing herself of one of the tiny apple cakes.

“What Gracie means to say,” the duke said laughing, “is that she’s got two fish on the hook. We await her reeling in the right fish.”

“Papa!” Grace said.

“Lady Margaret wrote me back,” Valor said, “and she says she does not know of any way to keep Grace home forever. But I had an idea. Grace, if you marry Lord Dashlend, why cannot he come and live with us? We could give him one of the extra rooms. It would be tiresome, but we would put up with it to keep you at home.”

“He won’t like it,” Winsome said. “Remember? Mr. Stratton stays in the same room with Felicity all night. And probably stares at her while she’s sleeping.”

Valor sighed. “I guess Lord Dashlend could stay in Grace’s room. If that’s really necessary.”

“I wonder if Lord Dashlend has scars, like Mr. Stratton does,” Serenity said. “You could tell us, Grace, once you’ve had a look under his clothes.”

“That is quite enough nonsensical talk,” Grace said.

It was probably a hopeless scolding, as once her sisters got on to a subject, they would examine it backward and forward.

Fortunately, Charlie took that moment to come into the drawing room, almost disappeared behind two large flower arrangements.

“What have we here?” the duke asked. “The two fish on a hook both having the same idea?”

Grace did not know who had sent the flowers, she only hoped one was from Lord Dashlend. She did not much care who the other arrangement was from.

Charlie set them down and went to look for two suitable vases. Grace and her sisters gathered round them. There was an arrangement of yellow daisies, and an arrangement of pink roses. Naturally, she put her hopes on roses from Lord Dashlend.

“Open the note with the daisies first, Grace,” Patience said. “Save the best for last.”

“I ought to read the notes first,” the duke said, “but I can well guess where the land lies so go ahead. Daisies first.”

Grace fumbled with the folded note tucked into the array of daisies.

To new friendship—Dashlend

“New friendship?” Winsome said. “What does that mean? What does he want a friend for?”

Grace had not the first idea. It seemed a rather… limp… message to send along with flowers. Though, it matched the daisies meaning. She had hoped Lord Dashlend might feel more than friendship.

The duke laughed heartily. “He takes the slow and cautious road, I see. And let me guess, Montclave has sent the roses. That fellow throws his hat in the ring and caution to the wind.”

Grace sighed. “I think I do not care for over-caution, Papa.”

“Now, don’t let it bring you down. Dashlend is a sensible man, and that is not altogether a bad thing. He’ll prove to have a care for a wife’s wellbeing. Let him work his way up to roses over time. I suspect he’s dipping his toe in the water to get an idea of how you view it.”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought… well, that is different, then,” Grace said, much cheered by the idea. She could simply express her enthusiasm for the daisies, thereby hinting he ought to take a step further. A step further with all haste, if she could subtly communicate such a thing.

Yes, of course that must be right. Lord Dashlend was a real man, not some sort of overwrought hero from one of her novels. Surely it was right that he take things step by step. It would have been foolish to do otherwise, and Lord Dashlend was not foolish.

“All right,” the duke said, “let us see what ridiculous thing Montclave has written with those roses. Certainly it must be from him. He shoots too high and too fast, but I think that is the sort of fellow he is—a foolhardy Icarus about to melt his wings.”

“You do not like him at all, Papa,” Valor said, wrestling Mrs. Wendover out of Nelson’s mouth.

“Not particularly.”

Grace could not care less what Lord Montclave had written, but she supposed she’d better find it out. She unfolded the note tucked into the pink roses.

Lady Lavender—the most graceful lady in London. I allow the flowers to speak for themselves. Dashlend.

Grace dropped the note as if it were on fire. “I do not understand this,” she murmured.

“What does he say?” the duke asked. “Has he foolishly professed his undying love?”

Valor laughed. “That would be foolish—none of us even like him very much.”

“No,” Grace said slowly, examining both the note and the address, “the arrangement is addressed to me, but the note itself is addressed to…”

She could hardly bear to say it.

“To who, Grace? Certainly not to one of us, unless he’s been so deranged as to send Papa flowers,” Patience said.

“It is addressed to Lady Lavender,” Grace said, perceiving what must have happened. The florist received two orders, and in his haste sent them both to the same address. “The note says Lord Dashlend views Lady Lavender as the most graceful lady in London. He allows the flowers to speak for themselves.”

“Lord Dashlend?” Winsome exclaimed. “Why should Lord Dashlend send flowers here that are supposed to go to somebody else?”

“And why should he send flowers to somebody else?” Winsome asked. “Pink roses, too.”

“I could just cry and I do not even know what’s happened,” Serenity said, dabbing at her eyes.

“It seems there was simply a mix-up,” Grace said, trying very hard not to weep with Serenity. “The florist has made a mistake. The daisies were for me… for friendship. The roses were meant to be delivered to Lady Lavender and the florist accidentally sent both arrangements here.”

“Let me see that note,” the duke said.

Grace handed it over, though she knew very well that her father would not see anything in it that she had not seen herself.

The duke examined it and laid it on a table. “Does not make a lick of sense. I am not blind, I know what I’m looking at when I look at a young gentleman. No reason for Dashlend to go sending roses to Lady Lavender.”

“But he has done,” Grace said. “Why should he not? Lady Lavender is everything genial and she is pretty, and she is good at nearly everything in the world. She is graceful, which I already know he values. She is a diamond of the first water. Why should I have supposed that Lord Dashlend preferred me over the glorious Lady Lavender?”

“Because he does,” the duke said.

“I fear you are mistaken, Papa,” Grace said. “Well, goodness, what a day. I think I will just repair to my room and lie down for a while. I am developing a headache. A rest will cure me, I’m sure. We will just return the roses to the florist so they might correct their mistake. Now, nobody is to bother me in my room, as that will not help my headache.”

With that, Grace hurried from the drawing room. She could not bear the pitying looks from her sisters, nor her father’s unwillingness to believe what was right in front of them.

Everything had been so wonderful and full of promise and then she’d read that note. It was a crushing blow, as if the note had stolen the air from her lungs. In that instant, everything she thought was happening had been ripped from her, leaving her with the awful and sad truth. Lord Dashlend had merely been friendly, or amusing himself.

She should have known! Mrs. Right had warned them all, over and over, about London people. Grace Nicolet could not compare to Lady Lavender, she was not of the same caliber, she was not accomplished. And, to top it off, she had two left feet, which Lord Dashlend had been early informed of.

Perhaps he’d been so friendly because it would not occur to him that she would imagine herself worthy of anything more serious. He’d not had to caution himself, or worry that he led a lady on, because it would be too absurd for her to imagine it.

There was a quick knock on the door and Mrs. Right hurried through it. Though Grace had warned her sisters from following her, of course Mrs. Right would not be put off.

“There, love, what’s happened?” she said, coming to the bed and chafing her hand.

Between fits of weeping, Grace poured out the whole story of the misdirected flowers and her misdirected thoughts about Lord Dashlend.

Mrs. Right’s expression grew darker the more she heard of it. Grace could not fail to recall what had happened to Mr. Stratton at the hands of their housekeeper last season, when it looked as if he’d misled Felicity about his intentions.

“Mrs. Right,” she said, “you must promise me you are not to meddle in Lord Dashlend’s grocery order, or make him an enemy to his wine merchant, or have his laundress donate all his clothes to a charity.”

Mrs. Right delicately raised her brows. “Certainly not, dove. Now I suppose you really do have a headache. I will have one of the maids bring up a cold cloth for your brow and a cup of tea with the smallest drop of laudanum. That will allow you to sleep for a few hours and things will look better for you when you wake up.”

Grace nodded. She did not really think she would feel better after sleeping, but just now sleeping would be a welcome escape. She’d been exceedingly foolish, perhaps even conceited and entertaining an overblown opinion of her charms. At least she might awaken with more sense than she’d had so far.