Page 16 of Lady Graceless (A Series of Senseless Complications #2)

M rs. Right was not amused by the day’s events. How dare anyone impose on her Grace in such a manner? To pay such marked attention, only to prefer another lady? And then, to be the author of this florist mix-up? Had the man hired the stupidest florist in London?

It was enraging.

Mrs. Right did not know this Lady Lavender who was to receive roses, but she was certain the lady could not hold a candle to Grace Nicolet. She would not stand idly by while her dear Grace had been so cruelly humiliated.

No. Mrs. Agnes Right did not stand by when one of her girls was insulted. These girls were in her charge and she protected them as fiercely as she would her own. She’d not had her own, and so these girls had become her own. Lord Dashlend must pay for this insult. He must pay dearly. She would rip him limb from limb if she could.

As she could not accomplish that feat, Mrs. Right paced her quarters, thinking of what she could do. Grace had already elicited a promise that she would not meddle with Lord Dashlend’s grocery order or wine order or the clothes he sent out to the laundress.

What did she know about Lord Dashlend’s household? She knew he had a high-strung valet; Reynolds had done no end of complaining about Mr. Moreau. She knew Dashlend had just now Lady Margaret staying in his house, a lady of older years and even older fashion. She knew he seemed to love the boat he’d come near to sinking, as when he’d been at the inn he’d made all sorts of arrangements about it. She knew he was considered a Corinthian.

Certainly, something could be made of one of those things.

She might arrange to have one of his legs broken, thereby ending his days as a Corinthian. But she could not break a man’s leg on her own, she’d have to hire somebody. That did give her pause. Everybody knew that a secret was no longer a secret if more than one person knew about it. It was bound to get out that she was at the bottom of it.

Paying to have his boat hauled out to sea and set afire would be fitting and glorious, but it came with precisely the same risk.

Mrs. Right did not know what could be done regarding Lady Margaret, but something might come to mind.

Then, the first thing she could do arrived in her head. It might not be the last thing, but it was a place to start. Unlike Reynolds, Mr. Moreau was of an unsteady temperament. He was the type of fellow who might be set off.

Mrs. Right well knew that all gentlemen despised having to find a new valet. A valet was like a lady’s maid, privy to everything personal, and it was a hard road to find the right one and get comfortable with the arrangement. Even though Mr. Moreau was a silly sort, it seemed he’d been with Lord Dashlend a good amount of time.

Certainly, she could cause trouble there, and it would not be hard to do. She would simply place an advertisement in the newspapers for a valet to serve Lord Dashlend. She would carefully send out the news to certain quarters that the gentleman in the advertisement was Dashlend, and where he lived. There was nothing in the world that moved faster than gossip through servants’ circles. Every other person had a relative hanging about, looking for a situation.

Not only would the letters come flying in from across England, but the more ambitious fellows who were already haunting Town would turn up at the doorstep.

Mr. Moreau would go positively mad. He would at least pack his bags and be off, causing great inconvenience. At best, he might set Lord Dashlend’s house afire on his way out. After all, who really knew what an insulted and betrayed Frenchman would get up to?

Yes, it was a good plan and trumped the burlap bags of turnips she’d sent to Mr. Stratton.

Which of course she now regretted as it seemed she’d been mistaken in that.

She was not mistaken in this, though. She would get that advertisement in the newspaper for the morning edition and start spreading the word by dropping the hint to Mr. Cray, the butler next door. He was both chatty and supercilious, and considered himself graciously condescending—he’d tell all and sundry of the opportunity. There were those people who gloried in being the bearer of helpful news and the receiver of grateful thanks that might be the result of it. Mr. Cray was the emperor of the activity.

As well, she would send a copy of the advertisement to Lord Dashlend’s house as some kind of confirmation of purchase. With any luck, Lord Dashlend’s household would devolve into chaos on the morrow before the breakfast things had been cleared.

That dastardly lord was about to discover the perils of hurting and humiliating a Nicolet girl.

*

Montclave made his way through the late morning streets, irritated at having been collared by Mrs. Featherby before he left the house. That lady was forever sending him on errands that any footman could accomplish. She generally couched these requests with the idea that something must be hand delivered, or looked at carefully, or assessed with a critical eye, and could not be left to a footman. She liked to put herself forward as a woman of lofty standards and discernment for whom only the best would do, which she certainly was not.

This time, it was to be for tea. He must see Mr. Twining for a particular blend, which he’d written down as he never spent any time thinking about tea. He was a coffee man and found tea watery and insipid.

He made his way to the Strand and found the building easily enough as it was clearly marked with the Twining’s sign. He let himself into the shop, and immediately found himself face to face with Lady Margaret.

She was, as she always seemed to be, living in another time. Her skirts were far too wide and painfully embellished with all manner of silver braiding and glass baubles. Her bonnet reached for the sky, helped in that endeavor by two waving ostrich feathers. She was a veritable human chandelier.

“Oh it’s you,” she said, standing next to an elderly gentleman who Montclave believed was named Harraby.

Montclave bowed. “Lady Margaret, how charming to encounter you here. Lord Harraby, is it?”

“Yes, that’s my name. Who are you, by the by?”

It irked Montclave no end that he knew people’s names far more than anybody knew his.

“Baron Montclave,” he answered.

“Ah! The fellow who comes looking for money,” Lord Harraby said to Lady Margaret.

The lady nodded. “Do not bother today,” she said to Montclave, “I’ve not brought money, as I have a longstanding account with Mr. Twining. I stay with Lord Dashlend now, and I wished to purchase something as a treat for the staff.”

Of course, Montclave was perfectly aware that Lady Margaret was currently housed with his cousin. He pretended he was not aware, though.

“You are with Dashlend?” he said pleasantly. “That must be genial.”

Apparently, he hit the right note with that comment, as Lady Margaret waxed on about the wonders of Dashlend’s hospitality. Montclave smiled pleasantly as he was forced to hear about the superiority of that household’s fried eggs. All the while she spoke, a middle-aged and neatly dressed gentleman waited patiently for her attention.

Finally, she did give it to him. “My dear Mr. Twining, I wondered if you might fill one of your charming tins with my special blend. The usual amount, if you please.”

Mr. Twining nodded and set off on his task. Montclave pulled the note from his pocket that indicated what he was to purchase for Mrs. Featherby.

Lady Margaret glanced at it. “A rather pedestrian choice.”

Montclave did not answer, as he assumed it must be. It was for Mrs. Featherby, after all.

“We will not dally here, Lord Montclave. When I have my purchase, we must be off. There is ever so much to do to get Lord Dashlend properly settled.”

“We are quite in the midst of it,” Lord Harraby said, looking pleased. “It is our raison d’être these days. It’s put a real spring in our step.”

“To get Dashlend settled?” Montclave asked, in a tone as innocent as he could muster. Why? Why should that be of concern to these two old bats?

“Oh yes, we said, and I think quite rightly, that we must look about us. We must not conclude it is Lady Grace without looking about us,” Lady Margaret said.

“Only sensible to my mind,” Harraby said.

“Lord Harraby is full of good sense. So, we have looked about. It seems it is to be Lady Grace after all. We can see for ourselves that our Lord Dashlend will not be turned from her and we quite approve.”

“We are hoping something is said at Lady Montague’s ball this evening,” Harraby said, “and we plan to be on hand.”

“Naturally, I do hope I may be permitted to stay on in Dashlend’s house after the wedding. I do enjoy the company and I believe it has done me good,” Lady Margaret said.

“Lady Margaret, I again point out that Dashlend’s house is not the only place you might have company,” Harraby said with a ridiculous gleam in his eye.

Good God. What was he suggesting?

Lady Margaret tapped him with her fan. “Be off with that nonsense, Lord Harraby,” she said. “I am far too old for those sorts of bold hints.”

“Not in my eyes, you are not. You are a spring flower.”

Really, this was rather sickening. These two decrepit people were flirting with each other. If anything were to come of it, at least one of them would be dead before the wedding night was through. Maybe both of them.

Of course, there was every hope the lady had left something for him in her will, so perhaps a speedy trip into the ground was not an unwelcome idea.

“Spring flower, indeed. I will not countenance that with an answer, you old devil!” Lady Margaret said, blushing up to her ears.

Mr. Twining returned with a neat package wrapped in printed paper and tied with a silk ribbon. “Your special blend, Lady Margaret.”

“You are a dear man, Mr. Twining. The king of teas, to my mind,” Lady Margaret said.

Mr. Twining seemed to appreciate the sentiment and delivered an elegant bow.

Montclave said, “So you think Dashlend is to propose at Lady Montague’s ball?”

“I have every expectation of it,” Lady Margaret said. “I applaud the efforts that I and Lord Harraby made to ensure Lord Dashlend is happily settled. I suppose he is most grateful to us.”

“Let us be off, spring flower,” Lord Harraby said jocularly. “I must get you home before Dashlend begins to think I’ve made off with you to Gretna Green.”

Montclave did feel the bile rise in his throat over that picture. He bowed. “A pleasure to see you again, Lady Margaret. Lord Harraby, well met.”

Lady Margaret nodded vaguely in his direction and they made their way out of the shop. Before the door closed behind her, Lady Margaret looked over her shoulder and said, “I saw you take the silver salver, by the by.”

The door closed and he was left alone with Mr. Twining, who looked at him with brows raised.

Montclave shrugged. “Old age,” he said. “It does make a person nonsensical. Hopefully Harraby remembers where she lives, as I doubt she can recall addresses anymore.”

Mr. Twining did not reply to that idea. Montclave handed over his note. “I’m to get this for Mrs. Featherby, on Lord Doanellen’s account.”

Mr. Twining, though he did not travel in elevated circles, seemed to be all too aware of Mrs. Featherby and her paramour. He took the note with a look of distaste and went off to fulfill the order.

Montclave stared at the walls full of cabinets, filled with different sorts of tea. It looked like Viscount Petersham’s room for collecting snuff boxes, but it was all filled with tedious tea leaves.

What was he to do at Lady Montague’s ball? His flowers would have been delivered—had they been a deadly blow to Lady Grace’s feelings?

Perhaps she would decline to even attend?

That would be the best outcome he could think of.

But if she did attend, would Dashlend clear things up with her? And then propose?

How could he stop it? He had to ensure it never happened. If they became engaged, he did not see any practical way to undo it. Short of a murder, which he was entirely against as he had no wish to swing for it.

Mr. Twining returned with Mrs. Featherby’s order. It was in a plain brown sack. Not exactly the careful wrapping of Lady Margaret’s order.

“I send Mrs. Featherby my compliments,” Mr. Twining said, in a tone that indicated that he certainly did not, and would prefer her to move on to another tea merchant.

Montclave was not particularly offended. He did not send any compliments to Mrs. Featherby either. In any case, he had far more serious matters to consider than what a tea merchant thought about Lord Doanellen’s indecency.

Somehow, he had to stop an engagement that might be in the offing this very night.

*

Miles had been round the town all afternoon, ending with a stop at Rundell & Bridge. Should Lady Grace accept him, he planned to present her with a small gift as a token of his regard.

At least, he’d planned on a small gift. However, when he’d spotted a rather glorious necklace of green garnets branching out around an exquisite emerald, he’d known it was just the thing. It would set off her eyes marvelously, it was delicate and not too heavy or overbearing, and it was suited to her.

Mr. Rundell had placed it in a slim green velvet box that would slip easily into Miles’ waistcoat, ready to be pulled out when the time was right.

Now he headed toward Chesterfield Street, intending to relax, eat something, assure himself that his clothes for the evening were in order, and think. He would spend some time alone in the quiet of his study with a strong pot of coffee, contemplating the night that was to come. It was to set the course of his life, and that deserved careful reflection.

He was startled to find Wainwright standing at the top of the street. He was even more startled to see his butler hurtling toward him. He’d never seen his butler run—it was not a graceful operation and might very well be the first time he’d tried it out. As the fellow drew near, Miles could see that he looked near panicked. He briefly glanced down the street toward his house, wondering if it had caught fire or collapsed in a pile of bricks.

“My lord, thank the heavens you have returned. We are in a topsy-turvy just this minute.”

“What on earth has gone on?” Miles asked. “Lady Margaret hasn’t done something… odd?”

“Well of course she has, but that is the very least of it!”

“You’d better prepare me for whatever it is I am to face before I get there. What has got you looking as if you are ready to expire?”

Wainwright took in a long slow breath to compose himself. “The flowers came. That was the first thing.”

Miles smiled. “Allow me to guess—Lord Harraby has sent Lady Margaret red roses? The staff are all fanning themselves over a lady of a certain age daring to have an admirer?”

Wainwright looked at him as if he were mad. “Nobody cares what Lady Margaret gets up to with Lord Harraby. The two of them are as old as the hills—how much could they get up to?”

“Who were the flowers for then?” Miles asked, certain he was to be told some young adventurer was attempting to seduce one of his housemaids. If that were the case, he’d make quick work of ending the attempt. No good could come of it, for the housemaid at least.

“They are for you! Piles and piles of them. Plants, too. The florist had to bring them in a cart.”

Miles paused. He did not know why anybody would send him a single flower, much less a cartful of flowers and plants.

Then he did get an idea. “You do not suppose they’ve been sent up from the estate? Perhaps my father is determined I do something more extensive with the garden?”

Wainwright lowered his voice so he could not be heard by a gentleman passing by. “He would not send what has been sent. It is the type of flora that is frightening, my lord. “Marigolds, Columbine, Lavender, Thistle, Rhododendron, and Basil.”

Miles leaned back in his saddle. That was quite the message. He ran through the various meanings. Sorrow, folly, distrust, defiance, danger, and hatred.

He would almost think Montclave must be at the bottom of it, though he could not see how the fellow afforded such an outlay of money. Unless, of course, he managed to slip past the men left to guard Lady Margaret’s house and had made off with some of her silver.

But no, Montclave never declared outright war. He was shifty, he did things on the sly, all the while with a smile on his face. He would never challenge directly and give his hand away. Especially with no purpose in mind other than an insult.

“Rhododendron and basil, my lord! Danger and hatred. What can it mean?”

“I do not know. Perhaps they’ve gone to the wrong address?”

Wainwright shook his head vigorously. “They were addressed to you, my lord.”

“No note with them?”

“No, and the fellow who pulled up with the cart would say nothing. He looked frightened witless, though. I do not know who he has dealt with, but he was shaken over it.”

This certainly was a mystery, and not one that he could solve without more information.

Wainwright pulled a folded note from his coat pocket. “Then this came on the heels of the flowers, though I do not know if it is in regard to them.”

Miles took the paper and broke the seal.

You are a terrible person and I hope bad things happen to you.

He handed the note to Wainwright. “I think it must be connected somehow,” he said. “Though I cannot make heads or tails of this.”

Wainwright read the one line of the note. “Someone wishes you ill, my lord. You do not suppose, what I mean is, far be it for me to suggest…”

“It is not Montclave,” Miles said. “None of this is his style.”

Wainwright nodded thoughtfully. “Then there is the other thing, my lord.”

“The other thing?” How could there be another thing?

Wainwright’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Lady Margaret is just now interviewing a valet in the drawing room.”

“What does Lady Margaret want with a valet?” Miles asked. “Has Harraby asked her to manage it for him? Deuced odd if he has—only a gentleman will know what’s wanted in a valet.”

“No, no, that is not how it’s come about, though I hardly know how it has come about. My lord, if you wished for a new valet I could perfectly understand why—Moreau is temperamental and tiresome. But perhaps it might have been done in a more… discreet fashion.”

“I am well aware that he is temperamental and tiresome, but I am used to him. Why would I want to bring in a new valet?” Miles asked.

“I cannot presume to know, but you did place an advertisement for one. I did get my hopes up, but perhaps you were assisting another gentleman?”

“I placed no advertisement,” Miles said, wildly puzzled.

“I cannot understand it,” Wainwright said. “A notice with a copy of the advertisement for a valet, franked as fully paid, was hand-delivered a few hours ago. It was not even folded up, a footman read it and then of course shared the news below stairs as fast as his legs could carry him there. It was not a moment before Mr. Moreau had his hands on it. And then, a fellow turned up at the door in response to it.”

“He was sent away and told of the mistake, I presume.”

Wainwright shuffled his feet on the pavement. “Well, you see, my lord, it was just then that Lady Margaret was let out of a carriage by Lord Harraby. Lady Margaret very kindly purchased her special blend of tea for the staff, by the by—prepared by Mr. Twining himself. She took in what was occurring and insisted on standing in for you through what was sure to be an onerous task. There have been several fellows turned up since, and she’s insisted on seeing all of them! I told her it was not the thing, but last I heard her in there she was asking a fellow what his thoughts were on Shrewsbury Cake. Why? He is not a cook.”

“Lady Margaret has been interviewing valets that I did not advertise for, and someone has sent me flowers and plants indicating their hatred and distrust, and a note claims I am a terrible person. What is going on here?”

“I do not know, my lord.”

Miles had a sudden thought that really gave him pause. “What has Moreau been doing through all this?”

His valet was not likely to manage such a surprise with any sort of stalwartness.

Beads of sweat sprung up on Wainwright’s brow. “That is another thing—nobody knows. I would have thought he’d be downstairs, throwing those prospective valets out the door and kicking up like a bad-tempered toddler. But no, he has disappeared up the stairs, locked himself in your chambers, and we only hear the occasional thump.”

“Good God, I’d best get in there before he hangs himself or sets my house on fire.”

“My thoughts exactly, my lord. A quiet Moreau must be a dangerous Moreau. It is too strange to be otherwise—he is never quiet!”

Miles spurred his horse. This situation was unaccountable. He’d been off on pleasant errands and returned to a house in an uproar. Who was behind this?