Page 18 of Lady Graceless (A Series of Senseless Complications #2)

M iles could not work out what he’d just witnessed. The duke had led Lady Grace away and he was left with Lady Margaret, Lord Harraby, and Montclave.

It had been such an odd encounter. The duke looked almost unhappy to see him. Lady Grace was… he did not really know. She had smiled on occasion, but it had seemed somehow forced.

He did say he would wait for them in the great hall. Why did they seem the slightest bit annoyed that he had?

Perhaps it was all in his imagination. There was something very fraught about knowing one was hours from proposing. Perhaps it had affected him in some way.

Perhaps they had only left so abruptly to get away from Montclave.

Lady Margaret bounced up and down on her toes, her ostrich feathers waving back and forth. “Is this to be it, Dashlend? Is this to be the momentous evening?”

Miles’ eyes widened. Really, there was no amount of indiscretion Lady Margaret would not dare.

“Now, do not worry that we talk out of turn, Dashlend,” Lord Harraby said. “Montclave here knows all about it.”

“Does he?” Miles asked. He did not like that idea at all. Why should they have spoken to Montclave about anything, much less his personal business?

“We encountered Lord Montclave at Mr. Twining’s establishment,” Lady Margaret said. “I was determined to purchase some tea for your household staff. They have all been so kind.”

Miles was well aware of the tea purchase. That did not explain how or why Lady Margaret would have revealed any of his personal aims. She must encounter people everywhere, all the time, is that what she was in the habit of doing?

“Lady Margaret was so good as to inform me that you intend on proposing to Lady Grace,” Montclave said drily. “They are fingers crossed that tonight is to be the momentous occasion.”

“Lady Margaret,” Miles said, “I have communicated no such ideas.”

“Ha, but that is just it!” Lord Harraby said. “We have been busy observing.”

“And deducing,” Lady Margaret said, nodding vigorously.

“You are most welcome in my house, Lady Margaret,” Miles said gravely, “but I must ask you to steer clear of predicting anything I may or may not do. Now, I will go into the ballroom. There are other ladies who wait for me to put myself down for a set. Other ladies, who I may or may not be interested in.”

Miles turned and strode off. Of course, not before hearing Lady Margaret say, “Poor lad, he’s got a case of the lovestruck nerves.”

“No doubt,” Lord Harraby answered.

Miles did not quite hear what Lord Harraby said next, but it might have been some mention of his own lovestruck nerves. Miles had high hopes the lord was planning on taking Lady Margaret off his hands sometime in the near future.

He could not say if he had himself fallen victim to lovestruck nerves. He did not think so, in any event. What he was sure of though, was that this entire day was like a dream. Dreams so rarely made sense and were one odd scene strung to the next. That was exactly what this day had been like.

Nevertheless, he maintained high hopes that the very end of this day would conclude in his favor.

He patted the pocket that held the necklace he’d purchased for Lady Grace. His visit to Rundell and Bridge had been the last usual thing he’d experienced.

There was nothing to do but steady on. He knew his purpose and was determined to accomplish it.

*

Montclave was not at all fooled by Dashlend’s protestations that he might be interested in other ladies aside from Lady Grace. In fact, his reaction rather told the tale. Dashlend had been made uncomfortable that Lady Margaret had guessed his plans.

The lord doth protest too much.

It was all well and good to be certain of which way the wind blew. But what was he going to do about it? How would he keep them apart to prevent it from happening? Even if he could devise something to stop it this night, what about the morrow and the morrow and the morrow?

What was a permanent solution?

Might he compromise Lady Grace in some way?

No, he did not see how he could do it without landing in the bad books of her duke. Or worse, landing on a dueling green.

He’d already done what he could to reduce Lady Grace’s estimation of Dashlend by sending those flowers addressed to Lady Lavender. It seemed to have worked, too. Lady Grace’s manner had changed toward Dashlend and the duke seemed even more changed.

Would it hold though? If Dashlend proposed, would not the whole ruse come out? Lady Grace would remain forever mystified over who was the author of the scheme, though Dashlend would probably guess at it. The end result was all that mattered though—Dashlend would deny he sent them, and Lady Grace would probably believe him.

What would his mother advise? What would the dowager do?

Montclave did not know, except to know one thing—she would take drastic measures to stop an engagement. The dowager never allowed herself to be defeated. The only setback of any consequence she’d ever experienced was when Dashlend was born. Her ideas of her son becoming the next earl had been sunk. And yet, she refused, even at this late date, to consider herself entirely defeated in that plan.

It was just that now, all her hopes were pinned on what he himself would do next.

The orchestra was tuning. He searched the ballroom for Lady Grace and she was not hard to find. She was the prettiest lady attending and had drawn to her side a bevy of admirers like bees to a hive.

He made his way over.

As he led Lady Grace away from the callow youths who’d encircled her, he could not help but to notice that the duke did not appear very approving of him. He did not make too much of it, as the duke did not seem particularly approving of Dashlend either.

The ball would begin with a cotillion, which would afford some little time for talking. He must make the most of it.

As they completed the circle and moved to the allemande, he said, “Lady Margaret is in high spirits this evening, though I imagine her hopes will be dashed—it does not seem as if Lady Lavender attends.”

He watched her expression closely. There was no doubt the statement had affected her. Mightily, though she worked to hide it.

“Goodness, I did not know Lady Margaret was so fond of Lady Lavender that her hopes would be dashed by the lady’s absence.”

“It is not for herself that she hopes for,” Montclave said. Then he stuttered just the smallest bit and attempted to appear embarrassed to have said something he ought not have said. “I am sorry, I speak out of turn. I was under the impression that Dashlend’s own hopes were widely known. Lady Margaret has taken a great interest in his happiness.”

“Yes, of course, she would do,” Lady Grace said, her complexion a deal more pale than it had been.

“I suppose they will make quite the dashing couple,” Montclave pressed on. “Anybody who has seen them dance together must own it. They are both exceedingly graceful—two swans on a lake, as it were.”

Montclave suppressed a smile. It was a nice touch to prey on Lady Grace’s own insecurities. She doubted her own grace on the ballroom floor. Really, he thought his mother would be proud of that ingenious stroke.

Something in Lady Grace’s manner changed, as if she gathered all her fortitude together. “Yes, of course they will appear very well suited,” she said resolutely.

“Ah well, I think the rest of us mere mortals must just struggle on as best we can,” he said.

Lady Grace nodded and Montclave was convinced that she was convinced of Dashlend’s inclination toward Lady Lavender.

The question was, how long would it hold?

*

Grace felt as if she’d been wounded, and as much as she tried to cover and treat the wound so it might begin to heal, the bandage was ripped away again and again.

Not even just ripped away—ripped away and then scalding water and piles of salt poured over it. She’d worked very hard to maintain an appearance of equanimity all through her dance with Lord Montclave.

She supposed this was how it would be from now on. Everybody would express their admiration for the dashing couple—Lord Dashlend and Lady Lavender.

If there was anything at all bright about the evening, it was that Lady Lavender did not attend. She would at least not be forced to view the couple. Not yet, in any case.

She must hope that when she was forced to see them together, she had gained more peace than she was in receipt of at just this moment.

Grace had moved through the sets in almost a dreamlike state. It was very hard to make herself amusing and she was afraid she was not a very genial partner.

How could she be? Every minute that passed brought closer the real test of the evening. She would dance the last set with Lord Dashlend and then he would lead her into supper. She was counting on her father to note her discomfort in the dining room, and certainly she would be so, and take her home abruptly.

It was one of the lovely things about her Papa—he would not give a toss for what anybody, including Lord Dashlend, would think about it. He would happily leave Lord Dashlend to sit alone, entertaining himself, if he sensed the slightest whiff of unhappiness in his daughter.

Just now, Lord Kendrick, a baron from Hertfordshire, was working hard to make conversation.

“It is my first season,” the lord said. “My father does not really approve of outlaying so much money for a London season, but my mother pointed out that if he didn’t loosen the purse strings for it, I’d end up wedding Miss Granger. She is from our neighborhood, you see.”

“Indeed,” Grace said mechanically. “Are you partial to Miss Granger?”

The baron laughed. “Nobody is partial to Miss Granger, particularly not myself or my father. She is very purse-lipped and does not approve of…well, anything fun, really. It was only my mother’s gambit to frighten my father that he might end with a daughter-in-law frowning from every corner. I reckon Miss Granger weds the vicar and they should go on purse-lipped and happy forevermore.”

Grace was rather startled that the lord should insult the lady so thoroughly.

“No, I have my sights set higher than Miss Granger,” the baron said. “Do you know Lady Lavender Westcott?”

Grace suppressed a disgusted sigh and nodded. “I have made her acquaintance,” she said.

“Now there is a fine lady. She’s the sort who would show Miss Granger what is what.” In a wistful tone, he said, “I thought she would be here this evening. I wonder where she is.”

Grace hardly knew how to answer. In the first moment, she was entirely aggravated to hear of Lady Lavender’s charms again. It seemed everyone was bowled over by her. In the second moment, though, she understood that poor Lord Kendrick was on the verge of being as heartbroken as she was herself.

It must be so. The baron from Hertfordshire would not prevail against Lord Dashlend for the hand of Lady Lavender. He was too youthful, too unseasoned, too…not Lord Dashlend.

Grace felt a wave of dizziness wash over her and she leaned just a little bit on Lord Kendrick’s arm. He did not seem to notice, as he was engaged in listing out all of Lady Lavender’s charms.

She hardly listened. For one, she was already quite conversant regarding the lady’s charms. For another, she was thinking about how unsteady she felt just now.

Grace was determined that she did not show it. She would dance with Lord Dashlend soon enough and would not embarrass herself with a stumble. That would be entirely too much to bear.

Between the sets she must steal away somewhere and jump up and down in private. It was the only thing that helped steady her.

That was what she would do. Then, she would get through the set with Lord Dashlend and her father would take her home and she would bandage up her wounds again. They would heal eventually; she must just give it time. She would regain her spirits.

In time.

*

Montclave felt the minutes moving too fast. He’d escorted one lady after the next through the sets, none of them very interesting and one of them he vowed to never dance with again.

That one he was still dancing with.

Lady Agatha, an earl’s daughter, apparently thought the world of herself and was determined to hear that any gentleman coming into her sphere thought the very same. She fished for compliments like she stood on the banks of the River Tay looking to land a fat trout.

“My mother said, Agatha, that color does something well for your eyes,” Lady Agatha said. “But I said, Mama, I am certain it does not.”

And there it was, the long pause awaiting the compliment. He was not at all inclined to take the bait.

“Well, sometimes eyes are not a lady’s best feature,” he said. “No shame in that, I always think.”

He said it in a genial tone, as if he did not intend it as a slap. Though, he very much did, and well-earned too. Lady Agatha’s eyes were a dull brown, on the small side, and set too close together. If he were her, he would not bring any attention to them.

The lady turned several shades of pink and fell to silence.

It was well she did. He needed time to think!

When he could, he watched Lady Grace. She did not seem as if she were enjoying herself very much. However, it would be only another half hour before Dashlend collected her. Only a half hour before Dashlend would have the opportunity of clearing up any misapprehensions about the flowers.

He had to do something. What? What? What?

The set blessedly came to a conclusion. He bowed and said, “Lady Agatha, charmed,” as if he had not the first idea that he’d insulted her.

The lady hurried off, no doubt to locate her mama and inquire if her eyes were or were not her best feature.

As there would be a quarter hour between sets, Montclave had hoped to engage Lady Grace in conversation. It felt as if he were only putting off the inevitable, but he must do what he could. An idea might spring upon him, even at the last minute.

As Lady Grace curtsied and broke away from Lord Kendrick, she inexplicably set out toward the great hall. Where was she going?

Could it be that she was going home? Perhaps she felt ill? Would the fates smile upon him in such a manner?

He hurried through the ballroom, silently praying as he did so. He must know—was she leaving?

He passed through the ballroom doors into the hall and saw a wisp of the hem of her gown disappear as she entered a room. The door closed behind her.

Where was she going? The library? Music room? Where? And most importantly, why?

Was Dashlend in there? Had they arranged to meet?

Montclave strode down the corridor. He noted an old brass key hanging by the door she’d just slipped through—the type used when the house was closed up. Many a Londoner locked every door when they departed for the countryside, the idea being that a housebreaker would discover he did not have access to the entire house, just the room he broke into. For the skeleton staff staying behind it was felt an added security measure.

He could lock her in there, and then Dashlend might decide he’d been stood up and leave in a huff. That was, if he was not in there with her. It would not do him any good at all to lock them in together. They would be discovered and a wedding would become a necessity to maintain the lady’s honor.

If Dashlend was in there, he could say that Lady Margaret needed him urgently and did not look well. What he would do after that, he did not know.

He must just take one step at a time.

Montclave slowly pressed the door open enough to see inside.

What he saw, he was not even certain he saw, so little sense did it make.

The room was lit up with candles. Lady Grace was near the windows, jumping up and down. She was alone, and just jumping.

In that moment, she perceived that she was not alone. He pulled back, but she could see the door had been opened.

With one eye he peered in from the dim corridor.

“Oh!” she cried. She stumbled into a brass candelabra with eight bright burning candles ranged across it. The candelabra tipped over and the lit candles fell to the floor.

One of the flames caught the netting of her dress. As she beat it out, another was busy setting the curtains alight. Lady Grace pounded at it but it did little good. The flame began its rise up the material.

Montclave felt his mind in a muddle. Without thinking, he shut the door, turned the key in the lock, and threw the key down the dark corridor.

He hurried back into the ballroom, hardly understanding what he’d done.

Should he go back?

He passed through the ballroom doors and the acrid smell of smoke seemed to follow him there. What had he done?

A footman in the hall yelled, “Fire!”