Page 19 of Lady Graceless (A Series of Senseless Complications #2)

G race had been jumping up and down to attempt to settle her dizziness when she’d heard the creak of the door.

She could not see the face clearly, but she knew it was a man. Had she been foolish to steal off alone and put herself in a compromising position?

Such was her surprise and confusion, she stumbled and knocked over a candelabra.

The candles seemed to fly everywhere!

She beat at the netting of her dress, as that was the most urgent of the flames. As she did so, her mind raced—what was she to tell everyone? Her dress was burnt beyond repair, was she to say she’d been jumping up and down alone because she was dizzy and knocked over candles? It was too absurd.

As all of that was racing through her mind, the curtains caught fire.

Grace was momentarily frozen. Was she in the midst of burning down a lady’s house?

She needed help. She could not rectify this on her own, the flames had grown too high.

Grace raced to the door to fling it open and call for assistance.

And found it locked.

At first, she was convinced she was mistaken. She was not turning the latch correctly.

It did finally dawn on her that she was locked in. The smoke was filling the room. Grace raced to the set of windows away from the flames and threw the sash open. She gasped the cool night air into her lungs. But so did the fire take in the night air. It seemed to feed on the air rushing into the room.

She put her head out the window and looked down. Should she jump?

She might not survive the fall and if she did, might be seriously maimed. Grace shouted for help as loud as she could. Had anyone heard her? Was anybody coming?

*

When Miles heard the shout of fire, his first thought was to get Lady Grace to safety. These old piles of stone were filled to the brim with wood that could go up in a flash.

Where was she?

He searched the room and began to think she might have gone to the lady’s retiring room when the duke approached.

“Have you seen my daughter?” he asked.

“No, Your Grace, she is not in the ballroom.”

“I do not like this,” the duke said gravely. “If she could, she would find me. Come with me, we’d better assist in fighting back whatever has been set afire—probably a chimney that was not cleaned as it should have been.”

They pushed their way through the throng, most of whom were leaving the premises. The male staff of the house, along with some of Lady Montague’s guests were handing sand buckets in a line. Further down the corridor, two burly men Miles took to be coachmen were throwing their weight against a door.

Then he heard it. The faint cry for help. It was unmistakable. It was Lady Grace.

“Your Grace,” he said, catching at the duke’s arm, “this way.”

He practically dragged the duke forward. As he did so, Lady Grace’s cries became clearer. Somehow, she was locked behind a door, and that room was where the smoke was coming from.

“Out of the way,” Miles shouted. He threw himself at the door. It did not budge an inch. He did not know what he’d been expecting, the two men who were trying to get it open were veritable giants and had not seen success.

He turned to the men. “It feels like a deadbolt. Try working on the hinges. Your Grace, let us see if we can get in another way.”

The duke nodded. Miles raced to the next door in the corridor, throwing it open in hopes of finding a connecting door.

There was none.

He ran to the window and raised the sash, leaning far out to see how close the next window was.

Lady Grace had her head out, breathing the air there as the smoke would have overcome her in the room. He could see it drifting out over her head.

He looked down. The drop was too far to try a jump. He would somehow have to get her on the ledge. It was a foot wide, which was wider than most. It could be done. It must be done.

She stared at him wide-eyed, as if she’d lost the faculty of speech.

Miles climbed out and inched toward her. “Lady Grace, you’ll have to climb out.” Seeing the look of terror in her eyes, he said, “It’s not far to go. I’ll steady you.”

“I cannot,” she whispered. “I am dizzy.”

“That’s just the smoke. Your head will clear when you are away from it.”

“No,” she said softly.

No? What choice did she have?

Miles realized she was in a state of panic. He would somehow need to jar her out of it. “Lady Grace, do as I say this instant! Climb out and I will help you over.”

She stared at him for a moment. Just then, he could hear the crackling of the fire. They did not have much time.

She nodded, picking up her skirts, and slowly climbed out. She stood up and then wobbled. Miles grasped at her to stop her from falling, but her balance was giving way.

He threw himself in front of her as they plummeted into the rose bushes below.

The fall seemed to take a very long time, though it could not have been more than a second or two. They crashed into the greenery, the branches and thorns prying their way into every bit of uncovered skin. The final landing was far worse than any fall off a horse he’d ever taken. It felt as if he’d hit a stone pavement rather than earth.

Miles had the wind knocked out of him. He forced air into his lungs, though the pain was immense.

“All right?” he choked out as Lady Grace lay on top of him.

“I think so,” she said in a small voice. “I was locked in.”

“Who? The fire?”

“Oh, I started it. Accidently.”

“Are you alive?” the duke shouted from above.

“Papa,” Lady Grace answered.

From his prone position looking up at the sky, Miles saw the duke leaning out. “They finally got the door opened,” the duke said helpfully. “The fire was on its way to burning itself out. Stone walls, you know.”

The duke’s head disappeared.

“We should have waited,” Lady Grace said, quite unnecessarily.

She rolled off him, causing further pain to his chest. “You are hurt,” she said, again quite unnecessarily.

“Yes.”

She took a sharp breath in. In a voice no louder than a whisper on the wind she said, “If you are paralyzed, Lady Lavender will never forgive me.”

Lady Lavender? He wiggled his toes to make sure he was not, indeed, paralyzed. He was not, though something was wrong. Speaking had been a monumental effort. Breathing was no less a challenge.

“Papa!” Lady Grace said, fighting her way out of the rose bushes. “Lord Dashlend is hurt!”

“Can’t say I’m surprised. I don’t know why you two thought to jump. Can you walk, Dashlend?”

Though he would like to say yes, he knew very well that he could not. “No,” he said, pushing the word out of his lungs.

“Right,” the duke said. “I’ll arrange things. Gracie, stay here and keep him awake. On no account allow him to close his eyes.”

“Yes, Papa,” she said softly.

Lady Grace crawled back to his location in the bushes. She stared down at him with wide eyes. Those very pretty olive-colored eyes. He did not suppose he had ever been this close to her before.

“Not paralyzed,” he said with effort.

She did not look at all convinced. “If you were, then I suppose any self-respecting lady would take it on very bravely. You are not to think she would not.”

What did she mean? Was she saying she’d wed him even if he was to be in a chair all his life?

It was very cheering if that was what she meant. Also, her perfume was intoxicating.

“It would be challenging, of course,” Lady Grace said. “But a lady should not be put off by a challenge. I imagine she would be ready to meet it head on.” She sighed long and deep. “This was all my fault. If only I did not get dizzy.”

Miles would like to propose to her then and there. He could not though. He could hardly get out the simplest words and he found he must put all his attention into getting air into and out of his lungs.

“Is he still awake?”

The duke had returned. How the gentleman was to get him out of his current predicament he had not the first idea.

“Yes, Papa, though I believe he is in very terrible pain.” In a lower voice she said, “He might be paralyzed.”

“Do not jump to the worst just yet. Take the flask, throw some brandy into him. I’ve commandeered Lady Montague’s coachmen and grooms. They’re hammering together a litter of sorts and they’ll bring round a cart. We’ll take him home—I’ve already sent for my physician.”

He saw Lady Grace nod. So that was the plan—somehow, two burly coachmen were to get him out of the bushes and into a cart. He did not, of course, know how painful an operation that would be. He was not an idiot though. It was going to hurt.

Lady Grace crawled back to his side. She held the flask and he drank down as much brandy as he could. The warm liquid did deliver its own particular comfort, though he imagined that would fly out the window once he was moved.

*

Grace hardly knew how she’d created such a mess. And dragged Lord Dashlend into it too. He would suffer for her actions more than she ever would. She’d landed on top of him; he’d broken her fall.

Now, he seemed to be working hard even to take a breath. There was every chance he’d never walk again. She’d ruined his life! She’d ruined Lady Lavender’s life too.

She’d tried to be encouraging, to hint that Lady Lavender would not turn from him when she discovered that her dashing gentleman was to be bound to a chair. She was not certain if it were true, though.

Had it been herself, she would have remained resolute in the face of such uncertainty. She would have bravely faced the prospect of failing to have children, of being wed to a man who might at any moment succumb to winter fever or a wasting disease. There were a whole host of things that a person immobilized in a chair might perish from, as she knew very well from Mrs. Lendower. That lady had been struck down three winters in a row, until she finally succumbed. She’d been a lovely lady, but there was something about being immobile that wore a person down.

If she were Lady Lavender, she would value whatever time together they had.

Would the actual Lady Lavender do the same?

All the bitterness that had been in her heart regarding Lady Lavender and Lord Dashlend melted away and disappeared, as if it had never been there at all.

Grace heard a commotion coming. She peered over the rose bushes to see two very large men carrying boards that had been hastily nailed together to form a litter. Behind them followed a collection of footmen and grooms.

She poured the last of the brandy down Lord Dashlend’s throat. He drank it eagerly, as if he knew being moved would bring its own sort of torture.

“This is Wellburn, Lady Montague’s stablemaster,” the duke said. “He’s been to war and knows how these things are done. We will follow his lead. Wellburn? Send everybody going in the right direction.”

Grace stood and got herself out of the way, as Wellburn did very confidently begin getting everybody going. The first part of the operation entailed cutting down the rose bushes surrounding Lord Dashlend. One of the footmen piped up that Lady Montague was certain to have a fit over it, but Wellburn said, “I think if you were to ask the lady which to save, her roses or one of her guests, she would say goodbye to her roses.”

Once the bushes were cut away, six men brought the litter forward. Wellburn directed three on one side to slowly lift Lord Dashlend to his side, all moving as one. Then the litter was slid underneath him and he was laid gently down.

The men carefully lifted the litter and carried it to the waiting cart. The cart had been lined with hay to soften the jostling that would occur during the journey.

Grace did not know how painful an operation it had been, as Lord Dashlend did not utter a sound. His complexion in the moonlight was a deal more pale than she’d ever seen it, so she suspected he’d worked hard not to shout out.

He was gently slid into the cart and Wellburn gave the driver firm instructions to go slow and steady. He and his men would follow on horseback, as when they arrived to the house, the litter would need to be carried up the stairs.

Grace climbed into the back of the cart, alongside the litter. She was certain it was not the thing, but she would not be turned from it. Her father had only raised a brow, but did not cross her on it.

She was determined to stay by Lord Dashlend’s side for as long as was necessary.

*

Montclave stayed hidden in the dark garden, listening closely to what was said. A burly coachman was directing everybody on what they were to do to extract Dashlend from the rose bushes.

He needed to know if any mention of him was made. Had Lady Grace seen him clearly? Did she know he’d locked her in a burning room?

He hardly knew why he did it. Some kind of desperation had come over him and it had seemed the only answer.

His mother had often said that life was not like chess, one could not anticipate what the next moves might be after making a move of one’s own. People were wildly unpredictable, while chess was not.

Montclave had never entirely understood her meaning until this night. He could never have foreseen that Lady Grace and Dashlend would end up falling from a window.

Dashlend seemed to get the worst of it. It was not at all clear how damaged he’d been from the fall, only clear that he could not rise and walk.

Perhaps he would not regain the use of his legs? If that were the case, he might die at any time. He might just waste away. He would not have children.

If he were to die, Montclave would become the heir. If he did not die, but remained childless, then someday one of his own sons would inherit.

As long as nobody discovered he’d had anything to do with it.

How long would he have to wait to be certain he was in the clear? Would Lady Grace tell her father that she’d seen him at the door? Would some servant step forward and claim he’d been seen throwing the key down the corridor or rushing away from the scene? Had someone noted him hurrying back into the ballroom as a footman yelled fire?

If he even got a whiff of something brewing, of some suspicion falling on him, he would pack his things and go… somewhere. He would not be locked up or swing for it.

And yet, he must hope nobody would suspect him. After all, he’d not set the room on fire. Lady Grace had done that herself.

He’d only locked the door. Which he might claim was an accident?

Perhaps he might claim he locked it to contain the fire, unaware there was anybody inside?

Though, he would then have to account for why he did not tell anybody there was a fire. Or why he threw the key down the corridor.

He must pray he would not come to anybody’s notice.

Dashlend was just now loaded into the back of a farmer’s cart and Lady Grace had climbed in too. He was being taken to the duke’s house. That was not ideal. On the off chance that he was not paralyzed, the close proximity of the couple would likely end in an engagement.

Especially since it appeared Dashlend had broken the lady’s fall. How heroic he would appear in the eyes of a young lady.

But then, might not Dashlend lose consciousness at some point? If that were to happen, he could step in as a member of the family and have him removed. If he could get Lady Margaret out of the way, then whatever care or lack of care given to the patient would be up to him.

It was something to hope for, anyway.

For now, he would return home and drink a vast amount of brandy to settle his nerves. He hoped Mrs. Featherby was not haunting Doanellen’s drawing room, as he fully intended to locate the brandy decanter and take it to his bedchamber.

*

Mrs. Right had spent an enjoyable evening in with her girls. She’d told them all the story of driving Lord Dashlend’s valet mad and they speculated he must have quit on the spot and now the lord was left to tie his own knot.

Valor recited the letter she’d sent to Lord Dashlend and everyone was satisfied that she’d wished he would come to a bad end.

Nelson, who was turning out to be a very good sort of dog despite missing a leg and being blind in one eye, had curled up next to Valor on the sofa. He cleverly angled himself to view the door, as he was always on the watch for food coming through it.

As the last tea tray came in before they would retire and Nelson staggered to his three legs in anticipation, they all speculated on how Grace was making out at Lady Montague’s ball. Winsome hoped Grace had given Lord Dashlend no end of perishing looks. Verity was adamant that tripping another lady, who may or may not be Lady Lavender, was a very accepted thing. Patience claimed Grace would be better off pretending she did not know Lord Dashlend was even alive, of so little consequence was he. Serenity posited that Grace might stand just to the right of a chandelier, allowing the warm light to present her as an unattainable Venus, so Lord Dashlend might see what he’d lost. Valor was of two minds—Grace might hit him over the head with a wine glass or she might set his coat on fire.

Even Nelson was in agreement as to Lord Dashlend. Whenever the lord’s name was mentioned, he gave a little snarl. Mrs. Right knew very well that the dog did not hold any sort of personal grudge against the gentleman, but Winsome had been rewarding him with a bit of biscuit every time he did it.

All in all, it was a very cheery evening.

Therefore, the very last thing they’d been expecting was for Grace to come home on the back of a farmer’s cart, with Lord Dashlend in a litter beside her.

For the first few minutes, Mrs. Right did fear that Grace had taken some of her sisters’ advice and clobbered the fellow. While it would be satisfying in the extreme, it was the sort of thing that might cause her girl some trouble.

As the men who’d accompanied the cart took the litter above stairs to a spare bedchamber, the duke explained what had happened. Or as much of what happened as he knew.

This explanation did put a damper on all their ideas of destroying Lord Dashlend. It was hard to reconcile that he saved Grace from a fire and was also a scoundrel who ought to die a painful death.

As the duke led the physician above stairs, Mrs. Right poured Grace a large glass of sherry and her sisters gathered round her.

“So you went by yourself to the room so you could jump around in private?” Winsome asked.

“She does it all the time in her own room,” Valor said. “I’ve tried it, it’s not very interesting.”

“I do not know what anybody else does to settle their dizziness,” Grace said, “I only know that it helps me.”

“What dizziness?” Serenity asked.

“Dizziness can be a common thing. I’ve read,” Verity said.

“I don’t get dizzy,” Valor said. “Not unless I close my eyes and spin around.”

“I never got dizzy at your age,” Grace said. “It comes on later.”

“Does it?” Valor shouted, seeming alarmed by this news.

“When, though?” Patience asked. “I’m never dizzy. Serenity is never dizzy. Winsome?”

Winsome shook her head.

Grace turned to her. “Mrs. Right?”

She slowly shook her head. It really did set her to wondering. She had of course known that her Grace was… not all that graceful. She’d not known anything about regularly feeling dizzy. What was causing it?

Just then, the duke entered the room.

“Papa,” Grace said, rising from her chair. “He is paralyzed. Just say it. We must pull him through it. It will be a heavy blow for someone like Lord Dashlend.”

“He is not paralyzed,” the duke said. “According to Phillips, he’s got several broken ribs, a badly sprained ankle, and a bang to the head. He’ll recover, but he’s got to go on quiet for now, so we’ll keep him here for the time being.”

“Not paralyzed?” Grace said. Mrs. Right got the idea that she’d firmly decided the lord was paralyzed and the idea that he was not was hard to take in.

“He’s staying here?” Winsome asked. “He’s the enemy, Papa. At least, he was.”

Patience nodded. “Papa, are we to be civil to him? We hate him, but now he’s saved Grace, so we don’t know what to do with him.”

“What about that Lady Lavender?” Valor asked. “Are we supposed to let her in to see him? Are we supposed to talk to her and give her tea?”

“I could just cry thinking about it,” Serenity said, wiping a tear from her cheek.

“Now settle down,” the duke said. “He’s done our Gracie wrong, I do not deny it. But on the other hand, he saved her from a fire at great inconvenience to himself. That must count for something, I think.”

Mrs. Right nodded gravely, as if she were in full agreement with the duke.

That she was not in agreement need not trouble him. She would set about doing what it was in her purview to do regarding Lord Dashlend’s comfort. He would hurry along his recovery once he experienced the meals he could enjoy in the Duke of Pelham’s household—salty porridge was suddenly on the menu. She would use the scratchiest sheets she could find for his bedding. In fact, she might get hold of some nettles and snip off little pieces on the bedding. She was certain there was more she could think of if she put her mind to it. If that lord had some idea of being waited on hand and foot and coddled, he had another thing coming.

The faster Lord Dashlend was out of this house, the faster her Grace could regain her spirits.

Mrs. Right rose. “Now then, off to bed with all of you. It is late and do not follow Grace into her room—she will need her rest after this night’s adventure.”

Grace nodded gratefully and the poor girl really did look worn out. The rest of her girls nodded, though not very enthusiastically. Mrs. Right was certain they’d have been willing to stay up all night discussing the fire at the ball and the gentleman just now relocated into their household.

She knew what was best, though. Particularly for Valor, who was so tired she’d got that look on her face as if she might hysterically laugh or hysterically cry, or both at once.

As for herself, she would see Valor settled and then have her usual glass of brandy with the duke. She suspected there were more details he had not shared with his youngest daughters.