Page 20 of Lady Graceless (A Series of Senseless Complications #2)

G race did not know how she managed to fall asleep, nor sleep so soundly. Though, she suspected the rather large glass of sherry Mrs. Right had urged her to drink, along with her nerves being exhausted, had certainly helped.

Everything that had happened replayed in her mind over and over again. Particularly, the ride in the cart. Clearly the jostling of the moving conveyance caused Lord Dashlend pain. She’d hardly known what to do about it. He would wince and she would grasp his hand. Then she would realize the impropriety of it and let it go. Then it would happen all over again.

His hand was large and firm and warm. She’d not wished to give it up, but she must. His was not her hand to hold and she could see very well the looks she received from the coachmen and grooms who followed on horseback.

This morning, she and her sisters had spent breakfast glancing up at the ceiling. Their father was up there with Lord Dashlend and the physician.

It was so odd to know that Lord Dashlend was in the house. What was he thinking?

She supposed she could guess at what he was thinking. His injuries were to be laid at her door, it had been all her fault. She’d gone off alone to jump around and then managed to start a fire through her clumsiness.

Grace could not imagine who locked her in there, but she had begun to think that perhaps the person had only noted the flames and not herself and sought to contain it. She did not see how anybody could have missed her, as it had been she knocking over the candelabra, or why the door must be locked and not just closed. But what other explanation could there be?

They had all gone to the drawing room after breakfast and continued on with glancing at the ceiling. They did it so often that Nelson began looking there too.

There had been a prior plan of going to the park but that had been called off. They would stay where they were, just looking at the ceiling.

Thomas opened the drawing room doors and said, “Lady Margaret Hawley, Lady Valor’s particular friend.”

Valor clapped and said, “Well done, Thomas.” To Grace she said, “I told Thomas to always introduce Lady Margaret as my particular friend. Because she is my particular friend. We have a correspondence. Between two ladies.”

Lady Margaret came through, her skirts wider than ever. Her signature ostrich feathers had seen an improvement though—the ones she wore today seemed new and not molting like the ones she’d previously displayed.

“What a night. Lady Grace, you are unhurt?”

“I am very well, thank you, Lady Margaret. Thomas? A tea tray, if you will.”

As Thomas hurried off, Lady Margaret hurried forward.

“Sit next to me and Nelson, Lady Margaret,” Valor said.

“Of course, my little friend,” the lady said, taking her seat.

“See?” Valor said. “We are particular friends.”

“I understand Dashlend is here?” Lady Margaret asked, nodding at Valor to confirm the idea.

Grace said that he was, and they all glanced at the ceiling again. Nelson, hearing Lord Dashlend’s name, gave a little snarl.

Lady Margaret glanced down at the dog in alarm, but then Nelson wagged his tail. “What is my dear relation’s condition? Has he regained consciousness? Will he recover?”

“We have been told he never lost consciousness,” Grace said. “He was fully conscious when last I saw him. The physician says he will recover, though it might take time. He’s broken some ribs and has a badly sprained ankle.”

“And he got a knock on the head,” Valor added.

“My goodness, the stories that do go round. The ton has poor Lord Dashlend lying at death’s door, quite unconscious. A relief that it’s only talk, yes, it really is,” Lady Margaret said. “I came straight over to warn you of something.”

“Warn us?” Grace said.

Thomas came in with the tea tray and Lady Margaret fell to silence. Valor patted her hand. “You don’t have to be quiet because Thomas might hear,” she said. “I tell him everything anyway.”

“Oh I see, well then,” Lady Margaret said, “I had a very unusual encounter this morning. Lord Montclave came to see me. Of course, I initially thought he’d try to get some money out of me and good luck to that. But no. First, he practically interrogated me about last night, as if I should know what happened. Then he told me that people are saying Dashlend had not regained consciousness.”

Nelson growled again. Winsome said, “Never mind Nelson, we taught him to do that.”

Lady Margaret’s eyes widened just a bit, but she continued on. “Then, Lord Montclave made a speech about him being the senior most family member on the scene and he would need to take charge of his cousin’s recovery. Then, if you can believe it, he said he must move into the house and I must move out!”

“Goodness,” Grace said, rather taken aback by Lord Montclave’s heavy-handedness. “What did you say to it?”

“I told him he would have to pry me out of Lord Dashlend’s house cold and dead, that’s what I told him. Among other things.”

Valor clapped. “I knew it. I knew my friend would give that fellow the what for. Mrs. Wendover knew it all along too.”

Lady Margaret patted Valor’s hand. “I am most gratified in your faith in me. And of course, Mrs. Wendover’s approbation. Now, aside from the outrage of attempting to throw me out of a house he does not own, I feel there is something underhanded in Lord Montclave’s ideas. He will be the earl’s heir if Dashlend does not produce one, and I just feel…”

Lady Margaret had trailed off.

“You do not mean he would attempt any sort of violence?” Grace asked.

“Perhaps not violence,” Lady Margaret said, “perhaps more like neglect. After all, why does he need me gone from the house? Is it because he wishes to move Lord Dashlend there and enact some plan in secret?” Lady Margaret wrung her hands. “Oh, I do not know. I just have a very bad feeling about it.”

Grace poured a cup of tea for Lady Margaret and handed it to her. “My father says Lord Dashlend is to stay here for the moment. I will tell him of your concerns—he does not care for Lord Montclave as it is. In any case, reports of the lord’s unconsciousness are not correct, Lord Dashlend can himself determine what ought to be done about his cousin.”

Lady Margaret looked much relieved to hear it.

“Now you can set your mind at ease, Lady Margaret,” Serenity said.

“Indeed I can. I knew I did right to come here straight away.” The lady sipped her tea and then set it down. “Well! I suppose I’d best visit our patient and see how he gets on.”

“Visit him?” Grace asked.

“None of us have seen him since he was carried in,” Winsome said.

“It’s scary that he’s up there,” Valor said. “Last night, I couldn’t fall asleep because he was just down the hall, breathing or whatever he’s doing in that room.”

Valor shivered, as if to make her point more directly.

“We haven’t seen him on account of he’s in a bed,” Patience said. “Only our Felicity has ever seen a gentleman in a bed.”

Valor whispered, “Mr. Stratton sleeps in the same room with Felicity,” in a tone that suggested it was hard to believe.

“We think Mr. Stratton stares at Felicity while she’s sleeping,” Serenity said for added clarity.

“That’s rather uncomfortable, I imagine,” Lady Margaret said.

Valor shrugged. “Felicity seems to like it, though we don’t know why. But Lady Margaret, will you really go into his room?”

“Why should I not? I am an old lady and a relation. I suppose I can charge into any sickroom I like. Thomas, is it? Lead me there.”

With that, she rose and sailed majestically from the room. Her skirts were so wide she appeared a ship leaving a wake as she departed a harbor.

Goodness. She was going to see Lord Dashlend.

As the doors to the drawing room were closed, they all stared at the ceiling once more.

*

Miles had been entirely disoriented when he’d woken up. It was very strange to find one was not in one’s own house. Even stranger to find a fellow staring down at him.

Then, of course, how he got to be where he was came back to him and who the fellow was, the duke’s physician, came back too.

Phillips peered down at him. “You had a restful night, that is good. How is the breathing?”

Miles found it had got easier to take in breaths. The combination of having his ribs wrapped as well as remembering to take in breaths that were not too deep made it more manageable.

“Better, I think.”

“Excellent. Well, there is not much to be done now. The sprain will heal itself in time and so will your ribs. Though, you might feel some after effects in cold and damp weather. All you can do is bide your time and not do anything stupid, like trying to rush the healing process.” The physician sighed and said, “I cannot count how many times I have issued that warning and how many times it has been ignored.”

“How long will I be confined to bed, though?” Miles asked, thinking he should go mad if he were left lingering for days on end. Lady Grace was just below stairs, was he to lie round here all day?

“For today at least with that foot propped up. I will return on the morrow with a chair the footmen can use to transport you downstairs. Which will be perfectly fine as long as you quietly sit, leg elevated, wherever you are taken. Do not do anything foolish. No sitting at a dinner table for now.”

It was not ideal, but at least he would not be trapped in this room forever. In any case, he might propose from a chair, might he not? It would not be a typical proposal, but it could be done. After all, Lady Grace had hinted that she’d even accept him if he were paralyzed.

And then, there was the handholding in the cart. Certainly, that had stepped across some lines and indicated her preference for him. She’d done it several times.

Just then, the door swung open and Lady Margaret came through it. Miles pulled the blankets over his bare legs. What was she doing here?

“There you are, my boy,” she said. “You gave us a scare, I don’t mind telling you.”

“I’m perfectly fine, Lady Margaret,” he said.

She turned to the physician. “True?”

“Perfectly fine is an exaggeration,” the physician said. “He will be though. I will take my leave and return on the morrow unless the duke calls me back beforehand.”

He bowed to Lady Margaret and made his exit.

She hurried to his side. Grasping his hand, she said, “I think Lord Montclave is looking for a way to kill you.”

That was about the last thing he imagined he’d hear from Lady Margaret. “What?” he said.

She then proceeded to tell him of Montclave’s visit to the house that morning.

“He was most forceful. I must leave and he was moving in,” Lady Margaret said.

“He’ll do no such thing.”

“Naturally, I informed him of how fond you were of my company. You could hardly bear to be parted with me, particularly in your hour of need. I vowed I would stay by your side always. He would have to drag me out cold and dead.”

Miles thought the idea that he could not bear to be parted from the lady was painting it on a little thick. As for her staying by his side always, that sounded more like a threat than anything else. However, this was not the time to straighten out any of Lady Margaret’s wild ideas.

“Get me some writing things. I will direct Wainwright to hire some guards so that Montclave does not attempt to push you out or insert himself in.”

Lady Margaret hopped up and began to rifle through a desk, pulling out what was required.

What was Montclave up to? Miles would never put himself in that villain’s hands—why would Montclave imagine he would?

Lady Margaret had set the writing things on what had been his breakfast tray. And a pretty awful breakfast it had been. Why had there been salt in the porridge? Why had there been only porridge? Did the duke not go in for eggs or bacon or sausages?

“Lord Montclave thinks you remain unconscious,” Lady Margaret said. “That’s the gossip going round.”

Ah. So that was why Montclave imagined he could get control of him.

He carefully raised his arm, careful not to jostle his ribs, and wrote out directions for Wainwright. He also wrote a note for Moreau, telling him to bring some clothes and his shaving things. He did not know how long he’d be here, but he did know he would be allowed some amount of time downstairs on the morrow. He’d prefer to appear pulled together. He had some very particular things to say.

Then another thing occurred to him. “Lady Margaret, I do not wish to insult the duke’s hospitality, but would you taste that porridge,” he asked, pointing at the bowl she had removed from the tray. “I am certain it has salt in it.”

Lady Margaret took herself to the bowl and tasted it. She nodded. “Well, well, well.”

“Well, well, well? What does that mean?”

“It means, my dear boy, that the housekeeper in this establishment is not fond of you. Salting porridge is not something a cook or housemaid would dare. Only the housekeeper. I would say a butler might try it, but they don’t have one.”

“Mrs. Right? I do not see how she can have anything against me. I’ve not insulted the lady in any way.”

Lady Margaret shrugged. “Nevertheless, here we have salt in your porridge. Do I suspect that was all that was on your tray? That is another piece of evidence. Where are the eggs? The bacon? The kidneys? The sausages? The rolls? The coffee?”

“Yes, I did notice those things missing.”

“Never mind it. I will take care of it without putting the duke’s back up.”

“What? What would you do? Do not insult Mrs. Right—I suspect that would make whatever this is even worse.”

Lady Margaret patted his arm. “Leave it to me. This is not the first time I’ve dealt with a recalcitrant housekeeper.”

Before he could press her for specifics, she took herself out of the room.

He satisfied himself by wiling away the morning thinking of the handholding in the cart that had gone on the night before.

*

Montclave paced his bedchamber, swigging brandy. This morning had been a disaster. The night before, he’d not slept at all. He’d tried, but every time he closed his eyes he saw the curtains aflame and himself locking the door and throwing the key. There was no amount of brandy that would wipe it away. He had to stop thinking about it!

Did he look guilty? Could people tell by looking at him?

Every knock on the front doors seemed to jolt his heart and speed it up to a pounding. Were they coming to get him, to lock him up?

Finally, he’d forced himself to dress and go downstairs. Mrs. Featherby had been in the drawing room. She did not look at him strangely, as if she knew his secret. In fact, she seemed rather bored to see him.

She nattered on about this and that. And then she said it—the shred of hope he could hold on to. She said Dashlend was unconscious.

Dashlend had taken a turn for the worse! Perhaps he was dead already? These things could go downhill quickly.

No, if he were dead that news would be a brushfire all over Town. But unconscious, that was better than conscious. Might he not do something with that?

He began to formulate a plan. He must just get hold of Dashlend while he was unconscious and make sure he stayed that way.

Montclave had splashed cold water on his face, taken a fortifying swig of brandy, and set off for Dashlend’s house. He would get Lady Margaret out and Dashlend in. Somehow he would rid the house of that idiot valet Moreau. Then he would see what could be done.

It had not worked. He really did not see how it had not worked. That butler of Dashlend’s was his usual grim visage but would not have defied him. Lady Margaret had defied him. He told her, as the senior most family member on the scene, that he would take over Dashlend’s care and she must leave. He explained to her that she was too chattering a female to be in a sickroom and would only cause harm.

If she would have acted as any old lady might be expected to upon being insulted, she would have tearfully packed her things and been gone. But no, she had the audacity to stand there staring at him and then announce she wouldn’t go until she was dead.

He’d briefly wondered if he ought to kill her to hasten things along, but then he decided the brandy was affecting his thoughts.

Montclave had left and had walked the streets for hours. Now he was closeted in his room. He felt he needed to do something but he could not think of what. Or rather, he could think of things but was not certain he had the nerve.

The thing that kept surfacing was a poison of some sort. If he were to poison Dashlend while he was laid low, it would seem as if he’d simply taken a turn for the worse.

If not poison, then something. He must at least get Dashlend moved to his own house so he had some measure of control over the situation. He’d think of something to get blasted Lady Margaret out of the way. And then, then, what? Would he be forced to put a pillow over Dashlend’s face?

Montclave recoiled from the idea. He did not want to do something so… close.

Maybe he could order a fire for the patient, then close the flue, shut the door and blame the servants when Dashlend died from the smoke?

If he could only see into everybody’s thoughts he would know if anybody suspected him. If he knew if anybody suspected him, he would know how far he could dare. He could not stand the wondering.

All these ideas swirled round his muddled mind as he made his way through Doanellen’s brandy.

*

Mrs. Right, ever aware of the doings of her household, had watched Lady Margaret come down the stairs. Then, instead of heading toward the drawing room, the lady slipped through the door leading to the stairs and the kitchens below.

What was she doing?

Mrs. Right did not know, but she was determined to find out. She waited long enough for Lady Margaret to get down the stairs and then followed her. In the corridor that led to the kitchens, she paused.

Lady Margaret was talking to Cook. “My good man,” she said, “I have been to see Lord Dashlend and his physician. I thought to come to you to give you a hint before that irascible doctor raises the roof. While I, myself, applaud your care in sending Lord Dashlend a hearty porridge for breakfast I cannot say the same for that charlatan of a doctor. It seems he is stubbornly convinced that the lord requires meats of all sorts, ample potatoes, rolls, butter, coffee, wine, and no salt added to it whatsoever. The salt is only to be in a salt cellar and Lord Dashlend has been given strict instructions on its use. A lot of nonsense, I’m sure, but what are we to do?”

“Oh I see,” Cook said. “Mrs. Right did think my porridge would be just the thing.”

“As do I. Mrs. Right is full of good sense. However, we must keep that physician happy or he will cause all sorts of trouble.”

“Damn doctors,” Cook said.

“Precisely.”

Mrs. Right suppressed a defeated sigh. Lady Margaret was a deal more clever than she seemed. The physician ordered it—what a bit of nonsense that was. It was clear enough the lady was on to the salt in the porridge gambit and would be falcon eyes on the rest of Lord Dashlend’s food.

Mrs. Right was rarely crossed in one of her schemes and she found it very inconvenient. Nevertheless, she might need to pull back on this one. She was quite sure that Lady Margaret would have guessed the housekeeper was behind it. Who else would have both the opportunity and nerve to do it? While the duke was generally so approving of any little thing she did for the family, his ire against Lord Dashlend had seemed to soften on account of the lord rescuing his daughter from a fire.

Perhaps she could still locate some nettles and quietly add them to his bedding.