Page 5 of Lady Graceless (A Series of Senseless Complications #2)

G race had been up very late, as the moment they retired to their beds at The Dolphin and the Dove a minute examination of Viscount Dashlend had commenced.

Verity approved of him, as he’d admitted to disliking Almack’s, which she thought was a very brave stance.

Serenity approved of him, as she sensed in him a sensitive soul. She pointed out how stricken he looked upon hearing of all that had been done to Mr. Percy Stratton before that gentleman wed Felicity.

Patience said she could not decide, which was very aggravating. She did not, as a habit, like to dilly-dally on deciding. It seemed the sticking point was that he did not put up a vigorous defense against the charge that he might be a murderer. She did not think he was, but she would have expected a more robust explanation than murderers did not arrive by shipwreck.

All through these discussions, Grace made herself out to be merely curious over her sister’s opinions while holding no firm opinion of her own.

She did have an opinion, though. She thought Lord Dashlend was rather marvelous. He was such a strapping specimen of a man. He had very dark hair and eyes, and a nose with just a touch of the Roman in it, and a squarish chin. She’d never seen such a man.

He was so genial too. Grace understood from Felicity that a person encountering all of the Nicolets at once might feel a bit overwhelmed. Aside from his flinching when Winsome explained why he could not be a murderer, he’d not seemed overwhelmed at all.

What was a question, though, was that she really could not gauge if he thought anything particular of her. She could not measure what sort of effect it had on the gentleman that she possessed two left feet. She did, everybody knew it, but perhaps so early in the acquaintance was not the moment for her father to mention it.

There would be no end of ladies in Town who did not have two left feet. Why should Lord Dashlend be interested in a lady not so blessed?

Grace knew very well that her father would have mentioned it thinking it would be helpful. After all, he’d been ever so helpful to Felicity with Mr. Percy Stratton.

But then, she could look on the side of hope—there was every chance she could become more graceful than she currently was. Perhaps she was already improving. It was true that she had missed that last step down to the beach, but it had been covered in sand. Anybody could have missed it. Other than that, she’d acquitted herself very well.

In truth, it seemed to her that these long carriage rides somehow did her good. She’d noticed it last year when they’d gone to Town. It was a very odd thing, but the jostling of it caused her to feel steadier on her feet for days. She’d even tried it out at home by hopping up and down and it did seem to help.

She’d fallen asleep keeping hope in her heart. Grace did not know what other gentlemen she would meet in London, but she had met Lord Dashlend.

He was exceedingly interesting.

The following morning had been the usual Nicolet confusion of somehow getting everybody going in the same direction. Grace had been sure to go down early for breakfast. She was rather thrilled to find Viscount Dashlend already there, sitting across from Mrs. Right.

The Viscount rose as she made her way to the chair by Mrs. Right. The housekeeper poured her a cup of tea and said, “I’ve just told Lord Dashlend all about our last butler, as he inquired about the one that awaits us.”

“Poor Mr. Sykes-Wycliff,” Grace said. “We all do hope he’s settled himself in a house that really needs a butler.”

“Might I ask,” Viscount Dashlend said, “is there a particular reason why the duke’s household does not require a butler?”

Mrs. Right’s teacup came down on her saucer with a quiet clatter. “I’m the reason, Lord Dashlend. I, Mrs. Agnes Right, am the reason the duke does not require a butler.”

“I see, yes of course,” the lord said hurriedly.

Just then, a boy who worked for the inn ran in and said, “Lord Dashlend, this was just delivered by fast messenger.” He handed over a sealed letter.

Lord Dashlend opened it and scanned it. He seemed very pleased with his contents. “My butler is on his way with money and clothes and my carriage. He has already written to a local shipwright. He is pleased that I am alive, as he sent out various search parties looking for me, though it seems they looked in the wrong place—I was much further south than they imagined.”

“That is very good news,” Grace said, though really she had been hoping that there might be a chance the lord would continue relying on the duke’s hospitality.

Lord Dashlend suddenly laughed. “He writes that I did not mention the fate of my valet, but he presumes Moreau is alive as things never do go his way.”

Mrs. Right laughed heartily at the joke. “A clever butler. Now that might be somebody I could tolerate, as opposed to these ridiculous fellows Lady Marchfield sends my way.”

“Really?” Lord Dashlend said.

“No,” Mrs. Right answered.

Valor hurried into the room, dragging her stuffed rabbit behind her. “I made it through the night,” she said, settling on the other side of Mrs. Right.

Lord Dashlend looked at Valor enquiringly.

Valor stared back and said, “From murderers, Lord Dashlend. As you can see with your own eyes, I am not murdered.”

Grace noted a small smile playing at the edge of his lips. “Yes, as anyone can see, you are looking very vital and alive.”

Valor nodded. “Mrs. Wendover woke me twice in the night because of scary noises, but nobody got in.”

“And you woke me up both times to tell me what Mrs. Wendover said, you naughty little mite,” Mrs. Right said.

“She made me wake you up, she said you should be informed,” Valor said, once more throwing Mrs. Wendover to the proverbial wolves.

“Is Mrs. Wendover the governess?” Lord Dashlend asked.

This sent them all into the giggles. Valor held up her ragged stuffed rabbit. “This is Mrs. Wendover.”

Lord Dashlend seemed very surprised to find it out. Grace realized that all along he’d thought Mrs. Wendover was some mysterious lady hidden behind a door somewhere.

The duke strode into the room and said, “Well, here is part of my unfortunate brood, though heaven knows where the rest of them have got off to.”

Grace had reached for a roll to throw at her father’s head, but then put it on her plate. That habit had begun to seem rather childish. At least, while Viscount Dashlend was in view.

The duke noticed and gave her a wink. “Well then, Dashlend, I suppose you’ve sorted yourself out?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the viscount said. “Your help through this mishap has been very much appreciated.”

“No bother, no bother at all,” the duke said. “Now I suppose you’ll like to come to dinner when you get yourself back to Town.”

Grace noticed the viscount’s eyes widen just a bit before she put her eyes on her toast.

“Delighted,” the viscount said.

She wondered if he really was delighted. He might be, or he might have only been polite.

“Tuesday next,” the duke said. “You’ll be back by then I am sure.”

Before the viscount could say whether or not he would be in London by that time, the door to the dining room crashed open.

“Papa,” Serenity said, a single tear meandering down her cheek.

“Let me guess,” the duke said. “You’ve found another dead bee in a garden. I’ve told you time and again—bees do die on occasion. If they didn’t, we’d be overrun with them and you would not like it.”

Grace naturally noticed the confusion on the viscount’s countenance, as he could not know that Serenity wept over any and all dead things she came upon.

“No, Papa,” Serenity said. “It’s just that I am afraid you will not like what I am to tell you and I should just cry and cry over it. But there is room in the carriages—there really is. It will be fine, I promise.”

“We do not need room in the carriages—Dashlend here has got himself sorted on his own.”

“Not him ,” Serenity said. Grace blushed at her tone, as it seemed to say that the viscount was of the least importance.

Patience, Winsome, and Verity appeared behind Serenity.

“Have you told him?” Patience asked.

“Have you mentioned how usual a case this is?” Verity asked.

“She has not mentioned how usual it is, because it is not,” Winsome said, challenging Verity’s supposition.

The duke sighed. “I am afraid this is not a circumstance of a dead bee.”

“No, Papa,” Serenity said. “It is about a dog who has tragically lost one of his legs.”

The duke sat up a little straighter. “I see. Now, you girls sit in here and close the door behind me. I’ll have a word with the innkeeper and we’ll put the poor thing out of its misery. Patience, cover Serenity’s ears, and Verity, cover Valor’s so they do not hear the shot.”

The viscount had jumped from his seat. “I will come with you, Your Grace.”

“You cannot shoot him!” Serenity cried.

“Why would you shoot him?” Patience asked.

“It is the kindest thing,” the duke said. “It would not be kind to prolong its suffering, even though the necessary outcome upsets you.”

“He is not suffering, though, Papa,” Serenity said. “He is ever so cheerful.”

This news seemed to take everyone aback, as nobody could imagine a dog who’d just lost a leg being at all cheerful.

“Verity,” Serenity said, “do go and get him while I make sure nobody goes looking for a gun to shoot him with.”

Verity hurried off and everyone stared at one another, very afraid they were to be presented with a dying dog.

“You will fall instantly in love with him,” Serenity said. “I feel that deeply in my heart.”

“I do not often agree with Serenity’s brand of heartfelt codswallop,” Winsome said, “but in this particular case I daresay she is right.”

Grace did not know what to think. They were to fall in love with a dying dog, and then perhaps even more strange—Winsome agreed with Serenity.

The door opened and everyone at table braced themselves for what they would be forced to witness. Valor went so far as to go under the table, taking Mrs. Wendover with her.

Verity came through with a very small dog with a rough-looking tan coat, bulging brown eyes, and three legs.

There was no blood though.

“You see, Papa?” Serenity said. “He is perfect, but for the missing leg.”

“He really is so perfect,” Patience said. “Look, when he wags his tail, his tongue hangs out.”

“He gets around just fine,” Winsome said. “We don’t think he even knows he’s one leg short of a set.”

“We had a confidential conversation with the innkeeper,” Serenity said, “and it seems this poor little mite has no home. He just hangs round the inn.” Serenity took that moment to burst into tears. “Hoping for scraps, Papa! Scraps!” she cried.

“All right, all right, settle down, my girl,” the duke said. “No need to go blubbering over a stray dog.”

“But that is just it, Papa,” Verity said. “That is the good news—he is our dog now!”

The duke sighed long and deep. He turned to Mrs. Right. “What is your opinion on this, Mrs. Right? I will be guided by your judgment.”

Mrs. Right considered the matter. She said, “He will need a deal of looking after, but on the other hand, we had seriously considered bringing a pair of stoats into the house. I reckon he will not be as much trouble as that.”

Grace had almost forgotten that Felicity had even gone so far as to read books about stoats after viewing a pair at Lady Albright’s house. They’d not gone forward with the idea only because none of them knew where to locate a pair that might wish to join the household.

“I see,” the duke said. “So it is out with the stoats idea, and in with the three-legged dog.”

This caused a pandemonium that went on for some minutes and involved much kissing of their father’s head and cheeks. The dog seemed relatively unperturbed by the ruckus and spent his time staring at the food on the table.

Serenity, so attuned to others’ feelings, took the dog from Verity and fed him a rasher of bacon and a buttered roll.

“Might I inquire as to what this undersized cur’s name is?” the duke asked.

“His name is Nelson, Papa,” Winsome said. “You know, like poor Lord Nelson who lost his arm.”

Lord Dashlend snorted over it. “Nelson will be very flattered, I’m sure.”

Serenity, Verity, Patience, and Winsome stared at the viscount, as if to communicate to him that they did not find jests at Nelson’s expense at all funny.

“Now you see it, Dashlend,” the duke said. “You see what I have to put up with. I’m trying to get them out of the house and they’re bringing creatures into it.”

Valor emerged from her location under the table and looked warily at Nelson. “Is he going to get bigger? How big? Does he bite?”

Mrs. Right patted her hand. “Do not you fret over it, my dear. Even if he were to chase you, he’d never catch you.”

“Oh I see,” Valor said, “because he’s only got the three legs.”

“That’s right.”

“And also, Valor, he’s blind in one eye,” Serenity said.

“Of course he is,” the duke said. “It’s not enough that you have dragged in a mutt of unknown parentage who lost a leg somewhere or other, but he’s blind in one eye too. I would expect nothing less.”

“Mrs. Wendover does find it reassuring that he’s only got three legs and one working eye,” Valor said.

The duke rose. “Of course she does. Well now, we better get this circus moving. Serenity, you are in charge of that dog—if we leave him behind somewhere, that’s where he stays.”

This appeared to strike terror into the hearts of Serenity, Verity, Patience, and Winsome. “We will all work together,” Winsome said. “We will have eyes on him at all times.”

The other girls nodded their agreement.

“I will pack up some food in a napkin,” Verity said. “It is a well-known fact that dogs will follow who feeds them.”

“We will need a leash, I will go find something we can use,” Patience said, sprinting from the room.

“I will pat his head,” Serenity said, “so he knows he’s loved and we hardly noticed that one of his legs is missing and he’s practically blind.”

The viscount rose from his chair. “Your Grace, I will take my leave of you, as it appears you have your hands full at the moment. Thank you for your assistance yesterday. I will have your clothes returned in good order when I am back to Town.”

“You should bring them back yourself,” Valor said. “I am pretty convinced you are not a murderer and you could see how Nelson gets on.”

The viscount nodded and said, “If Lady Grace is agreeable.”

Grace almost fell off her chair. She steadied herself and said, “As you wish, Lord Dashlend.”

It was a rather nonsensical answer, but Grace did feel it had a certain elegant nonchalance to it.

“Perhaps I do wish, then,” the viscount said.

“All right, all right, I think that’s settled,” the duke said jovially. “Now, time to shove off with this collection of lunatics.”

Grace rose and curtsied to Lord Dashlend. What a morning!

*

Richard Burdock, Second Baron of Montclave, stood in the drawing room contemplating his mother.

“You will need to be on the scene, whichever way it goes,” the dowager said.

The it in question was regarding whether or not Dashlend was alive.

Lord Dashlend was his cousin and also, conveniently, his neighbor. Because of the proximity, the servants of both houses often spoke. Occasionally, something of import was said and that news traveled straight back to the baron and the dowager.

Never had a more important piece of information arrived to their drawing room—Dashlend was missing at sea. Fishermen had been hired and had gone out for two days with no sight of the viscount and his valet.

“He always fancied himself the yachtsman,” Montclave said with a derisive laugh. “Very fitting that he should meet his end that way.”

“If he has met his end,” the dowager said. “We must not allow hope to cloud our thinking. If he is dead, wonderful—all problems are solved and you are the new heir to the earldom. If he somehow survives, he is not yet wed and has no issue. We must arrange to keep it that way.”

“I do not see how I am to stop him from a wedding,” Montclave said.

“Nor do I,” the dowager said, her tone tinged with impatience. “That is the sort of thing where one must size up the situation. If he lives, keep track of him. If you perceive that something is developing and heading toward a church, find a way to get in the middle of it. The past year has been very convenient as he was mostly on the continent. But now, he will be in London and encircled by hopeful ladies looking to tie him up in matrimony.”

Montclave did not think it was much of a plan. “Perhaps he is not inclined to the married life. After all, he hasn’t bothered with it up to now.”

“If he is alive,” the dowager said, “I expect his misadventure at sea will have put some starch into him. He will come back a changed man and may well decide it is time to do his manly duty.”

“I suppose the earl will point that out, even if he does not see it himself,” Montclave said morosely. “The servants say the old fellow is irate that Dashlend might be dead without leaving an heir behind him.”

“If the earl were not abed with his gout, I suspect he’d be swimming the sea looking for his only son. Get yourself to Town. We do not know where news of his fate will land first. He keeps that ridiculous boat of his nearby Hull, so news may arrive to London before making its way here. If it is known here first, I will send word.”

Montclave stopped his pacing. “I have an idea. Why do not I install myself in his house in Town, under the guise of leading the search for my dear cousin? The earl cannot travel just now even if he wished to. Ought I not step forward to lead the search from the comforts of Dashlend’s house in Town?”

The dowager, a spry lady of late middle years, nodded vigorously. “Excellent, Montclave. Very clever. It is in these moments that I see your father in you.”

He set off to give direction to his valet on what ought to be packed. He would move into number five, Chesterfield Street. With any luck, Dashlend was dead and he would not be required to ever move out of that house.

As the new heir, his life would be transformed. The clubs would fight for his membership. He would be invited everywhere. He would be given the utmost respect.

It would all suit very well.