Page 6 of Lady Graceless (A Series of Senseless Complications #2)

M iles sat in the sunny garden of the inn with a pot of coffee, musing over his circumstances. He had noticed, throughout the course of his life, that when one was in the middle of a thing, one did not have the faculties to really examine it. It was only when the moment had passed and there was time for reflection that clarity arrived like an oil lamp to illuminate the darkness.

The duke and his daughters, their alarming housekeeper, and their newly-acquired three-legged dog, had departed the inn two days before. While waiting for his butler to turn up with money and clothes, Miles had plenty of time for reflection.

It really was some sort of miracle that he had not been forever lost at sea. And then, there was something to the duke being on hand at the beach at just the convenient moment that smacked of divine intervention.

Could it be so? Were the fates attempting to tell him something? If they had been all along trying to communicate, he supposed they’d finally thrown up their hands and decided to almost kill him to see if he would perceive the message that way.

Nothing in his life before that squall at sea had hinted at the precariousness of his existence so directly. He was extraordinarily lucky to have been born into a title; he’d always recognized that fact—there was not much difference between himself and a local farmer but for education and money. But even the extraordinarily lucky could be taken out of life in a moment.

He was well aware that there would be plenty of the ton who would vehemently disagree over luck having anything to do with their position in life. They soothed what might be a twinge of conscience for having so much and others having little by the idea that there was a nobility in their blood that made it right.

It was all nonsense, of course. If one traveled far back in time to the first titles handed out, what did one find? A bunch of men at the right place at the right time who backed the right side.

As he was so lucky to have been born on the finest bed sheets, perhaps he ought to recognize that the luck carried responsibilities. He must have an heir. To fail to do so would put the earldom into Montclave’s hands. The thought was intolerable.

In any case, he was not at all opposed to wedding a lady. He’d just not spent any time thinking about it.

Now he did spend time thinking about it. He spent time thinking about what qualities he would seek. His mind kept circling back to Lady Grace—she really was rather terrific.

Her family was odd, to put it mildly, and led by the oddest of them all—the duke. He supposed that did not signify though. If anything, he was rather charmed that the duke did not put on airs, as any duke would be expected to do. He did not peer down his nose at all the world, but rather met it with good humor. He met it eccentrically, if one were to face facts. The whole idea that he did not require a butler was strange indeed. And then there was the brocabbage pie…

Miles suspected the duke did not think there was anything particularly special about his blood either. Certainly, his daughters did not put on the sort of airs one so often saw from ladies highly placed. They did not practice the reserve Miles found vaguely unpleasant. They were not persnickety, but in fact rather casual. They had not insisted on a puffball of a purebred dog, but had gone wild for a three-legged, half-blind cur.

It was too soon to come to any firm opinions, but he was invited to dinner on Tuesday next. He was also invited to personally return the duke’s clothes. He would take up both of those opportunities. He would not confine himself to only that either. Miles would rein in some of his activities to make room for the sort of social events one went to when one was interested in meeting a lady. Less fencing, boxing, and racing, more dancing, routs, and whatever else the matrons of society were up to these days.

His musings were unceremoniously interrupted by his valet. Miles did not suppose it would be a pleasant interruption, as Moreau was looking very red in the face and perspiring.

“Moreau has walked miles to a laundress, as we are in the middle of nowhere and no civilized transportation is to be had. Then, Moreau waited hours for our clothes to be laundered and pressed, and then he staggered back again. This, all under the English sun which never comes out unless Moreau must exert himself.

“As you might imagine,” Moreau went on, “the company of the laundress and her two unfortunate-looking daughters was a delight. It seems those genial ladies are in the habit of trading in the business of local news. How I was regaled with interesting facts! It seems a young farrier has run off with a shopkeeper’s daughter! Where was this shop, I wonder, as I have not seen any shops! But that is a small matter, as I was fortunate enough to be told the entire tedious story.”

Miles dearly hoped he was not to hear the story too, though he supposed his wish would not be granted.

“I am not certain I could have carried on with life if I had been forced to struggle forward without the details of that fascinating interlude. Apparently, the shopkeeper’s daughter was always known as a flirt and may have flashed an ankle at the young farrier. There was even speculation that she paints her face to give herself a blush. Ah, but now my head is filled with this important information, and I can sleep peacefully at night. Also, that butler of yours has just pulled into the yard with your carriage.”

Miles leapt to his feet. It was really very typical of Moreau to list out all his complaints before getting to the real point. His carriage and clothes and money, along with his far more sensible servant, Wainwright, had arrived.

For the past two days he had been stagnant and waiting, but now it was time for action. He would see to The Marquessa , make arrangements to get her back to Hull, and then he would set off for Town.

Somewhere in London, his future was waiting for him. His duty was waiting for him. He had been given back his life, and it was time he got on with the business of it.

*

Though there were times when Grace found the endless hours of travel tedious, she had not been bored at all after they’d left Lord Dashlend at The Dolphin and the Dove. There had been so much to think about.

Naturally, Lord Dashlend had been much in her thoughts. Grace was a rather sensible creature at heart, at least she thought so. Therefore, she did remind herself that she had only met one gentleman, briefly. She ought not get carried away with imaginings. The season was yet to come.

And then, Nelson had provided interest along the way. They made the occasional stop so the dog might relieve himself at the roadside and it was fascinating to watch her sisters care for him.

He was leashed with a silk shawl, his collar made from a pearl necklace. Serenity, Patience, Winsome, and Verity all stood round him to make certain he did not run off and be left behind.

At the various inns where they stopped for the night, Nelson was at table for dinner. The duke did at first question it, but he was roundly scolded by his daughters. He had told them all that if they lost track of Nelson he would be left behind, therefore he must never be out of sight of someone in the family.

Serenity had even posited that Nelson might be in danger of being stolen. He was so unique that someone spotting him alone in a garden might wish him for their own.

Grace thought that rather a stretch of Serenity’s emotional imagination. As fond of him as they’d grown, she could not quite envision a person becoming consumed with envy over a three-legged dog who routinely bumped into things because he only had one good eye. Even had Nelson not experienced those two setbacks in life, he was unprepossessing to begin. He was very small, but he had not the charming looks of a lapdog. His eyes were of the bulging variety, forever giving him a look of faint surprise. His coat was rough, it was not quite curly but not altogether straight. He had an unfortunate underbite and his tongue seemed somehow longer than it ought to be. Her good sense told her that the luckiest day of Nelson’s life had been the day soft-hearted Serenity Nicolet had spotted him.

Of course, there was a certain charm to Nelson’s oddities that could not be denied. Even Winsome was defeated by them and Grace had caught her father having a confidential conversation with Nelson at breakfast one morning. She could not say how much of the conversation Nelson had taken in, as he seemed to be wholly engrossed by the platter of bacon on the table.

Finally, though, their caravan had arrived to Grosvenor Square.

As they all piled out of the carriages, the front doors swung open and a rather small and nondescript fellow dressed in a somber black suit of clothes appeared.

Mr. Button, no doubt.

“What ho?” the duke called to him. “Who are you and what do you do in my house?”

The man looked startled to be questioned in such a manner. As he would be, Grace supposed. He would not know of the duke’s penchant for a jest.

The man hurried forward and bowed. “Mr. Harold Button, Your Grace,” he said. “Lady Marchfield employed me to serve as your butler.”

“Did she now?” the duke said, looking Mr. Button up and down.

“Indeed, she did, Your Grace,” Mr. Button said. “She told me she had informed you?”

“Did she now?”

Mr. Button seemed highly perplexed. “Indeed, she did say so. She also left a letter here for you when you arrived.”

“Did she now?”

Mr. Button nodded. “Again, yes she did, Your Grace.”

“Well, we’ll see about that,” the duke said. “Here is Mrs. Right, she runs the place.”

Mr. Button stepped back and narrowed his eyes upon hearing Mrs. Right mentioned. Grace supposed Lady Marchfield had painted a very dark picture of their beloved housekeeper.

“Try not to get underfoot,” the duke said. “While you’re here.”

“While I am…”

The duke did not elaborate. Naturally, Mr. Button could not have been further encouraged by Mrs. Right’s grave nod.

Grace did not suppose she needed to stay for any more of the interaction. She bolted through the doors and up the stairs, determined to secure the room that Felicity had used the season before.

She got there first, slammed the door, and locked it for good measure. Then she spent the next half hour admiring the bedchamber and the dressing room as the battle for rooms raged outside the door. Verity had twice tried Grace’s lock somehow thinking to trick her into opening it. It sounded as if Serenity and Patience had rolled round the floor for a while. Winsome found the room she liked and slammed her door, occasionally shouting insults from behind it. Valor only wept, and Grace did not know why she did not just go to the room she had the year before. It was the closest to the servants’ stairs and allowed her to access Mrs. Right or to slip down to the kitchens to steal a biscuit. Nobody would fight her for it as it was also the smallest.

Nelson seemed enlivened by the whole fracas and barked with enthusiasm. Grace could hear his three paws and unusual gait click-clacking up and down the corridor.

As all battles do, the fighting eventually wound down. Not even the most determined army could fight on forever. Peace treaties were agreed to when Mrs. Right turned up and sorted everybody as to where they ought to go.

Grace peeked out and saw that the corridor was once more quiet. Even Nelson had retreated to somebody’s room. She hurried downstairs, as her second piece of business was to see what invitations had come in.

There was nothing on the side table in the great hall. She made her way to the drawing room and there she found her father with a glass of brandy and stacks of letters.

“Papa,” she said, hurrying to his side, “are those invitations?”

“So they are, except for this ridiculous missive Lady Misery has sent.”

“Oh dear, what does our aunt say?”

“The usual nonsense. She goes on and on about our disgraceful behavior last season and how it will not be long tolerated by those in society who matter. Who are they that matter so much, I wonder? She caps the whole thing off with dire warnings that you will never make a match unless we shape up.”

“That is not true, though, is it?” Grace said. “We cannot be condemned just for being ourselves? After all, what else can we do? We cannot remake ourselves in my aunt’s image.”

The duke laughed and said, “If any one of my girls began to take after Lady Misery, I would throw her to the street.”

Grace smiled, as it was another of her father’s empty threats. None of them would ever take on Lady Marchfield’s grim ways, and even if they did, her Papa would not throw them to the street.

“Now Gracie, I like to learn from mistakes, whenever I do make them. Which is not often, by the by. Last year, I allowed Lady Misery to manage my calendar. Never again—it brings her to the house far too often. You’re a sensible girl, I leave it to you to accept or decline invitations as you see fit. If there is anything in there from Lady Albright and her stupid tiger, set it alight. We will most definitely not attend her.”

“Perhaps she will not venture to repeat her special evening showing off her animal collection, on account of last year’s fiasco.”

Grace really did think it likely that the lady would not wish to repeat the experience. Having one’s tiger on the loose and responsible for gravely injuring a guest could not be comfortable.

“Who knows what that old bat will do,” the duke said. “But as I did fill her front hall with two thousand pence and did throw a padlock through her window, we will probably not be welcome in any case.”

“Goodness, that was amusing. As to the invitations, I am sure I will be up to the task. Though, my aunt will not like it,” Grace said pensively.

“Yes, I know,” the duke said, laughing. “That’s the other advantage of it.”

Grace supposed that while Lady Marchfield would not like it, there would not be anything she could do about it. Further, it was an honor that her father placed the trust in her to manage it.

She swept up the piles of letters and put them on a side table. “I will go through them after dinner. I am sure my sisters would like to help me. You do suppose that Mr. Button will have arranged a dinner of some sort?”

The duke shrugged. “It hardly matters—Cook arrived days ago and would have sorted it all out. Meanwhile, Mrs. Right is just now downstairs with the staff. How I would like to hide behind a doorframe to hear what she’s got to say to Mr. Button!

*

Mrs. Right had chuckled to herself when she’d set eyes on Mr. Button. If it came to a wrestling match, she could pin him to the ground in under a minute. How on earth had Lady Marchfield thought to send such a weak specimen to do battle with her?

She thought she understood Mr. Button’s type—he’d been all obsequiousness to the duke, and those types were the most insidious. They did not dare throw round any orders upstairs, but they made up for it when they were downstairs. She’d seen it in his eyes as he looked over the footmen as they descended from the duke’s carriage.

She would set out to make quick work of this butler and she would begin at once. The faster he could land himself in a house that needed a bossy butler, the happier he would be. In the end, it would be a kindness that she got rid of him.

Mrs. Right paused before turning the corner into the servants’ hall. Just as she had suspected, Mr. Button was busy making everything and everybody uncomfortable.

“Charlie, Thomas, as my two footmen, you will be expected to meet certain standards. When I say certain standards, I mean the highest standards. I will accept nothing less than perfection. As well, I must tell you that Lady Marchfield has painted you as lax in the extreme. I hope for your sakes that she has been led astray in that opinion. As for the kitchen staff, I will demand that everything be well-timed and to the duke’s liking. The maids of the house are to know that good enough is no longer good enough! I will tour the rooms on a regular basis, searching out dust in every corner. Do not let me find it. I will apprise Mrs. Right of that fact so there is to be no confusion about expectations.”

The highest standards indeed. He would apprise her of facts, would he? Time to throw the cold water of reality on this little dictator. Mrs. Right hurried into the servants’ hall. She stopped short and stared at Mr. Button.

“Mrs. Right?” he said in response to her stare.

She sniffed into the air as if she was deeply offended. “Sir, I do not like to be forced to speak so plainly, but there are those moments in a lady’s life where she is forced to speak plainly. You will of course know what I refer to.”

Clearly Mr. Button was put on his back foot by such a pronouncement. How could he be otherwise? There was nothing to refer to.

“I am sorry, Mrs. Right,” Mr. Button said. “But as you did mention speaking plainly, perhaps you would do so? I haven’t any idea what you are referring to.”

Mrs. Right huffed and turned to Charlie. The senior footman looked at her with arched brows, as if he could hardly believe what he was hearing. It was really very good acting as he’d been well-briefed on the game.

“You see which way the wind blows, Charlie?” she said. “He will pretend to know nothing.”

Charlie nodded. “Aye. Though we all saw it with our own two eyes.”

“Saw what?” Mr. Button said, the tone of alarm in his voice giving him away.

“It is really too much, Mr. Button!” Mrs. Right said. “The idea that you would attempt to confuse and bewilder a poor maiden. It is really beyond reason.”

“What poor maiden?” Mr. Button asked, looking round the room for a poor maiden of any description.

Mrs. Right pulled her shawl tight around her. Charlie said, “Come now, Mr. Button, we all saw you making eyes at our Mrs. Right when she alighted from the carriage.”

“What… making eyes? You are the poor maiden? Mrs. Right, you are much mistaken! I have never made eyes at anyone in my life!”

Mrs. Right used all her self-control to stop from laughing, as she was very sure Mr. Button never had made eyes at anybody.

“Rest assured, Mr. Button,” Mrs. Right said gravely, “you will find my bedchamber door securely locked at night.”

“Your… your door!” Mr. Button cried. “What do you imply?”

“I will put a chair against it too.”

With that, she hurried up the stairs and left the rest of the staff to frown at the butler. She did not suppose he would last a week.

*

Miles had finally arrived to Chesterfield Street, and what a journey it had been. Never again would he ride in the same carriage with Moreau and Wainwright. A hysterical valet and a snide butler were a combination that did not mix well.

Moreau would go on one of his long tirades about the various mishaps that had befallen him in the past week. Wainwright would roll his eyes into the back of his head and mutter, “And yet, you are still alive. Why are my hopes always so cruelly dashed?”

Moreau would threaten to leap across the carriage and pummel him over the insult. Wainwright would raise his fists and say, “Ready when you are.”

This would set Moreau to sulking, as there was no minute in the history of all time that he would ever be ready to engage in fisticuffs.

When the carriage rolled to a stop at the house, Miles did not even wait for Wainwright to get ahead of him and open the doors. A footman had been on the lookout for them and had the doors open and that was good enough.

Though, Miles could not quite understand the look on the young fellow’s face. He looked terrified.

Miles paused and said, “James, what is wrong with you?”

James was usually all cool arrogance on account of being the senior of the footmen, though he was still very young for it.

“My lord,” he whispered, “Baron Montclave has installed himself in the house! He turned up and said he would lead the search for you, but I told him you were already found. He said he’d need that confirmed because it might not be true.”

“The presuming rogue,” Miles said. “And I don’t suppose he’s done much looking, has he? Did he think I was lost on the Thames?”

James shook his head. “He’s just done a lot of drinking, my lord. We did not know how to stop him!”

“I’ll take care of it. Where is he?”

James nodded toward the drawing room.

Miles should have known. He could already smell the cigar smoke coming from that location. He strode through the drawing room doors.

Montclave had certainly heard the carriage arriving, as he was on his feet and facing the doors. “Cousin!” he said in that false ingratiating way he had. “Thank the heavens you have survived your ordeal.”

“Yes, I was very fortunate.”

“Indeed, indeed. Naturally, I rushed to the scene as soon as I heard you were missing. The poor earl is laid up with the gout just now and so it fell on my shoulders to lead.”

“The scene was never anywhere near London, and you planned to lead what?” Miles asked, fascinated to know what Montclave’s answer would be.

“Well, someone had to be on hand,” Montclave said. “Should the worst have happened.”

Miles smiled. “I see. Fortunately, the worst did not happen and you may be on your way. Very good news all round, I’d say.”

“Is that the best course of action, though?” Montclave said. “I suspect you remain weak from your misadventure and may even experience a setback. Perhaps it would be best to keep me on hand to watch over things as you proceed with your recovery.”

The rogue was as transparent as glass. “Nonsense,” Miles said, “I am fit as a fiddle. Now, I will not hold you up.” He turned to the drawing room doors and said, “Wainwright, pack the baron’s things for him. Tell the coachman to hold off putting away the horses—he will take the baron wherever in Town he wishes to go.”

As he turned back toward Montclave, he saw the pleasant facade he wore slip for a moment and reveal a look of real hatred. Just as fast as it had made its appearance, it disappeared again.

“If you intend to make your way back to Norfolk, you will be in time to catch a coach from The Swan,” Miles said. “Do give the dowager my regards.”

“Perhaps I will stay in London for now,” Montclave said. “I have a friend on Bolton Street.”

“Ah, a friend, I hadn’t thought. Well! Very considerate of you to take time out of your no doubt crammed calendar to attend me,” Miles said. He left his cousin in the drawing room, confident his staff would see the gentleman out the doors. After he was gone, Miles would order all the windows opened to get rid of that unpleasant cigar smoke.