Page 7 of Lady Graceless (A Series of Senseless Complications #2)

T he duke and his daughters had arrived in Town on a Tuesday. The following evening would have been the night to attend Almack’s, and despite the duke’s outlandish behavior at that location last season, the voucher for Grace had arrived.

They decided between them that they would not go to Almack’s. The duke arranged payment for the vouchers just in case they changed their minds, but for now they would not purchase tickets.

The duke could not get past the idea that lemonade and stale bread was foisted on him at midnight. Grace claimed she was swayed by Felicity’s opinion of it the year before and that it sounded tiresome. In any case, Lord Dashlend would not be there for the opening ball.

As well, Grace felt an enormous relief at not going because of what it was—the top of the ton there to stare at the ladies newly arrived to Town. She was not so confident in her dancing that she wished her first foray into a ballroom to be that ballroom. She did not fall down very often, most of the time she just felt a little unbalanced, but the risk that she might fall there was too frightening to contemplate.

Grace could not help but reflect on what had happened to Felicity at Almack’s. Her sister’s greatest weakness had been on display. Felicity was sensitive to the smells of roses and vinegar and had the bad luck to dance near a lady who seemed to have bathed in rose water. A sneezing fit had overtaken her and it was so violent she’d needed a marquess’ handkerchief to mop up the explosion. If that could happen to Felicity, why would not Grace’s greatest weakness come to the fore, on display for everyone?

In any case, her Papa said that a duke’s daughter did not need to go scrambling around for approval. They would be invited everywhere anyway, so no need to curtsy to those blasted patronesses.

Grace had spent a lively evening with her sisters going through all the invitations that had arrived, and there were dozens and dozens of them. She had commandeered the duke’s calendar, accepted those invitations that seemed both interesting and respectable, and noted them in her Papa’s book. For others that they would not attend, she sent their regrets in a fine hand.

Of course, she did not know who was who in society as well as Lady Marchfield did, but she felt confident that the title and address of the person sending the invitation, along with the nature of the entertainment, told her enough.

Wednesday night had been another cozy night in, and she and her sisters had commandeered their father into a rousing game of Fact or Fib, the duke as usual drowning in blue tickets for the fibs he told.

Mr. Button was grim-faced during the proceedings. And then a little staggered when Mrs. Right was sent for so she could join in. And then positively pale when Mrs. Right helped herself to a brandy.

Nelson, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy the game immensely. Each time someone, usually the duke, was loudly named a fibber, he cast his own vote into the mix. Nelson jumped up, chased his tail for a minute, bumped into a piece of furniture, and staggered back to his bed that had been made of one of Serenity’s pillows hastily covered in cambric.

Today was Thursday and she and the duke were to make their first foray into society. A dinner would be held by the Earl of Doanellen. The duke could not remember anything specific about the gentleman, but then her father was not a great one for remembering people unless they were people he’d set out to harass. However, the earl’s title and his address on Bolton Street conferred a respectability. On top of that, Grace really felt as if a dinner, and the associated sitting down, would be the most comfortable way to begin her season.

It was the late afternoon and she had settled with her sisters in the drawing room for tea. Mrs. Right had already counseled her to eat more than she might otherwise do as she would wish to appear a dainty eater at the dinner. She said it was one of those ridiculous things that only applied in London.

Grace was not altogether clear why she ought to refrain from eating her fill at the dinner, other than to suppose that a single gentleman would not wish to see her eat an enormous amount and then have visions of being eaten out of house and home.

Mr. Button had been positively gobsmacked to see that Mrs. Right often attended the family in the drawing room and he had not seemed to get used to the idea. In truth, he seemed terrified of Mrs. Right and leapt out of the way any time that lady was heading in his direction as if it would be dangerous to get too near. He had set the tea tray down and been out of the room like a shot.

Mrs. Right had risen and said, “I will just go and see what Mr. Button is up to downstairs. Fanning himself, I hope.”

After a half hour, Mr. Button was back and he did look as if he might have been fanning himself. “Lady Marchfield to see you, Lady Grace.”

Valor snorted. “Nobody told him not to let her in,” she said.

Mr. Button looked horrified over the comment. He stepped aside as their aunt strode into the drawing room.

“Grace,” she said, “I could not account for your absence at Almack’s last evening. I presumed you must have fallen ill.”

“They decided not to go,” Patience said, “on account of it being tedious.”

“And the stupid lemonade,” Winsome said.

“And Papa says the patronesses are harpies,” Valor said, giggling into Mrs. Wendover’s raggedy shoulder.

“And, Aunt,” Serenity said, “I really do feel in my heart that we ought to trust Felicity’s opinion of it. Which was terrible from top to bottom.”

Lady Marchfield turned to Mr. Button and said, “Mr. Button, I pray you are bringing your calm rationality as an example to this household. Do bring me a cup, I will stay for tea. I can see that much needs to be straightened out here.”

Mr. Button hurried to do the lady’s bidding and Lady Marchfield settled herself on a settee.

“Grace, you have done yourself a grave disservice to thumb your nose at Almack’s. I can assure you it was noticed.”

Grace did not answer that charge, though it did make her uncomfortable. She did not wish for anyone to imagine she thumbed her nose. She only did not want to go.

“As for the rest of you, your comments are not ladylike, and they are not even true. Your father’s influence will do you no favors in the wider world and the sooner you take that in, the better. Now, I have come to begin reviewing the invitations that have arrived and set your course for the season.”

All eyes turned to Grace. Valor leaned over and whispered rapidly to Mrs. Wendover. The rabbit’s dead black eyes did not reveal what she thought of the information just communicated to her.

“As it happens, Aunt,” Grace said, “my father put me in charge of the invitations this season.”

The room was in silence as everyone in it looked to Lady Marchfield to see how that development would settle.

Mr. Button arrived back with a cup for Lady Marchfield. He seemed terrified of the silence, set it down and hurried out, closing the doors behind him.

“You are to choose the entertainments? That is absurd,” Lady Marchfield said.

“It’s true, though,” Winsome pointed out.

“But you have not… you have not gone forward with such an idea?” Lady Marchfield asked.

“I have been very careful, Aunt,” Grace said. “I have only accepted invitations from titled persons who live at a good address. This evening, we go to the Earl of Doanellen’s house on Bolton Street for dinner.”

“Doanellen?” Lady Marchfield asked.

Such was her tone that Grace wondered if she’d somehow made a mistake. But certainly she could not have. He was an earl at a good address.

“Is he a rogue?” Valor asked.

Ever since last season’s warning about rogues, Valor had been obsessed with the idea. Though, she still was not clear what a rogue was.

Lady Marchfield sniffed. “It is my understanding that the Earl of Doanellen has very cruelly left his countess to live alone in the countryside.”

Patience guffawed. “Oh, I wish Papa was here,” she said. “You know what he would say? He’d say, isn’t Marchfield always trying to leave you in the countryside? It’s not true, that’s why it’s so funny.”

Lady Marchfield glared at Patience. Then she turned to Grace and said, “I do not know who you will encounter at that dinner, but you ought to be very careful of it.”

“Of course I will be careful anywhere that I go,” Grace said. “And Papa will take me, nothing could be safer.”

“What about Lord Dashlend?” Serenity asked. “Is he going too, Grace?”

“What about Lord Dashlend?” Lady Marchfield asked.

“We met him on the road,” Valor said. “He was shipwrecked, and Papa took him to our inn. After a lot of conversations with Mrs. Wendover, I am convinced he is not a murderer.”

“Why on earth would you imagine that he was?” Lady Marchfield asked.

“Because he was a stranger we met on the road,” Valor said with a shrug.

“Where else does one meet murderers?” Verity asked. “It is a very common thing to meet them on the road.”

“It certainly is not and please outgrow your habit of storytelling, Verity,” Lady Marchfield said. “Lord Dashlend is well respected and a Corinthian of the first order. He is the only son of the Earl of Gravesend. That particular earl has not left a wife in the countryside and is everything genial when he is not suffering from the gout.”

This buoyed Grace quite a bit. Though she had reminded herself that Lord Dashlend was the first gentleman she’d encountered and that she did not know enough about him, it had not stopped her from thinking of him. She was sensible enough to be cognizant of the idea that she might think of him so often because he was the first and only gentleman she had met so far. For all that, she was gratified that he seemed to be everything she had imagined.

“Though, I must inform you that it has been widely understood that Lord Dashlend is always so taken up with his sporting that he’s not looked for a wife. In fact, he accepts very few social engagements during the season.”

As fast as she had been buoyed up, Grace was cast back down. The possibility had not occurred to her.

“He’s coming to dinner,” Winsome said. “He accepted that invitation.”

“Really? When is this dinner? I presume my brother will have the good sense, and the good grace for that matter, to extend me an invitation.”

The sisters all looked at one another. Verity said, “It is next Wednesday, Aunt.”

Nobody corrected Verity. The dinner was on Tuesday next, but Grace thought Verity’s habit of fibbing had finally been put to good use. She did respect Lady Marchfield, but the lady was so prone to throwing cold water on any sort of merriment.

Out of the corner of her eye, Grace saw the drawing room doors open just a crack. Charlie peered through, and then sent Nelson inside, shutting the door behind the dog.

Nelson, in his usual enthusiastic fashion, raced forward, tripped himself up, staggered back on his three legs, and licked the hand of the nearest person to him, which was Lady Marchfield.

She snatched her hand away and rubbed it with a napkin. “What on earth is that?”

“His name is Nelson,” Serenity said. “He is just the loveliest dog in the world.”

“Really,” Lady Marchfield said. She did not say it as a question, but more as a condemnation. “Might I ask how it is that you are in possession of an ill-bred cur who is missing a leg?”

“We found him at The Dolphin and the Dove,” Winsome said.

Serenity brushed a tear away. “He was living on scraps, Aunt. Scraps .”

“People are so cruel,” Patience said. “Can you imagine? Just because he is short of one leg and can only see out of one eye, he is meant to live on scraps?”

Nelson took that opportunity to release some noxious fumes in Lady Marchfield’s direction. Grace almost felt sorry for her; she’d been nearby such an eruption herself and it was near overwhelming.

Lady Marchfield staggered to her feet. “That is a wildly inappropriate dog for the daughters of a duke. I pray you keep him to the back garden. Under no circumstances go parading with him round the square. I shudder to imagine what people would think.”

Nobody volunteered the information that Nelson had been out and about in the square every day since they’d arrived. Not even Valor, who pushed her face into Mrs. Wendover’s raggedy form to stop herself from admitting it.

“I will take my leave. I understand Felicity and Mr. Stratton are due to arrive to Town in a day or so—I presume they also will receive an invitation for the dinner next Wednesday. Though really, to have scheduled it for a Wednesday rather than attend Almack’s is bad form in my view.”

With those pronouncements, Lady Marchfield sailed out of the room, her head held high.

After the door closed, Winsome said, “You know what this means? Next Wednesday, when our aunt realizes the dinner was on Tuesday, she is going to explode.”

“I wonder if she will bring our uncle,” Serenity said. “We do not see him near as often and he’s ever so much nicer.”

“I know what we will do,” Verity said, “on Wednesday, we will just say that Lord Dashlend had to cancel for some reason. Then we just have a family dinner with our aunt none the wiser.”

“Excellent notion,” Grace said. She did not know if Lady Marchfield would fall for the ruse or not, but it would be very pleasant to see her uncle. She felt just the littlest bit guilty that they’d given Lady Marchfield the wrong day, but then she felt more strongly that she did not wish for her aunt to throw cold water on her dinner with Lord Dashlend. She did not wish to frighten him off, and Lady Marchfield was the most frightening person she knew.

*

Miles thought it had been deuced odd that Lady Grace had not attended Almack’s on Wednesday. Now it was Thursday and he’d thought to visit the duke’s house with the excuse to return the clothes that had been lent to him. Moreau had worked diligently on the duke’s valet’s oldest set, and probably used too much starch in the pressing. He was convinced he could return the oldest set better than he got them, which would be a silent slap in the face to that inferior valet.

That pleasant errand was not to be. The elderly butler of an even more elderly distant cousin had arrived to the house with a message—Lady Margaret required his attendance instantly.

He’d attempted to question the old fellow regarding the cause. Was the lady in distress or was it only Lady Margaret’s usual eccentricity at work? The lady lived permanently in Town and when the season began, he usually did get an order to present himself. That order usually included the timeframe of instantly.

Marcus, that was the butler’s name, hemmed and hawed and mumbled about his lady getting up in years and not being able to chew meat very well these days. In short, his question had not been answered.

Miles had realized he had no choice but to attend her. She really was getting up in years and there was every chance she did poorly. The season before, he’d suggested she hire a competent companion who could help her manage the household, as the house had begun to look a bit ramshackle and dusty. He doubted that advice had been taken—Lady Margaret was a stubborn old bird.

He made his way to Bedford Square on horseback, the butler returning ahead of him in a hackney. When he arrived, there was nobody to take his horse. He walked him down the mews to the stables and found nothing but empty stalls—no hay, no oats, no water buckets. He finally went across the way to the neighbor’s stables and asked if he could leave his horse there. Lord Marchand’s stablemaster was most accommodating, though Miles had been a little alarmed when the fellow commented that “it was about time one of the lady’s relatives turned up.”

He made his way back to the front of the house and used the door knocker. Marcus opened it up.

“Where is Lawrence?” Miles asked. Lady Margaret’s senior footman usually answered the door.

“Dead,” Marcus said. “Old age, you know.”

Miles entered the great hall, wondering how Lady Margaret got on with only one footman.

“What has happened to the stables?” he asked. “Where is the stablemaster or at least a groom? Where are the horses?”

“Dead,” Marcus said. “Old age, you know.” Marcus paused. “That’s not right. The horses aren’t dead, they were sold on account of the coachman being dead. From old age.”

Miles looked round the empty great hall. “The other footman who was here? Where is he?”

“Dead. Fell down the stairs from old age.”

This was worse than Miles had imagined it would be. “I suppose you had better take me to Lady Margaret. I presume she is not dead?”

“Her? No, she’s a tough old thing.”

Marcus began a very slow shuffle toward the drawing room. “Never mind it,” Miles said, fearing it might take a quarter hour to arrive at the rate they were going. “I will show myself in.”

Marcus very gratefully sank down into one of the numerous chairs lined along the walls. Miles supposed they were there for when Marcus could not go further.

He opened the drawing room doors. “Lady Margaret?” he said to the tiny old lady practically swallowed by her sofa. She was like a little bird sitting in a nest.

“Is that you, Dashlend? Aren’t you a dear for coming to me.”

“You did send an order that I was to come instantly.”

“Ah, so I did. Instant always gets people’s attention. They wonder if I’m taking my last breaths, you see.”

Miles looked round the room and it really was in a state. There was dust everywhere, and more incredible, a pile of dirty dishes sitting on a bookshelf. He supposed that was as far as Marcus had been able to get with them.

“Sit, sit,” Lady Margaret said. “You might as well relax, it will take Marcus an age to get here with a tea tray. Don’t expect anything interesting on it, all we get is burned toast these days.”

Miles supposed it would take an age, the footman had barely made it halfway across the hall before he’d had to sit down.

“Lady Margaret, it appears you have had some reductions in staff,” he said.

“Oh yes, they die, you see. One hardly knows who will be next. The flu that went round did not do us any favors.”

Miles thought he could make a good guess at who would be next—Marcus was on his last legs.

“But, who is still here? I saw Marcus, who else?”

“Let’s see, the cook is dead, so there is just the kitchen maid down there. She’s a good sort of girl, but nobody can burn toast like she can. And then there is my lady’s maid, Gwen, though after she dresses me in the morning she needs to put her feet up all day so she can undress me again at night. Her feet swell up something terrible. Now, will you stay for dinner?”

Miles was entirely nonplussed. Dinner? What were they to have? Burned toast? Could Marcus stay on his feet long enough to serve it? This situation was intolerable.

“Lady Margaret,” he said, “you cannot continue on in this house.”

Lady Margaret held up a hand. “Do not even suggest that I go to live with my sister in Bath, we do not get on.” She paused, then said, “And I forgot, she’s dead.”

Miles really, really did not want to say what he had to say next. There was no choice though. His father would be appalled at Lady Margaret’s circumstances. “You must come home with me. I live on Chesterfield Street, you will find it very comfortable. We’ll find a place for the kitchen maid. As for Marcus and your lady’s maid, they ought to be funded a retirement for whatever time they have left.”

“Well now, I do not know about that,” Lady Margaret said. “I would not like to hinder your bachelor lifestyle.”

Miles was not certain what the lady thought went on with bachelors and their lifestyles. He said, “I insist. In any case, I’ve decided it’s high time to look for a wife, so perhaps I will not be a bachelor for long.”

“Do you? Now that is very interesting news. In my younger days, I was known as quite the matchmaker. Well, I suppose I would not mind dipping my toe in again.”

Miles had no answer to that. He’d imagined that he would install Lady Margaret to a spare bedchamber, and she’d spend her days mostly sleeping, not thinking about matchmaking.

“You know what else would be an advantage to this scheme?” Lady Margaret asked.

Miles did not know, as he had not seen any advantage to himself at all.

“That rascally cousin of yours will be very disappointed the next time he stops by and tries to wheedle money out of me.”

Miles stared at the lady as she rubbed her hands together and laughed.

“Montclave?” he asked. “Montclave comes here for money?”

“Oh yes, he was here this afternoon. That’s what made me think of you, now that I am examining it. Mind you, I did not give him anything, but I think he made off with a silver salver. I don’t like him, I don’t know why he comes.”

There was another reason to get Lady Margaret out of the house. Montclave would not dare to come begging to Chesterfield Street.

Miles said, “I will make arrangements to get everyone out of this house and into mine. I will arrange for a couple of watchmen to keep an eye on things here, so that my cousin does not return and help himself.”

“He’ll be as mad as a bee in a bonnet, and I am glad of it. I don’t like him.”

Miles nodded. He did not like Montclave either.

The next hours were consumed with relocating Lady Margaret. Though the lady had mentioned that she was not certain Marcus wished to retire as he liked the work, when he was told he was to retire, he kissed Miles’ hand. The lady’s maid was equally delighted. The kitchen maid was more relieved than anything else. She was hired to do the chopping and peeling, not the cooking. She explained that she was as lost as a lamb on a dark night trying to make dinners.

Finally, everybody had been relocated, fed, and settled. Moreau had taken it as some sort of personal insult, though Miles had not the energy to wonder why. He sat alone in his drawing room, brooding on the idea that Montclave would go so far as to opportune an elderly lady.

Was there no low that rogue would not stoop to?

And then of course, he did spend some little amount of time brooding that he’d just installed a very elderly lady in his house who threatened to dip her toe into matchmaking. He soothed himself with the idea that it was wishful thinking on her part. After all, she could not do much from the confines of his house and he did not suppose she’d been out and about in society in quite a few years.