Page 8 of Lady Graceless (A Series of Senseless Complications #2)

T he duke had somewhat relieved Grace’s mind regarding Lady Marchfield’s assessment of the Earl of Doanellen. He had a vague memory of the earl’s lady being the daughter of the Earl of Wreckham, and then another vague memory of Wreckham cheating him at cards, and then another vague memory of not liking the fellow even before he cheated at cards. The end result was that if Doanellen had left his bride behind in the countryside, there were probably good reasons for it. Any daughter of Wreckham’s was probably a harridan.

Grace did not swallow that logic whole, as her father was prone to fanciful notions, cloudy recollections, and outright fibs. However, she did come to the conclusion that if there were not good reasons why Lady Doanellen had been left behind, then surely the earl would be condemned by society over it. As he did not seem condemned, then surely there was nothing wrong.

For all anybody knew, perhaps Lady Doanellen had a wasting disease or was with child and could not travel, but she had insisted her husband make the trip. If there was one thing Grace had learned from Felicity’s experience, it was that jumping to conclusions often led to jumping to the wrong one.

They had arrived and been helped down to the pavement.

“Well, my girl, this is it—your first foray into society. Try not to fall over on anybody.”

“Papa, do not even joke about it,” Grace said. “It is a fear that keeps me awake at night.”

“Nonsense. You are a duke’s daughter. You might fall down a hundred times a day and I dare anyone to say anything about it. In any case, I would likely be nearby and you can depend upon me to blame somebody for it.”

Grace patted her father’s hand. He really was more sentimental than people realized.

They were shown in and the Earl of Doanellen was there to greet them. He seemed very respectable, the sort of middle-aged gentleman who might be gray at the temples but had retained his vitality. A certain Mrs. Featherby, whom Grace presumed was a sister, stood by his side smiling genially.

In the drawing room, they found a mix of people which of course Grace did not know. If the duke knew any of them, he’d probably forgotten.

It was, therefore, very appreciated that a young gentleman seemed to note it and hurried forward.

“Your Grace, Lady Grace, allow me to present myself. I am Baron Montclave.”

“A baron, eh?” the duke said. “Well, it could be worse—one never knows what to do with a baronet.”

The baron had the good sense to laugh at this parry, though Grace did not know if he really found it amusing or not.

Grace found the gentleman rather good looking, though not quite on par with Lord Dashlend. His hair was far lighter and he was not as well built. And then, he did not have Lord Dashlend’s distinction of that subtle hint of a Roman nose.

“Lord Doanellen has informed me that I will have the honor to escort Lady Grace into dinner, if Your Grace is not opposed to it.”

“Why should I be opposed?” the duke asked. “You’re not some sort of rogue, are you? Because I can tell you, I do not suffer rogues. As well, I’ll warn you, if you’re some kind of idiot—steer clear of me.”

Lord Montclave did look the littlest bit startled. “I cannot claim any roguish tendencies and possess a reasonable intelligence, Your Grace.”

The duke shrugged, as if he were not convinced either way. Grace was very well aware that her father was amusing himself.

To his credit, Lord Montclave quickly recovered and escorted them round the room and introduced them to the other people attending. There were those, like Lord and Lady Grimsby, who remembered the duke, though he did not remember them. His memory was often jogged by reminding him that this or that person had attended Lady Vanderwake’s rout the night he set the lady’s curtains on fire all those years ago. The duke still did not remember them, but the recollection of that memorable evening always tickled him.

Grace was introduced to Lady Lavender Westcott, daughter of the Earl of Wembly, a lady also coming for her first season.

Grace was rather intimidated by Lady Lavender. She seemed to have everything going for her. Too much going for her, really. She was a lovely brunette, her dress was so well put together right down to the small gold cross round her elegant neck. And then her conversation! She was charming and the things she spoke of seemed to imply that she was an excellent dancer, an excellent horsewoman, and exceedingly well read.

Of course, Lady Lavender had not claimed any of those accolades. She was too perfect to have done anything of the sort. However, if one’s passion was for horses, one must be an excellent horsewoman. If one adored balls, one must be an excellent dancer. If one mentioned a whole slew of books recently read, one must be a very great reader.

Grace supposed Lady Lavender must be what Felicity had told her was a diamond of the first water. The lady who would have men bowing at her feet all season.

She certainly hoped Lord Dashlend would not be one among them.

“Shall we go through, Lady Grace?” Baron Montclave said.

Grace nodded and was led into the dining room. The lady at the head of the table was Mrs. Featherby. She had stood by Lord Doanellen at the door greeting guests and Grace had been introduced to her there. She had assumed, rather than been told, that Mrs. Featherby must be a sister to Lord Doanellen, but now that she was examining it, she was not entirely certain.

Wine glasses had been filled and the first course set on the table. “Baron Montclave,” she said, “is Mrs. Featherby a sister, or a cousin perhaps, to Lord Doanellen?”

This question, though Grace had thought it a very usual one, had set Lord Montclave fiddling with his napkin and taking a long draught of wine.

“A very good friend, is my understanding.”

That seemed odd. But then, Grace supposed that if one did not bring one’s wife to Town, and one did not have any close feminine relations to step in, perhaps it was not so strange to ask a family friend to act as hostess. In any case, her father was to the right of Mrs. Featherby and would likely find out all about it.

“How was your journey to Town?” the baron asked. “I understand you come from quite a distance.”

“Indeed, we do,” Grace said, comfortable in a subject she could speak credibly on. “We are very remote in the Dales. Our journey this year was somewhat extended. We took a rather roundabout route as my father wished to show us the sea.”

“It was your first time viewing it?”

Grace nodded. “What a sight! Of course, one knows what it looks like from pictures, but to see it with my own eyes was breathtaking. And it was ever so entertaining, too. Just as we arrived, we encountered Lord Dashlend. He’d just crashed his boat and was shipwrecked. Do you know Lord Dashlend?”

The baron nodded. “He is a cousin and our estates are neighboring in Norfolk.”

“Oh I see!” Grace said. That information felt like a piece of good luck. Lord Montclave would know Lord Dashlend very well. “We found him ever so charming. My father escorted Lord Dashlend and his valet to the inn where we were staying and he dined with us. And breakfasted with us too.”

“Breakfast too,” the baron said in a flat tone.

“I do suppose we will see him again soon,” Grace continued. “My father lent him clothes, you see. Because he was very wet. And then he comes to us for dinner on Tuesday next, though I suppose we will see him before then. To return the clothes.”

“Yes, certainly, to return the clothes.”

For some reason, Grace got the feeling that Lord Montclave was not as enthusiastic about Lord Dashlend as she was. How odd. It seemed a very strange thing that anybody in the world would not be enthusiastic regarding Lord Dashlend.

“We had the very good fortune, at that inn, to take possession of the most charming little dog. We named him Nelson, after Lord Nelson. I do believe Lord Dashlend was just as charmed as we were.”

“Was he now?” the baron asked.

“Yes, I do believe so,” Grace said.

The hostess had just turned to her other side, signaling to the diners that they ought to do the same. Grace smiled at the baron and turned to talk to Mr. Gerald Howard. He was the son of a viscount and hailed from Hertfordshire. He was a very pleasant gentleman and he further recommended himself by claiming an acquaintance with Lord Dashlend and naming him a fine fellow. According to Mr. Howard, Lord Dashlend was known in fencing circles as “the man with four arms,” so fast was he with a sword.

That was rather thrilling to hear. Naturally, had she been pressed to guess at it, she would have supposed that Lord Dashlend must be a very great sporting sort of gentleman. After all, she had first encountered him while sailing his own boat. Or shipwrecking his own boat, as the case was. Nevertheless, it was thrilling to imagine him disposing of opposing fencers so expediently that it seemed as if he had four arms.

The rest of the dinner proceeded in rather an odd fashion. At least, it seemed so to Grace, though it was the first she had attended in Town. Baron Montclave questioned her regarding what sort of state she had found Lord Dashlend in when she had encountered him at the seaside. Most particularly, had it seemed as if he’d swallowed any water. Then the baron had heavily hinted that he would not be opposed to being invited to the dinner on Tuesday next, which Grace dodged by claiming only her father had the authority to expand the guest list.

As if that were not strange enough, some of the diners really did consume too much wine. The party got very merry. And then perhaps more merry than it ought. There were some who seemed to forget that polite society was at table and loudly told jokes Grace was certain she ought not hear. Mrs. Featherby, the hostess, should have set the tone, but she seemed to join in on the merriment.

Mr. Howard said a few things in a joking manner that Grace did not altogether comprehend. Why Mrs. Featherby was to be known as a bird of paradise, she was sure she did not know. Was it because her dress was a trifle gaudy?

While it was a bit confusing to decide if all of it was usual, her biggest clue was her father. He was not as jovial as he might be expected to be.

Mrs. Featherby had risen to lead the ladies to the drawing room. Her father rose too and said, “I will just have a word with my daughter in the hall. Then, gentlemen, I’ll happily drink you under the table.”

This was met with hearty laughter, though Grace really hoped her father did not plan on it. He could be a handful when he was drunk.

In the hall, the duke determinedly waited until both the drawing room and dining room doors were closed. Then he turned to a footman and said, “Retrieve my daughter’s cloak and call my carriage.”

“Papa?” Grace asked, very much fearing he was unwell.

“This is no place for us, my girl,” the duke said in a low voice. “Or not you, anyway.”

As the party was not large, their coachman was just down the street. He pulled up to the doors in a matter of minutes. The duke hustled Grace inside and rapped on the roof.

As the carriage pulled away, Grace said, “Goodness, you had better tell me what that was all about.”

“What that was all about was a rather low party hostessed by the Earl of Doanellen’s mistress.”

“Oh! I see. I had thought she was a sister, but then Baron Montclave said she was a very good friend.”

“I did not initially perceive what the relationship was myself. About halfway through the dinner, it finally penetrated my mind.”

Grace said, “Is that why Mr. Howard named her a bird of paradise? I thought it might be her clothes, but perhaps it was… her relationship to the earl.”

The duke laughed long and hard over her speculation. “She is a bird of paradise in every sense of the word, clothes included.”

“I should not have accepted that invitation,” Grace said.

“Nor should Wembly have accepted it and brought along Lady Lavender. I’d say if he had any sense he’d pull her out as I did you, but he’s in his cups. Dashed irresponsible.”

“But then, how could I know not to accept the invitation, Papa? I do not know anybody personally, you do not ever remember anybody, and Lord Doanellen is an earl. Do you suppose we ought to go to my aunt and have her review the other invitations I’ve accepted?”

“Not on your life. I never give up a point to Lady Misery.”

“But what are we to do? I would not like to end in a similar situation, or an even worse situation.”

The duke tapped his chin. “I know what we’ll do. I ought to get some benefit from putting up with a son-in-law. We’ll have Stratton look at it. He knows everybody and he’s got a reasonable amount of sense.”

“Mr. Stratton!” Grace said. “He will know what ought to be done.”

Really, they should have thought of that in the first place. Grace did not know how she was to explain the evening to her sisters. Valor was already terrified of rogues. Now Grace supposed birds of paradise were to be added to her nightmares.

*

Montclave surveyed the drawing room. Some of the guests had gone, most notably Lady Grace and her duke, who had cut out without even taking their leave. Lady Lavender had followed soon after, practically marching her father out when he’d come into the drawing room.

In truth, he was surprised those people had come at all. He had thought it ill-advised to invite them into such company, but Doanellen was determined that Mrs. Featherby would be accepted in the sort of circles he was accustomed to travel in.

Montclave did not think there was the remotest chance of that happening. The matrons of the ton would not tolerate a mistress at their table or in their ballroom or anywhere else. It was not so much their sensibilities offended, as it was sending the signal that they would not tolerate being themselves left behind in the countryside while their ne’er-do-well husbands squired around a more entertaining and pliable lady.

He’d said as much to his friend, but Doanellen was bull-headed on the subject and Montclave was a guest in the house, so he could not press too far.

It was convenient to have quarters to lay one’s head down at night that did not cost him any money, though the convenience did come with its own sort of price. Mrs. Featherby had moved herself into the house too and she was a chattering windbag. She had no taste, her clothes were gaudy, and her manners a touch rough. She had defeated Doanellen though, so Montclave suspected she must make up for her more obvious deficiencies in private and between the bedsheets.

The earl’s delusions regarding his mistress were the least of the problems on Montclave’s mind, though. While he could not yet gauge what interest, if any at all, Dashlend had in Lady Grace, he was in no doubt as to her own interest. She’d been rather dogged about bringing him up. She’d come upon Dashlend just as he was dragging himself out of the sea, which must have seemed very exciting to a young lady.

They’d dined together, and breakfast too. Dashlend had been charmed by some cur they’d picked up. Dashlend was to return the clothes he’d borrowed. Dashlend was to attend them at a dinner.

Montclave had gamely suggested he might come to the dinner too, but had been rebuffed by the excuse that only the duke could invite anybody. He’d planned to get the duke well-oiled with port after the ladies retired and then opportune him on the subject, but he never got the chance.

At one point, searching for any sort of good news, Montclave had inquired of Lady Grace if it had seemed as if Dashlend might have swallowed seawater during his adventure. He’d heard that a person who’d nearly drowned could later die unexpectedly. When he’d been in the habit of haunting some rough taverns nearby the docks, a sailor had told him the story of three men who’d been plucked from the sea after their boat sank. All three were gleeful to be alive and then two of them were dead by morning.

Though realistically, he supposed the time for that happy turn of events had passed by Dashlend. Montclave would drown him with his own two hands if he could get away with it.

He was in Town to assure himself that Dashlend did not take a bride. If his cousin had an interest in Lady Grace, how was he to stop it?

That was the problem he mulled over just now, ignoring what went on around him. The drawing room had devolved into a drunken scene at Vauxhall. Mrs. Featherby was in her cups and laughing at everything Doanellen said. A few of the men were gambling far too high. Mr. Crenellen had passed out in a corner and Mrs. Crenellen sang off-key at the pianoforte.

It was just as well that Lady Grace and Lady Lavender had departed before this particular scene unfolded. Montclave would not like either of them to view the company he was currently keeping.

Somehow, he must ascertain where things were going between Dashlend and Lady Grace. If it seemed to be going anywhere at all, he must wedge them apart. He could not lose his chance at becoming the earl’s heir. If he could just keep Dashlend unmarried, who knew how the fellow might end up conveniently killing himself. For years, he’d held tight to the hope that Dashlend would get in an argument with somebody and end up dead on a green, or fall from a horse he was racing, or be accidentally run through while sparring, or sink in his stupid boat.

He’d come so close on the drowning front!

One never knew when the next opportunity would present itself. He would not be so stupid as to murder his cousin as he had no wish to swing for it, but if a situation presented itself whereby he might innocently help his cousin to the great beyond, he would take it.

*

Miles arranged to take his carriage to Lady Grace’s house to return the clothes that had been borrowed after his shipwreck. He had at first thought to take his horse, as he would always much prefer to ride, but Moreau had some sort of mental collapse over it.

According to his valet, he had slaved over the reviled “oldest set” of clothes, making certain they were perfection. They must be carefully laid on a carriage seat so that nothing should ruin his work. According to Moreau, he would do a violence to himself if another valet found reason to lord it over him. His very soul could not continue living if he were to be shamed in such a manner.

Miles did not bother to mention that a person’s soul was meant to be eternal and not likely snuffed out over a set of clothes.

Listening to his valet’s threats of bodily harm was not the only inconvenience though. It seemed Lady Margaret heard that the carriage had been called for. Miles found her sitting primly in the great hall with her coat and bonnet on, cane in hand.

He’d mentioned it would be an uninteresting trip, as he was only to return some clothes, but she’d replied that at her age every trip was interesting, but for the trip to a funeral parlor. That final trip was only interesting to heirs, not to the persons themselves.

She was determined to go and so there was nothing for it.

As the carriage made its way down the crowded streets, Lady Margaret eagerly peered out the windows taking it all in. Miles began to wonder when last she’d been out of her house.

If the streets were not so congested with carriages, people walking, people on horseback, and carts of all description, the trip to Grosvenor Square might be accomplished in well under ten minutes. As it was, they’d been inching along for a quarter hour already.

Precisely why he liked to take his horse.

“That new girl you sent to me is ever so clever in getting me dressed,” Lady Margaret said. “She knows what she’s about.”

“She is your kitchen maid,” Miles said. “I thought she might do for now.”

“Is she? How funny I did not notice. I am too used to her presenting burnt toast, I suppose. With no toast in her hands, how could I recognize her?”

“If you wish to keep her on as your lady’s maid, I do not think she would be opposed to it.”

“Ah yes, I think she would suit very well. She helps Gwen too. Hah! My lady’s maid has a lady’s maid. Is that not ironic? Now, tell me about these people we will see.”

“I do not actually know if we will see any of them,” Miles said. “They may not be at home. It is the Duke of Pelham and his daughter, Lady Grace. They were instrumental in providing me assistance when I had a recent mishap at sea.”

Lady Margaret leaned forward. “Did you come close to death?”

Miles was taken aback by the question, but he supposed the elderly often had the subject in mind.

“It could have gone that way. I was very fortunate.”

Lady Margaret rubbed her hands together. “That sounds very promising. To meet under such interesting circumstances often bodes well. When one so young faces death, they turn their attention to the future. Very suddenly, the far off someday has arrived.”

Miles did not answer, though he thought the idea surprisingly astute. That was exactly where his mind had gone.

“Of course, at my age, one spends one’s time wishing someday would not arrive. Though, I must say that waking up in the morning is far more exciting than it used to be. There is something about opening one’s eyes and noticing that one did not die in the night that is particularly cheerful.”

Miles was beginning to find Lady Margaret a rather macabre personality.

“Is she pretty?” Lady Margaret asked.

“Lady Grace? Yes, she is very pretty.”

“Tell me.”

“Oh, well, let’s see,” Miles said, feeling very put on the spot. “She’s got blond hair, but not too blond. Not insipid, I would say. She has an abundance of curls.”

“That will look very nice when she unpins it.”

Miles certainly hoped he did not redden over that idea.

“Eyes?” Lady Margaret asked. “Blue, I suppose.”

“Actually no, they are more an olive color. Which I think lends some sophistication to her coloring.”

“Excellent. Good teeth?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Temperament? Is she pleasant?”

“Very pleasant.”

“I am satisfied with what I’ve heard so far.”

Miles sat back. He did not quite know how it was happening, but it almost felt as if Lady Margaret had stepped in for his mother, taking on the duty of examining any ladies in his view.

The carriage slowed to a stop and a groom hopped down and opened the door. As Miles had found the only way to get Lady Margaret into a carriage was to pick her up and put her in it, he repeated the operation to get her out of it. Then he fetched her cane and the clothes that were to be returned to the duke.

“Let’s see what we’ve got to work with,” Lady Margaret said, hobbling toward the door.