Page 1 of Lady Impatience (A Series of Senseless Complications #3)

A Remote Estate in the Yorkshire Dales, 1804

Patience Nicolet stared at her father as he read the latest missive from her aunt. Though these letters were unwanted, and the lady had been told so many times, they dependably arrived like homing pigeons.

“Papa,” Patience said, “it cannot be true that Lady Marchfield would try to force a butler on us. Again .”

Her aunt was determined that the duke must have a butler while he was in Town. The problem was, they did not want a butler. Mrs. Right, their dear friend, protector, and housekeeper, ran the duke’s household.

Both of the last of Lady Marchfield’s butlers had been driven off with very little trouble.

The first, Mr. Sykes-Wycliff, had experienced a mental collapse after hearing various stories of the duke’s habits. He’d been told of the duke knocking on doors late at night only to clobber anybody foolish enough to answer. Then he’d been informed of the annual servants’ hunt, in which the staff scattered on the hills and valleys and the duke hunted them down with a fowling piece. That butler had been entirely gullible regarding these stories and his departure had been wildly entertaining.

The second attempt, Mr. Button, had left on account of everybody blaming him for making roguish eyes at Mrs. Right, which he certainly had not. Still, with Mrs. Right fanning herself, pulling her shawl close, and claiming she would lock her bedchamber door at night and prop a chair against it, what was he to do? The idea of Mr. Button as a leering lothario had been preposterous, but with all the staff in on it, Mr. Button could not argue his way out of it. There had been a denouement at dinner and that fellow was out the door too.

Why on earth would Lady Marchfield make a run at installing a third butler?

“My sister glories in being a nuisance to everybody,” the duke said, as if he could hear Patience’s thoughts. He laid down Lady Marchfield’s letter. “She explains that Mr. Grimsby has served as a captain in the army and gone on to butler for a brigadier general and his nine ill-behaved children. Nothing, Lady Misery says, will shock this fine man. He is a stalwart and resolute soldier and will not be frightened by our housekeeper.”

The two footmen turned their heads to hide their laughter. Valor, the youngest of the duke’s daughters, said, “But he should be frightened of our Mrs. Right, Papa. Should he not?”

“He certainly should be,” the duke said. “If my sister thinks a stint in the army will stand up to our housekeeper, he’s in for a surprise. Well! I’ll not trouble myself over this fellow. I rely on Mrs. Right to send him packing.”

“And we are packed too, Papa,” Winsome said. “We leave in two days’ time.”

“So we will,” the duke said. “The ponies left three days ago and should be there when we arrive.”

Patience nodded in approval. That had been her idea. Riding round the park in a carriage the last two seasons had been dreary and slow. In the Dales, they were accustomed to taking out their fine local-bred horses and gallop like mad across the moors. No horse but a Dales pony was as surefooted and brave in that terrain. Four of the ponies were sent ahead to Town, with only Valor’s left behind, as she never rode faster than a walk anyway. Nobody was certain whether Tulip’s slow going was on account of Valor, or if Tulip just did not like to hurry.

Patience, Serenity, Winsome, and Verity planned to fly across the park at every opportunity.

“Serenity, are you certain you will not make your debut with Patience?” Winsome asked.

Patience glanced at her sister. It was true that they were twins, but it was also true that they had little in common. Serenity was forever weeping over something or other, and causing no end of delays while she was doing it.

Serenity shook her head. “Patience would make me too nervous, rushing this way and that, and toe-tapping all the time.”

“I was the first to be born, by eleven minutes,” Patience pointed out. “It’s in my nature to avoid dilly-dallying. I intend to go into the season with a practical eye and settle things in good time.”

“I find I prefer to examine and appreciate things, rather than rush past them to my destination,” Serenity said. “For instance, did anybody see the sunrise this morning? It was entirely magical.”

“It was entirely usual, Serenity,” Verity said. “It is a very common thing for the sun to rise.”

The duke snorted. “I should hope so.”

Nelson, their lovely little dog, was surreptitiously making his way round the table for scraps. At least, Patience supposed he would be surreptitious if he had four working legs and two working eyes. As it was, he was down one leg and blind in one eye and so banged into things on the regular. Fortunately, the duke was rather fond of him, though he called him an ill-bred cur.

Patience handed Nelson a bit of beef. In his enthusiasm, he took it, lost his balance, and rolled under the table.

“Papa,” Winsome said, “shall we travel to the sea on our way to London as we did last year? We might find another shipwrecked gentleman.”

“No, my girl, this year we will be all efficiency. We will make record time to Town.”

Patience noticed everybody smiling and nodding at their father, though nobody could be convinced of it. Had it been only her and the duke, they might very well be efficient. However, if there were one thing her sisters excelled at, it was causing a delay.

It drove Patience mad at times. Could they not see the fastest way between two points? Could they not get themselves out of the house and into the carriages in under an hour? Winsome would hide Verity’s pelisse and then claim Verity was fibbing that she could not find it, Valor would upend the house looking for Mrs. Wendover, her stuffed rabbit, and Serenity was always off mooning over the glories of nature or crying over a dead bee in the garden.

“Are we to go efficiently because Patience does not like to dally, Papa?” Verity asked.

“Just so, my girl.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Marcus Langley, Earl of Stanford, regarded his friend and current houseguest. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Viscount Radler paced the drawing room. “I am trying to explain it to you. Your careful decision-making is all well and good for most things, but not for this.”

“I would imagine that this circumstance above all others would require thorough planning.”

Marcus had determined he was now at a moment in his life when it was time to choose a wife. He had been giving it careful consideration for three years and felt confident in his conclusion.

“Stanford,” Viscount Radler said, “there are times when your analyzing backward and forward is merited. However, how many horses have you lost the chance at because you were still mulling over the purchase? Do you really imagine that the sort of lady you wish to wed will stand round while you think about it for months on end?”

That point did give Marcus pause. Ladies were under such pressure to wed lest they end on the shelf. On the gentleman’s side, if a man were firmly decided to wed, he might make quick work of it lest the lady he preferred be snatched up by another. There was an underlying frenzy to it all that nobody ever spoke of outright.

Despite the frenzy, he could not rush headlong into a partnership that would last the rest of his days. He must hope there were those cautious ladies he might encounter who would be pleased at his careful going forward as they preferred it themselves.

“Furthermore,” Radler went on, “you entirely ignore the power of the heart! A gentleman is meant to be struck by a lady and begin his pursuit, tearing at his hair if he cannot be successful.”

Marcus raised his brows. He had no intention of being struck and tearing at his hair. He had learned well enough to avoid that sort of foolishness.

Of course, Radler did not know the entire story of Marcus’ parents’ marriage. He knew it had been unhappy, but not what had led to it or precisely how bad it had been. His mother and father had been impetuous and had eloped to Gretna Green, though that scandal had been hushed up.

What had they discovered after the first rush of excitement faded? They did not have a thing in common. She wanted one way and he wanted the other, on nearly every subject. By the time Marcus came on the scene, the household was ice cold, unless it was heated up by screaming matches. He was their only issue, as by then they could not stand the sight on one another.

One evening, when he was six, he had been led in for his nightly interview with his parents. If there was one thing they agreed on, it was they were both sticklers for tradition. They had both done nightly interviews with their mother and father and so they carried on with it, though they could barely stand to be in the same room. Night after night, Marcus was led in and asked a series of questions regarding his behavior. He dutifully answered in between their icy glares at one another, and then was led out again.

That night, he gathered his nerve for what he’d been thinking about for months. In a tone cold enough to match his father’s own, he demanded the nursery be moved to the other end of the house. He did not care to be forever woken by their shouting matches. His tutors had explained that shouting was bad form, and he did not wish to hear it.

He’d wondered if his father would throw something at his head over hearing such a pronouncement. However, in their utter embarrassment, they complied. As he looked back on it, he thought it rather surprising that they did not dismiss his tutors either, though he had not thought he might be putting them in danger at the time. He supposed they were too ashamed to act on what must have been their wish. It cannot be comfortable to have one’s bad behavior pointed out by a six-year-old.

In later years, he’d been delighted to go away to school and to stay with Lady Monroe, his great aunt, between terms.

He would not create such a household for his own family. The idea that he might inadvertently do so kept him awake at night.

Radler, seeing he was not getting anywhere with his ideas, let out one of his long and disappointed sighs. “So, you will go to Almack’s and begin your painfully lengthy examination of the ladies of the season?”

Marcus nodded. “You’ll see. It will work out for the best. As for how things will go for you, I cannot fathom.”

“I will look about, I will be struck, and I will tear at my hair until I’ve won her,” Radler said proudly.

Marcus finished his brandy and set it down. Having Radler in the house for the season was likely to be exhausting.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Patience had done everything she could possibly do to drive the season forward. Six months ago, she had convinced her father to bring a modiste from London to the Dales. If Madame LaFray had supposed she would need to design Patience’s dresses for the season, she was disabused of that idea upon arrival.

Patience had studied the Journal des Dames et des Modes , The Ladies Monthly Museum , and Ackerman’s Repository, and knew precisely what she wished for. She had ordered fabrics and embellishments, slippers, reticules, gloves, stockings, and bonnets. She presented her sketches, with notes at the bottom as to which fabrics and embellishments went with which. As well, she presented various drawings of outerwear, a riding habit, and a list of incidentals she would require that had recently occurred to her.

The madame had got to work in a series of spare rooms, hiring local seamstresses and sending away for anything needed. Haberdashers had been notified to have packages waiting at Grosvenor Square. Every detail had been seen to.

Madame LaFray had been invited to dine with the family at table, as they were not an over-formal household and she was an exceedingly sophisticated and well-bred lady, but she had only done so once.

Apparently, the duke made her too nervous to try it again. So many people just did not understand her father’s ways. When the duke had been very liberal with his port and claimed he could not wait to see the last of his daughters out of the house and would never allow them back through the doors again, Madame LaFray had been terrified.

Or perhaps she had been terrified when Patience claimed she would chop down the doors with a hatchet to get back inside for Christmas.

Or perhaps she had been terrified when Winsome threw a roll at the duke’s head, just as Grace used to do.

Or perhaps she had been terrified when Valor darkly hinted that if they weren’t let back in for Christmas they might get attacked by the murdered women on the moors.

Patience had explained backward and forward that the duke was an inveterate liar and it was all in jest, and the murdered women were only the cries of foxes. But Madame LaFray would not be convinced. She said she preferred the relative calm of the servants’ hall.

Despite Madame LaFray’s leeriness of the duke, Patience’s wardrobe had been done in good time. She’d been packed for weeks. She’d toe-tapped for days until it was time to set off.

And they had finally set off. They’d set off almost on schedule, as Patience had pushed all the clocks back an hour and woken everyone pretending they were already behind time.

The trip itself had held its amusements, particularly when her papa ordered brocabbage pie at all the inns. He explained it was a Yorkshire staple, allowed the innkeeper to run round trying to figure out what it was for a while, appeared aghast when they did not have it, then told them he’d made the whole thing up.

Nelson had been delighted with the trip, hanging his head out the window as the carriages rolled along and sampling the various dinners they had with enthusiasm.

Five days later, they made their way through the London streets on their final leg of the trip to Grosvenor Square. Patience peered out the window as the sights went by. It all looked so different now that she was viewing it through the eyes of a lady poised to join society.

Patience rode in the carriage with Mrs. Right, Valor, and Winsome. She said, “What do you think, Mrs. Right? We are soon to encounter this Mr. Grimsby my aunt has installed in the house. Will you make quick work of him?”

Mrs. Right considered the question. “I cannot know just yet. Each situation needs to be seen for itself. This particular specimen is said to be a soldier, so I may require some new ideas.”

“You’ll think of something, though,” Winsome said.

Mrs. Right nodded. “I’ve a few notions tucked away.”

“He sounds scary,” Valor said. “His name is Grim, with just some extra letters on the end of it. For another, he was in the army. I bet he’s killed people and how can we be sure he won’t keep doing it? He might sneak around with a sword in the night when we’re all sleeping and chop us to bits!” She clutched Mrs. Wendover to her, the stuffed rabbit’s head lolling.

Mrs. Right patted Valor’s hand. “Do not you worry, poppet. You are under my care and always safe.”

“That’s true so far,” Valor admitted.

“He might be a rogue, though,” Winsome said. “You’ve warned us ten ways to Sunday about rogues.”

“Aye, he may well be. Well, here we are, so I suppose it’s time to find out.”

The carriage had rolled to a stop. They all peered out the window and watched the door open.

A tall and rail-thin man in a black suit of clothes so starched they might have walked out of their own accord stood at the door. He had a weathered complexion and a serious expression.

“He does look grim, does he not?” Winsome said.

“He looks terrifying,” Valor said, burying her head in her stuffed rabbit. “Poor Thomas! How will he survive being bossed about by Mr. Grimsby?”

“Never you mind it,” Mrs. Right said, “Thomas will be quite safe.”

Just then Thomas opened their carriage door. Valor whispered, “Have courage, Thomas,” as she climbed down to the pavement.

“Your Grace,” Mr. Grimsby said to the duke, with a formal and extended bow.

The duke looked over Mr. Grimsby and said, “You’re the third—did she tell you that? Mrs. Right runs my household, keep out of her way.”

By the look on Mr. Grimsby’s face, it seemed as if he had heard he was the third and he had heard of Mrs. Right. He did not look very frightened though. He looked… grim.

His eyes drifted in Mrs. Right’s direction and narrowed. She smiled at him as if there was not a thing wrong.

Patience took that moment to bolt into the house. The competition for rooms would be fierce and she was determined to secure the one that had housed Grace last season, and Felicity the season before. It was the largest, had its own sitting room, and a lovely view of the garden.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Mrs. Right thought she’d sized up Mr. Grimsby pretty well. He was exactly what she’d thought he’d be, once she’d heard he’d been a soldier, and then butler to a brigadier general.

The problem with fellows like that was that they were used to issuing orders, and having those orders followed. The army, and a brigadier general’s household for that matter, were regulated environments where rules were adhered to. Struggles for power did not occur, as everybody simply fell in line.

Therefore, she had briefed the staff on exactly how they would interact with Mr. Grimsby.

The would-be butler had informed Mrs. Right, and the rest of the staff, that they were to gather together in the kitchens during the quiet hour before the preparations for dinner would commence. He’d ordered a tea tray, which she supposed made him feel very liberal. Of course, he frowned at the copious amount of milk Thomas added to his cup, which was not very liberal of him. Everybody knew Thomas liked his tea very milky.

Mr. Grimsby sipped his own tea and set it down with deliberation. “First, be aware that Lady Marchfield has been the soul of transparency with me. I know all.”

Mr. Grimsby’s eyes drifted toward Mrs. Right.

“Very kind of her ladyship, I’m sure,” Mrs. Right said.

“I rather think it was,” Mr. Grimsby said. “A soldier of any worth likes to know as much as possible about the battlefield he ventures into. I have been apprised of what has gone on so far, including the departures of the two less-than stalwart butlers who have preceded me. I will inform you that your experience with me is to be markedly different.”

They all stared at Mr. Grimsby, keeping their expressions neutral.

“Markedly,” he repeated. As he got no response to repeating himself, he went on. “I expect a strict hierarchy. I am at the top, naturally. Orders flow down from me, to be distributed through regulated channels. I brook no nonsense! I am in charge, and my least directive is to be carried out with alacrity and precision.”

“No,” Mrs. Right said, pleasantly smiling.

Mr. Grimsby’s teacup clattered onto his saucer.

Charlie and Thomas both raised their cups to their lips to hide their smirks. Cook folded his arms. The kitchen maid looked wildly back and forth between Mr. Grimsby and Mrs. Right as if she attended a play at the theater.

“Pardon me? No?” Mr. Grimsby said. “What can you mean by such a ludicrous response?”

Mrs. Right smiled indulgently. “Oh dear. The word has thrown you off. Well, I do apologize for that. Here is a handy trick I often use to remember its meaning—no is the opposite of yes.”

“Mrs. Right,” Mr. Grimsby said darkly, “I warn you to refrain from defying me. I will not tolerate such audacity and impertinence.”

Mrs. Right sipped her tea. “What will you plan on doing about it, I wonder?” she asked.

“Do about it?” Mr. Grimsby asked.

Mrs. Right thought it a very reasonable question, though it seemed to make Mr. Grimsby red in the face.

“Do you not think I have the power to dismiss you if necessary?” he sputtered.

“No,” Mrs. Right said with a snort of laughter.

Mr. Grimsby threw his napkin on the table. It was apparent that he was not accustomed to being defied.

“I warn you, I will speak directly to the duke, if I am pressed to it,” Mr. Grimsby said. “Do not press me to it.”

That was too much for everybody. All at table but for Mr. Grimsby heaved with laughter.

Mr. Grimsby rose with a dignified expression and straightened his cuffs. “I think you will regret this insubordination, Mrs. Right.”

He strode from the room. She called after him, “I rarely regret anything, Mr. Grimsby.”

“I think we’ve made a good start on it, Mrs. Right,” Charlie said.

“Aye,” Thomas said, “he got foiled at every turn.”

“ Markedly so,” Mrs. Right said.

“Do you think he’ll actually try it on with the duke?” Cook asked. “Mr. Grimsby seems a bit more stalwart than the last two fellows.”

Mrs. Right shrugged. “Who knows? Though, I suppose his head will blow off his shoulders when I join the duke for a brandy in the drawing room or I’m invited in to play Fact or Fib. If I know Lady Marchfield, she won’t have told him anything about that—reflecting too shameful on the family, she’d think.”

They all nodded at the genial prediction of Mr. Grimsby’s head blown off his shoulders by way of brandy and Fact or Fib.

“Now remember,” Mrs. Right said, “whatever Mr. Grimsby orders you to do, either refuse to do it, or if it’s something that really needs doing, do it differently than he asked. If he attempts to dismiss you, just laugh at him and stroll away. As for myself, I believe Mr. Grimsby may find bits of Dales’ nettles in his bedding this evening.”

They all laughed heartily over that idea and had a very pleasant tea.