Page 14 of Lady Impatience (A Series of Senseless Complications #3)

Mrs. Right was well aware that something awful had happened to Patience and it had to do with Lord Stanford. She did not know the details of it until she’d brought the younger girls back from shopping.

Then she, along with her younger charges, were told all by the duke. Stanford was a scoundrel and had skipped Town. They would leave for the Dales in the morning.

Serenity, Winsome, and Verity had hurried above stairs. Mrs. Right sat in the drawing room, while Valor whispered heatedly to Mrs. Wendover.

Valor jumped up. “Mrs. Right, I am going to write a terrible letter to Lord Stanford and tell him exactly what I think.” She marched off and Mrs. Right thought she might do just the same. She would leave it unsigned, but that breaker of hearts would be forced to hear a few words from her.

After that, she would begin the arduous process of packing trunks. The duke was quite right in taking her dear Patience home—she would recover her spirits far faster in the Dales than she ever would in this pit of vipers.

Before she could enact such a plan, Winsome hurried into the room. “We are surrounding Patience with sisterly love, but I had to step out a moment to tell you something. Lady Marchfield was here and Patience told her Mr. Grimsby had left to open a haberdashery and her head nearly blew off her shoulders. I thought that might cheer you up.”

Mrs. Right smiled, inordinately pleased. “My girls know me so well, I am cheered indeed. I am only sorry I was not here to tell her myself.”

Winsome nodded knowingly. “Now I am going to get the blue, knitted blanket from my room and take it to Patience. She really likes it and I stole it out of her room two days ago.”

“Very considerate, my dear.”

Winsome jogged out of the room. Mrs. Right called, “Charlie, Thomas, alert Cook and the stables that we depart on the morrow. Check with Mr. Reynolds too.” She supposed the duke would have already told his valet of it, but it was best to be certain. Mr. Reynolds was a serious sort and liked to be well-organized and not rushed.

She crossed the room and took the writing things from the desk.

Stanford—

That’s right, I call you Stanford. I will not even give you the courtesy of calling you a lord. Lords must act lordly to earn the title.

As you have chosen to allow the greatest thing in your life to slip through your hands, I thought I would take this opportunity to point out your idiocy. I will not name the lady, but rest assured she will recover her spirits and return to this town to make a brilliant match as you look on, wallowing in your grave error. It will be too late, sir!

Regards from a disgusted onlooker who looks forward to you drowning in wallowing grief

Also, have a care for your clothes. I understand the moths are terrible this season.

As she folded the letter, she heard Valor in the hall. “Thomas, could you put your regular clothes on and deliver this to Lord Stanford’s house?”

“I am not sure I should, Lady Valor, we are leaving on the morrow and there is heaps to do.”

Mrs. Right strode out to the hall. “You may go, Thomas, and take this letter too.”

“Did you give him the what-for, Mrs. Right?” Valor asked.

“I most certainly did.”

Valor looked pleased to hear it. “I gave him the what-for too. The most awful what-for I’ve ever wrote in my life.” She clapped her hands. “He will be devastated!”

Mrs. Right thought that must really be saying something, considering some of the other letters Valor had authored in other seasons. Lord Stanford would shortly feel the wrath of the Nicolet household.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Marcus had spent the past two days in two different activities. One, sorting through the mountain of papers that Lady Monroe had allowed to pile on her desk. There were all sorts of bills from vendors to the house that the housekeeper would have organized for the steward, had that lady been still living. Bellows might have taken over the task, and really should have been doing it from the beginning, but that fellow did not do things he did not like to do. He did not like the steward much and did not like to do anything for the fellow at all. The steward, not being informed of the pile up of bills, had allowed things to fall behind.

When Marcus was not untangling paperwork, Lady Monroe had him captured in the drawing room playing piquet and interrogating him on his life. Most particularly, interrogating him about Lady Patience. Lady Monroe was vastly amused to hear that Lady Patience played the crwth, for one thing.

He occasionally was able to escape to the gardens, usually when Lady Monroe’s lady’s maid was occupying her with some matter. He’d found the gardens in rather overgrown and shabby shape and resolved to bring in a gardener to straighten it all out. Apparently, the old gardener had retired and Lady Monroe had got it into her head that nobody could ever take his place, and so nobody had.

The sun was beginning to set, and Marcus had reluctantly just come in from one of these outdoor respites when he found Bellows standing in the hall with a letter for him.

He took it and slipped into the library, as he could hear Lady Monroe and Marcie the maid chattering in the drawing room. The letter was from Radler. Marcus opened it and read through it, eager for news of Lady Patience.

He felt his heart speed up and his blood course through his body in triple time by the time he got to the end of it. He read it again, just to be certain that his first idea of throttling Radler was the correct one.

Stanford—

I have some surprising news. Or distressing news, or minor hiccup news, depending on how sanguine about life you are feeling at the moment.

Remember that wondrous full mask you had made and so generously let me borrow for Lady Darlington’s masque? I reckon you do. Well, here is what happened because of that blasted mask.

Lady Patience approached me very abruptly. (She looked smashing, by the way) And she said she was sure there was something between us and she would know what it was, for good or ill, and she hoped for good.

Well, as you can imagine, I could hardly anticipate that Lady Patience would express any feelings for me and did what any right-minded gentleman would do. I said nothing and ran away.

After getting home and recovering myself from the shock, I remembered that I’d told Lady Patience that you would wear the mask. I described exactly what it looked like. Then it became apparent to me that when she approached me, she believed that she approached you. (Bad luck that we are so similar in build!)

I thought I might rush to her house to attempt to clear up the confusion but Kendrickson agrees with me that I ought to alert you to this mix-up first, as you may wish to handle it yourself with no further involvement from me. Kendrickson also says that I have not been a terrible friend, as I did run away upon hearing Lady Patience express her mistaken regard.

I know you will not wish to encounter me when you return so have taken myself off to a cousin’s house in Bedford Square. Also, I probably would have gone anyway. Your valet reports that your dressing room has suddenly been beset with case moths and we all know how they cannot be contained. (The fellow is in a state at the moment, as apparently the moths have been fond of your coats. He suspects they came from that old case that housed the half-filled bottle of scent.)

I suppose the good news is that Lady Patience does indeed seem inclined to you. Of course the bad news is that she believes she apprised you of it and you ran away.

Let us hope for better days ahead,

Your idiot friend, Radner

Idiot indeed, that was painting it very lightly. What must Lady Patience think?

But then, she’d expressed her regard. Why had he not been there!

As the entire situation settled into his mind, several things began to bubble up that had not been spelled out in the letter. Had he really dragged his heels to such a degree that Lady Patience had been forced to outright question him?

If he was perceived as particularly slow off the mark, had all these clock-related things not come from Lady Monroe? Had they in fact emanated from the duke’s household?

But most importantly, he must fix Lady Patience’s impression of who she had spoken to at the masque. What must she think of him? What must she feel at this moment? Radler had run away. Not walked, but run. She had been humiliated.

He strode into the drawing room. “Lady Monroe, it has been a pleasure to visit but I find I must return to London at first light to attend to some urgent business.”

Lady Monroe nodded. “Finally decided to get off the pot, did you?”

Marcus would hardly dignify that sort of vulgarity with an answer and really thought Lady Monroe spent far too much time in the company of her lady’s maid. “I have things to attend to,” he said.

“By things, I hope you mean Lady Patience. It’s time you stop trying to avoid what you did not like in your youth and go forward securing what you do like.”

As usual, Lady Monroe was odd and oddly insightful. “Are you certain you did not send the scent in the old case to me?”

“Entirely certain.”

“Well, I only say, it has brought case moths into my house. Perhaps you ought to check round the house and make sure they’ve not made any inroads here.”

“Case moths!” the lady’s maid said, laughing. “Gracious, you’ll never get rid of them. Stoic little monsters, those.”

“I would not tolerate case moths in this house, young man,” Lady Monroe said. “I can assure you we guard against that sort of thing here—cedar chests are the way to go. Now, off with you, pack your things, and I will have some of the last good wine brought up from the cellars for dinner. Remember, you promised to fill my wine cellar—don’t send cheap stuff.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Patience very much appreciated her family’s efforts to cheer her up over dinner the evening before. They’d had fricasseed chicken, which everyone knew was Patience’s favorite dinner and her father had directed Charlie to be very liberal with the wine pouring.

Grace had heard the news, probably from Serenity, and had joined them. She found herself very disappointed in Lord Stanford and she said Dashlend was positively puzzled by his decampment.

Felicity had sent over a note of encouragement. She did not know what had gone wrong, but it was bound to eventually come right.

Winsome said that, in solidarity with her sister, she would hate Lord Stanford forever. If there was the slightest thing she might do for him in future, she would absolutely refuse.

Serenity claimed that she would not look at him twice next season, else she wept over the hurt done to her sister.

Verity posited that it was very usual for a gentleman to run away, but even though it was usual, she could not like it.

Of all of them, Valor’s stance had been the most alarming. She’d bided her time and after everyone expressed their disdain for Lord Stanford and what they intended to do about it, she said, “You are all thinking of the future, but I have already taken steps.”

This rather stopped the conversation in its tracks.

“Not another letter, eh, Valor?” the duke asked.

Valor shrugged. “What else can I do, Papa? I’m not allowed to take the carriage out by myself. If I was allowed, I’d take a bucket full of horse leavings and tip it over his head, but I’m not allowed.”

“Valor,” Patience said with trepidation, “what exactly did you write?”

For some reason, Valor seemed less enthusiastic about revealing what precisely she’d said. “Well, you know, the usual sort of thing one writes in this situation.”

The duke laughed. “I bet it was a corker!”

“Valor? Spill it,” Patience said.

“All right. First, I did not come up with it on my own. Mrs. Wendover thought of it. Also, I did not have time to write a long letter. Finally, I’d appreciate it if nobody tells the vicar. Also finally, Papa, do not be angry that I cursed.”

The duke was wiping his eyes with laughter. “It’ll be a corker!”

“Valor?” Patience asked, her toes tapping the floor.

Valor shrugged and said, “I wrote, I hope you die because you are so awful the devil will take you to hell and burn you up forever .” She paused, examining her fingernails. “Or something like that.”

“Oh Valor, you did not sign your name to it?” Patience said, embarrassed to think that Lord Stanford would realize how devastated she was.

“No, I signed it Mrs. W. Because it really was her idea. I just agreed with it,” Valor said.

Patience had done everything she possibly could to convince herself that Lord Stanford would not connect that letter to her household. She’d already been shamed enough. She knew Valor meant to help, but her youngest sister could not be allowed to send any more letters out of the house!

Now, they were blessedly on their way home. They had not informed Lady Marchfield of the decampment. She would discover it sooner or later and would write a stern letter of some sort. That was best, as Patience did not wish to be closely questioned by her aunt.

She certainly would not take the lady up on her offer to move to the Marchfield household. Even if Patience could bear to stay in London, she could not bear the constant lectures. She loved her aunt, in her own way, but she loved her more in small doses and great distances.

The departure from Grosvenor Square had been far more organized than it usually was, all her sisters seeming to understand the necessity of it. Winsome did not bother hiding Verity’s pelisse. Serenity did not lollygag round the garden, checking for dead bees. Even Valor had taken care not to lose track of Mrs. Wendover, thereby avoiding an extensive search. Nelson had been absolutely stymied in his efforts to get hold of that stuffed rabbit.

Unlike other trips, where Patience might be in a carriage with Verity, Serenity, and Winsome, she rode with her father and Mrs. Right. She got the idea that they wished to keep an eye on her.

“It is all right, Papa,” she said, in answer to the question he had not asked. “I’ve made a fool of myself and given my heart where it was not wanted. It will not be the death of me. I am not some swooning and delicate sort of girl who cannot withstand a tragedy or two.”

Mrs. Right patted her hand. “Stanford is a fool, if you ask me. He’ll realize it one of these days. He’ll wed some dry lady and then wake up to his mistake.”

“That will not especially help me, though,” Patience pointed out.

“I cannot say I understand what’s happened,” the duke said. “My instincts are never wrong about these things.”

Patience sighed. “There is a first time for everything, I suppose.”

“Somehow, the fates have something else in store for you, my dear girl,” Mrs. Right said. “Your head was turned by that fellow, but my guess is next season you’ll find your true love. You will come to think that rogue has done you a favor.”

Patience nodded, though she did not really think that would be the case. She imagined she’d always be pining in some manner over Lord Stanford.

She would marry, of course she would. But it would not be to him. If her future lord wished to attend the season in Town, then she would be forced to see Lord Stanford from time to time. It would be impossible to avoid it and a constant reminder of her heartbreak and shame.

“I know what I’ll do to cheer you up,” the duke said. “We will be stopping for the night soon, and it is an inn that does not know us. How about I launch the old brocabbage pie gambit? I’ll have them all run round trying to figure out what this supposed Yorkshire staple is that the duke is insisting he wants, and then I’ll tell them I made the whole thing up. That’s always good for amusement.”

“You are very kind to think of it, Papa,” Patience said. “Though, why do we go to a new place? The one we usually stay in was very comfortable, I thought.”

“Oh yes, very comfortable indeed. As it happens, that innkeeper had a private word with Reynolds the last time we stayed there. Apparently, the man was in tears and begged that we not return. You know how some people are—no stamina for a jest.”

“I see,” Patience said. She supposed it was the brocabbage pie gambit, or the footman drinking like lords before heaving it all up in the yard, or Valor hiding in linen closets, or Winsome claiming one of the waiters looked shifty, or Verity explaining that shifty waiters were a very usual thing… or perhaps all of that together that had discomposed the innkeeper.

“Your father indulges that innkeeper’s temperament on account of his liberality of spirit,” Mrs. Right said.

“That’s true, I am very liberal, am I not?”

“Very liberal, Papa.”

The carriage pulled into the innyard. “Well then,” the duke said, “let us proceed inside and send these young fellows on the wild goose chase of their lives in search of brocabbage pie. If a duke cannot act eccentric, who can?”

Patience forced herself to smile. This was to be her life now. Her father would run an innkeeper’s staff ragged to distract her from her own foolishness.

Aside from the devastation of a broken heart, she felt like a failure. Felicity and Grace had been successful in their seasons. Not so their younger sister. She’d gone into the season so full of confidence. She was certain she would make quick work of finding her match. Then she had done so. Unfortunately, her match had not agreed with her.