Page 2 of Lady Impatience (A Series of Senseless Complications #3)

The day before, Patience had secured her preferred room, despite Winsome attempting to knock her out of the way on the stairs. After seeing her trunks into it as an irrefutable claim, she raced downstairs to examine the invitations that had come in so far.

There had been nothing on the great hall table, nothing in the drawing room, nothing in the library. Patience had almost begun to fear that they were being shunned by society. Lady Marchfield had warned them about that incessantly, though nobody had believed her. Her aunt had claimed that society would not tolerate their behavior, though Patience could not really see what she meant by it.

Finally, in the cozy little sitting room meant for ladies to write their letters, she found them. Along with the invitations, there was a neatly filled out calendar, and an envelope addressed to Patience. She tore it open and two tickets fluttered to the desk.

Patience—

I have done you the service of reviewing your invitations and accepting those that would benefit you. You will notice that your Almack’s voucher has arrived (and thank heavens for it) and I have purchased two tickets for the opening ball. Please explain to your ne’er-do-well father that it is essential that you attend the opening ball on Wednesday. Also explain to him that it does not do you credit to have a father drinking from a flask or otherwise making a spectacle of himself at that storied institution.

I do hope you perceive why I have taken these steps. The family cannot afford another misstep like last season.

Your concerned Aunt

Patience guessed the particular misstep her aunt referred to was Grace accepting the invitation to the Earl of Doanellen’s dinner, which had been hosted by his crass mistress.

She supposed her papa would not be enthusiastic to know that his sister had gone so far as to arrange their social calendar for the season. Patience did not think she minded though, her aunt had been very efficient and, unlike Grace, Patience was eager to attend Almack’s. As the first Wednesday was on the morrow, how else could she have done it?

Even though Patience had not informed him of the contents of Lady Marchfield’s letter, the duke had been irritated to find the calendar arranged. He called Lady Marchfield a polecat sticking her nose into hen houses that were not her own. As he had called her that so many times in the past, it shocked nobody but Mr. Grimsby. He, apparently, had not imagined anyone would name his benefactress a polecat.

That was not the last of shocks for Mr. Grimsby though. He’d nearly staggered when Mrs. Right sailed past him and into the drawing room to have a glass of brandy with the duke before retiring.

This morning, Patience could not imagine what was wrong with the man. In the breakfast room, he’d stood at the sideboard and she’d noticed him scratching at himself several times. Did he suffer from some sort of malady?

She rather hoped he was not in the house long enough for her to find out.

Now, they were on their way to the park. The ponies from the estate had arrived to the stables in good time and had already had days of rest. They were anxious to get going, and so was Patience. She was always full of nervous energy and a hard ride would be just the thing to tire her out and give her a sense of calm before her debut at Almack’s.

They’d got off in good time, as the one thing her sisters would not delay was getting on their horses. They all agreed it was too cruel to make them stand about and none of them, not even Serenity, wished to put up with Serenity weeping over the cruelty of it.

They followed the carriage carrying their papa, Mrs. Right, and Valor, with two grooms on horseback bringing up the rear.

The carriage went through the gate and slowed. Patience reined in her horse at the window.

“Let us confirm our plan,” the duke said.

“I know, Papa,” Patience said. “We are to never separate or leave the grooms behind. We will canter south and then we may have a gallop down the King’s Road. You will make your way there in the carriage.”

“That’s right,” the duke said.

“Be careful, Patience!” Valor shouted from the other side of the carriage. “Be careful, Verity! Be careful, Winsome! Be careful, Serenity!”

Patience nodded at her, though she was not particularly planning on being careful. She was planning on a glorious ride. One did not require caution atop a surefooted Dales pony—they could be counted on to keep the earth firmly under their hooves. All a rider must do was keep themselves firmly in the saddle.

She turned her head and said to Winsome, Verity, and Serenity, “Let’s be off.”

They spurred their horses across the greenery, heading south toward the King’s Road. Or Rotten Row, as it was called by some.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Marcus and Radler had taken their horses for a much-needed gallop down Rotten Row. It was still early enough that the road was not congested with people coming to see and be seen, which he found wildly annoying. If one wished to just stroll along, one ought to make their way to the enclosure and not get in the way of those who wished to exercise their horse.

They’d reined in, taking their horses down from a gallop to a canter to a trot, and finally, to a walk and a stop.

“I’ve heard of no end of ladies who will be making their debut this evening at Almack’s,” Radler said. “My mother writes me endlessly about them, though heaven knows how she finds it out from Derbyshire.”

“Letters,” Marcus said. “They all write letters daily—the newspapers could not communicate news so efficiently.”

“She seems to know a lot about these young ladies, approving of all but one. What she cannot know, though, is who I will be struck by. I’ve attempted to explain it to her a hundred times.”

“You are always trying to explain that theory to anyone who will listen.” Marcus paused. “Wait. You said your mother approved of all but one? Who did she not approve of?”

“Ah, that was a bit of nonsense, really. She claims I ought to steer well clear of the Duke of Pelham’s latest daughter. She says the duke is as mad as a bat in sunshine and his daughters cause the most shocking scandals.”

Marcus nodded. Radler’s mother was not half wrong. The eldest daughter had something to do with Lady Albright’s tiger escaping its cage and the second daughter was in a housefire at Lady Montague’s house. Marcus had heard she’d set it herself, presumably accidently.

“After all, how bad can they be?” Radler asked. “The first wed Stratton, everybody knows he’s a brick. The second caught Dashlend. Who ever thought Dashlend could be caught?” Very suddenly, Radler squinted and peered over Marcus’ shoulder. “What on earth is headed our direction?”

Marcus turned his horse.

He had no idea what he was looking at. He’d never seen such a thing in his life. Four ladies arrayed in matching dark blue habits rode abreast of one another, mounted on short and muscular black horses, and galloping at a furious pace. Two grooms on like-built horses were on their heels.

They whooshed by him, their skirts billowing out and their laughter ringing in the air.

Marcus watched them disappear into the distance.

“Gad,” Radler said, “they are rather marvelous.”

“They are rather foolish,” Marcus said, despite the fact that the lady who’d held the lead by a nose had looked a lovely creature. “I am surprised they are allowed to create such a spectacle and risk their necks in the process.”

“Do you suppose it is some sort of new lady’s club? My mother says young ladies are becoming too daring these days, though I do not see it.”

Before Marcus could compose an answer, and he really did not know what his opinion was on the subject, a carriage rolled to a stop and a window opened.

A middle-aged and seemingly well-funded individual said, “Have you seen my daughters? Four girls on Dales ponies?”

So that was what they’d just witnessed. Marcus nodded. “Yes, my lord. They passed a few minutes ago.”

“Your Grace, if you wish to be precise,” the man said. “Duke of Pelham. Who are you?”

Marcus was taken aback. Though why should he be? After everything he’d heard of the duke’s family, he should have guessed that a feminine battalion on horseback would belong to him. As well, he would have been clever to notice the coat of arms on the carriage door.

“The Earl of Stanford, Your Grace. This is Viscount Radler.”

The duke nodded. A young girl peered out of the carriage with wide eyes. The duke seemed to notice her and said, “My youngest, Lady Valor Nicolet. And this is my housekeeper, Mrs. Right.”

He’d brought his housekeeper to the park. Marcus had assumed it was a nanny, and even that was odd. And then to introduce her was even more odd.

“Well! We’d best be off to track down this horde of daughters I’ve been saddled with,” the duke said. He closed the window and rapped on the roof. The carriage set off.

Radler laughed. “He’s every bit as eccentric as I’d heard.”

Marcus nodded. The duke was entirely eccentric. What did he mean, calling his daughters a horde and claiming he’d been saddled with them? For that matter, what did he mean by allowing them to ride breakneck in the park?

“I’ll be interested to be introduced to Lady Patience this evening.”

“Is that her name?”

“So says my mother.”

Marcus shrugged. He could not say if he were looking forward to such an introduction. What he’d seen so far did not bode well.

On the other hand, she was uncommonly pretty. And then her name, Lady Patience, that did bode well.

Perhaps he ought not judge a lady by her father. He certainly had never wished to be judged by his own.

“By the by,” Radler said, “Kendrickson wrote to me. Remember him from Eton? He is coming this season. He says we will see him at Almack’s.”

“I am surprised he can afford the fees,” Marcus said. He had felt sorry for Kendrickson at school. The fellow’s clothes were at times verging on threadbare and he never had any money at his disposal. Everybody knew his father was a gambler who shot too high and too often.

Radler shrugged. “He’s found money from somewhere, I suppose. He’s got to, doesn’t he? He needs a wife with funds to pull his estate back from the brink.”

Marcus nodded. He supposed he ought to be grateful. Whatever else his father had been, he’d at least been a competent steward of his inheritance.

“I bet Kendrickson makes his move pretty quick,” Radler said. “He won’t be able to linger too long without funds to keep him. I’ll wager he sizes up the heftiest dowries and moves fast.”

“Wager all you like, I will not take you up on it,” Marcus said drily. “It was wagering that got Kendrickson’s father into debt in the first place. He might also consider that his actions, whatever they may be, will have lifelong consequences. Seeking speedy relief in the present may result in misery in the future.”

“He won’t have the luxury of waiting to be struck, as I do,” Radler said.

Marcus slowly closed his eyes and opened them again. Radler had spoken so many times about being “struck” that he was beginning to worry over what that might mean for the peace of his household. Marcus was not looking forward to finding his houseguest tearing at his hair over being “struck.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Randolph Burtherington, the Earl of Kendrickson knew people said that he was down on his luck. He always thought that a ridiculous phrase, as it implied one was showered with luck to begin and was just momentarily lacking it.

He’d not had a lot of luck. He was an earl—that was lucky. Very lucky. However, it was a title that did not mean much.

He’d been born on an estate that did not generate a vast amount of funds and he’d been sired by an inveterate gambler. The estate had been mortgaged to the hilt to pay his father’s gentlemanly debts.

Now his father was in the ground, leaving his losses behind him. All the wagers he’d lost at White’s or at the races were just distant memories for all involved.

Except Randolph and his mother. They remembered them very well. Those bets were the anchors tied to their ankles, attempting to drown them.

He’d come of age understanding what he needed to do. He needed to wed a lady with a sizable dowry to rescue the estate. It was the only way out. If he did not, the estate would go and after the mortgages were paid off there would be little left. Whatever funds they could leave with would disappear quickly and no new money could be generated without land.

All that would be left was a bullet in his head to avoid being a charity case and living off a relative’s pounds and pence.

Fortunately, he was an earl in good standing, despite his money troubles. The patronesses at Almack’s were sympathetic to his situation, as after all, his situation was hardly unique. Lords had been ruining themselves through gambling since time began. He supposed those ladies would help him along, as nobody wished to encounter a landless lord.

He and his mother had used every tactic available to them to get him to this season. He’d fostered his connections at Eton. In Town, they stayed with an old aunt on Bedford Square. He’d had a tailor tear apart his father’s clothes and put them together again with some notion of fashion. His mother had done the same with a seamstress. He would not pay for a club and the Duchess of Devonshire had very kindly paid the fees for their vouchers and tickets to Almack’s. That particular duchess was known to be overfond of gambling, so perhaps she had a soft spot for his situation.

His mother had sent letters flying in every direction to announce their relocation to Town, thereby generating invitations from her end. Randolph had written casual letters to his old schoolmates that he would be in Town. He and the dowager countess would be invited here and there and they would make themselves pleasant, generating even more invitations.

He must secure a dowry, and he must be extra charming to do it, since all the world knew what he was after. He must convince a lady that while her dowry was pleasant, it was herself he was interested in.

He hardly dared dream he would get so lucky that it would be true. He had not allowed his hopes to run that high. However, he had determined that if he were to wed only for a dowry, he would repay his lady by lifelong courtesy and generosity.

It might be all he had to offer.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Patience had known for months which dress she would wear to her debut at Almack’s. She had sketched it out with Almack’s in mind. Felicity and Grace might dilly-dally and change minds over what to wear, but Patience Nicolet did not.

It was a divine dress of white shot silk with a Pomona green sarsenet overlay embroidered with silver thread. The skirt had a hint of the French cut. Patience felt the silhouette suited her, though she would never admit to the wider world that she was at all favoring anything French.

Mrs. Right had done wonders with her hair, which could at times be an overwhelming amount of hair to manage. Unlike Grace’s hair, which was a very pretty shade of blond, her own was brown. In the sunlight, it had a particular reddish cast to it. She could never decide if she liked it or not. Sometimes she thought it rather pretty, and other times she found it pedestrian.

The carriage rumbled toward King Street. The duke said, “Here we go again. Another rollicking adventure in getting a daughter out of my house.”

Patience tapped his hand with her fan. “Do not be dramatic, Papa. I am not Felicity or Grace, I intend to go into this season with rationality and purpose. I will find the gentleman I prefer and we will move forward with no ridiculous delays.”

The duke laughed and said, “You have not the first idea how much I would like to believe that, my girl. We’ll see, I suppose.”

“Really, you will see. After all, there are not thousands of choices, are there? There is a pool of eligible gentlemen, unmarried and of the right age and station, and I will see which of them I prefer. I am certain to make short work of it.”

Patience did not choose to verbalize the one concern she had. She had no doubt she would settle her opinions quickly, as she always did. But what if she decided on a gentleman and he had not decided on her? What then?

She pushed it out of her mind, as there was no use jumping a fence one had not ridden up to yet. A well-trained horse did not worry over what it was meant to do, it just did the right things at the right time, as would she.

The carriage slowed to a stop. They had arrived. It was time. Patience Nicolet was to take her place in society.

“Let’s get this circus going,” the duke said. “I’m all but certain that Lady Misery will be haunting the hall to be sure you’ve turned up.”

“She disapproves of your flask of brandy, Papa,” Patience said as she was helped down from the carriage.

“Does she now? Well, she’ll have to pry it from my cold, dead hands. Do not expect a duke to survive on lemonade and tea at this time of night, thank you very much.”

Patience giggled as they made their way inside. If only her aunt would let her papa be as he was, she would be much happier for it.

They were introduced to a patroness, the Duchess of Devonshire. She was an imposing-looking matron, but she seemed very kind and good-humored. Especially since the duke claimed he’d never heard of Devonshire. She took it as the jest it was and he promptly invited her to visit them in the Dales. She laughed and said he’d regret that invitation, as she had a habit of turning up and setting a card table for high stakes. Then he informed her he’d brought his flask and fully intended to soothe himself with brandy at some point in the evening.

The duchess had said, “I will look the other way. But Duke, do ensure that the other patronesses are looking the other way too. There are some who do take a great amount of satisfaction in enforcing the rules.”

Then, the duchess had taken Patience’s card, claiming she would return it filled with promising gentlemen. Naturally, Patience was well aware of the habit of the patronesses—other nights she would hold the card herself and be approached directly. But not for her debut. She must trust the duchess to choose wisely.

As the duke led her forward toward the ballroom, Lady Marchfield caught up to them.

“Thank goodness you are here,” she said, kissing Patience on the cheek. “Roland,” she said to the duke, eyeing his coat for any evidence of a bulge that might hint of a flask of brandy.

The duke patted his pocket to assist her in discovering its location.

Lady Marchfield pursed her lips in response. “Allow me to lead you forward, Patience.”

They went into the ballroom while the duke made various comments behind them. Most of it was along the lines of Lord Marchfield trying to rid himself of his bride. Her papa found it amusing to claim that her uncle was always desperate to get away from his wife. It was not true as far as she knew it, but that did not make it less hilarious.

At the moment though, Patience paid little attention. She was too taken up with the ballroom and the people in it. There were ladies dressed in all manner of silk fineries and gentleman looking elegant as the result of a skilled tailor. There was a glorious group of three men talking to one another who had instantly caught her eye. Two of them she was certain she’d seen in the park as she and her sisters took their gallop down Rotten Row.

They were all rather handsome and seemed to have much similarity in the looks department. They were all tall and broad-shouldered and well-built gentlemen in their prime. But there was one who stood out. His clothes were exquisite. They were not of the dandy or fop style of dress, but they were tailored to within an inch of their lives. He had very prominent cheekbones, which gave his features a rather chiseled appearance. His hair was the color of her departed mama’s sable coat—a rich and deep brown. She wrapped herself in that coat and breathed her mother’s perfume sometimes, when she felt misunderstood.

Three similar gentlemen until one took in the details. That one man who stood across the ballroom was divine.

Patience watched as the Duchess of Devonshire approached the group of gentlemen. Goodness, she would solicit them to be on her card. Well done, Duchess!

All three men looked in her direction and she averted her eyes. When they’d turned away she continued her observance. Two of the gentlemen put their names down with alacrity. But the divine one, the one with the sable brown hair… was he hesitating? Why would he hesitate?

Finally, the duchess all but put the card in his hand and he did put his name down. Patience felt vaguely uncomfortable over what she’d witnessed.

Lady Marchfield followed her gaze. “Ah, that is the Earl of Stanford on the right. In the middle is Viscount Radler, and on the left is the Earl of Kendrickson. Have a care with Lord Kendrickson, everybody knows he’s here dowry hunting. His estate is on very shaky foundations at the moment.”

“But the Earl of Stanford,” Patience said, “he seemed to hesitate in putting his name down. Why would he hesitate?”

“Did he? Hmmm,” Lady Marchfield said.

“ Hmmm ? Aunt? What does that mean?” Patience asked.

“Well, the earl is a very measured sort of person. At least, that is how he’s always struck me.”

“Why would that make him hesitate? Do not I pass muster on looks?”

“You look positively enchanting, Patience,” Lady Marchfield said.

“Then what is it?” Patience asked. She was really beginning to feel anxious or annoyed or she did not know what.

The duke took that moment to join in the conversation. “What Lady Misery means to say, Patience, is perhaps the earl did not approve of you and your sisters taking a gallop down Rotten Row. He might be a little stiff-lipped. At least I imagine so if Lady Misery here approves of him.”

She thought he’d been one of the gentlemen they’d passed by. But why should a gallop require approval? What was wrong with it?

“Galloping? Rotten Row? I had thought it might have been something Lord Stanford had heard about the last two rather ridiculous seasons,” Lady Marchfield said. “Roland, why on earth would you allow Patience to create such a spectacle before she has even danced her first?” She held her hand up, lest the duke thought to answer the question. “I have seen them ride—all of them abreast and looking like an invading army. Not exactly the picture of femininity that Patience will wish to convey.”

Picture of femininity? Well, really. She thought she did convey that just now, but atop a horse was a different matter.

The duke took out his flask and took a long draught by way of answer.

“You might remember that habits in the remote corners of the Dales do not transfer particularly well to Town,” Lady Marchfield said.

“Where’s Marchfield, by the by?” the duke asked. “Give you the slip again?”

Before Lady Marchfield could answer that salvo, the Duchess of Devonshire returned. She handed Patience her card. “All filled with eligible gentlemen. Now, I’d best locate Lady Alice. I hope I find her not as serious as I did the last I saw her—all well and good in a young lady, but perhaps not suited for a ball.”

The duchess sailed off to locate the serious Lady Alice.

“Lady Alice has every right to be serious,” Lady Marchfield said. “She is exceedingly well funded. I have heard she brings twenty thousand. A little seriousness would not go amiss for you, Patience, and your sisters as well.”

Patience listened and nodded, but she really was not very interested in Lady Alice’s temperament.

She felt very much put on the back foot and she did not like it. She wished she’d not been looking when the duchess had presented her card to those three gentlemen.

Or she wished that one of them had not hesitated. In particular, she wished that gentleman had not hesitated.