Page 11 of Lady Liar (A Series of Senseless Complications #5)

Why did he not see how wonderful that would be?

No longer would she reside in Berwick Street, re-cutting dresses from last year and wearing paste because all the real jewelry had been sold off.

Nobody would “forget” to include her in their invitations out of the humiliating idea that her family could not reciprocate.

Or worse, that the earl might attempt it and would embarrass his guests with a paltry offering.

No longer would she precariously float at the edges of society.

She would be somebody of note, rather than some poor girl eking it out in rented rooms.

When she observed the likes of Lady Westmoreland or Lady Pembroke, it was not just their jewels and rich fabrics that caught her eye. It was their confidence. They stood on rock solid ground and feared nothing. How she longed for that.

Of course, Lord Wembly had been far too busy with his inquiries at The Royal Society to take much notice of her.

Or of anybody else, it seemed. Who had suggested to him that he ought to look into the circulation of slow animals?

That person, whoever it was, should be forced to explain himself.

Certainly, it must have been a man recommending such a thing. A woman would not be so impractical.

After the season, she’d gone through all her father’s periodicals to find something on the subject, thinking that might attract his notice.

Well, she had found one, and what a palaver that had been.

Why were these men sending each other monkeys and the like?

She could not imagine, but she had gleaned enough of it to be able to speak intelligently on the subject if that became necessary.

She did not know how in the world she might work it into a conversation, though. What was she to say? That she had an interest in the subject?

Lilith flipped through the invitations once more.

Plenty of routs, but no dinners as of yet.

Also conspicuously missing was an invitation to Sir Jonathan’s scavenger hunt for charity.

She could guess why—Sir Jonathan would speculate that her father did not have any funds for the very high-priced tickets. Which he did not.

However, she was also aware that Lord Wembly was likely to attend. At least, she’d heard that he had attended in other years.

Perhaps she would just turn up? After all, Sir Jonathan was not likely to send her away if she simply arrived.

If she were questioned, she might say she’d thought her father had sent in for tickets—an innocent mistake if he had not.

Sir Jonathan would be all but forced to accept her presence, ticket or not.

Sometimes, the ton’s well-regulated manners could work in one’s favor.

It would be a daring thing to do, but what did she have to lose at this point? She would at least mull over the idea.

Lilith rang the bell to call for her lady’s maid, who was in fact the landlord’s daughter who lived above them.

Clara was a rather unremarkable girl who could not handle a single piece of Lilith’s clothing without pronouncing it too fancy, wondering how anybody could work in such finery, and who always seemed to smell of vinegar.

Still, chin up. Someday, Lilith would have a French maid.

Perhaps she’d even have two French maids.

She would have two very impertinent French maids.

After all, was not the Marchioness of Ledderley always decrying how impertinent her French maid was and were there not knowing nods from other important ladies?

She would have her own maid to complain about.

She supposed she did have her own maid to complain about even now, but descriptions of Clara being shocked at her finery were not as amusing as a French maid’s impertinently clever bon mots.

Someday, she would be where she was meant to be. Someday, she would not fret over every guinea. She would be the feminine half of the couple de pouvoir.

*

Mrs. Right’s plan was slowly coming together. She knew that her talent for picking up disparate pieces of information and arranging them into some kind of helpful order was a skill not many had.

She might have outdone herself this time.

The information to be rearranged and massaged and taken advantage of to form an exit plan for Mr. Klonsume were:

First fact: the name of the drunken viscount Mr. Klonsume had once served, turned out to be Lord Watery.

When she’d first heard the name, she’d found a certain irony to it, as it seemed the viscount had taken it to heart and watered himself until he was quite watery in both his eyes and mind.

Lord Watery served at the Earl of Peddlington’s convenience, that fellow being his father.

Second fact: Mr. Klonsume claimed he was a genius on every possible subject.

Her poor footmen had been pontificated to ad nauseum on decorating, the fall of Rome, Napoleon, the Greek Gods, some fellow named Revere who liked to ride around at night shouting at people and was thought terrific, and of course, the doings at Boston Harbor.

Mrs. Right was well-used to some blowhard in a tavern claiming to be the next Newton or Nelson, but those blowhards would give up the idea in the sober light of day.

Mr. Klonsume did not give up the idea, as it was not the fog of ale that caused his spouting off.

He wholeheartedly believed in his superiority and had not the least skill in noticing he bored everyone to sleep.

As far as that buffoon was concerned, his alleged American confidence and ingenuity would take him to ever greater heights.

The sky was the limit for Mr. Klonsume. He had even, the night before and after a large glass of brandy, speculated that the queen would be well served to interview him regarding the current American styles of decorating.

According to Mr. Klonsume, he could deliver the latest information, and his ideas were “innovative” and “modern.”

Fact three: Mr. Klonsume was very mistaken regarding his expertise, especially when it came to understanding rank and how England worked, with everybody having their proper place given to them at birth.

He seemed to believe that Americans were all equal to one another, which, if true, was rather hilarious—the place must be chaos.

As for the queen requesting his expertise, not even the lowliest servant emptying chamber pots in the palace would ask Mr. Klonsume for his opinion on anything.

Fact four: Her dear Serenity lived only two doors down now, having wed Lord Thorpe.

That girl was in and out of the house on the regular, chatting away on a myriad of subjects.

Very naturally, one of those subjects was Lord Thorpe’s brother, Lord Charles.

Those two brothers had quite the set-to last season and Lord Charles had taken himself off to the continent until things cooled down between them.

He had not, however, given up his set at The Albany.

Fact five: The season prior, Lord Thorpe had hired actors and a carriage to fool Valor into imagining she rescued Sir Galahad from an untimely death by drowning in the Thames.

This was done to ease Nelson and Serenity out of the house by giving Valor a dog of her own she could direct her attention to.

Mrs. Right had watched it play out, and what she’d taken away from it was that actors could be just as convincing off the stage as on.

Those five disparate facts, taken together, had been molded into a divine idea.

Once she had access to the set at The Albany and could arrange things there, had special livery prepared, actors hired, and a carriage rented, she would be ready to set it in motion.

The duke’s household funds would easily cover the expenses as she’d been running a surplus for years.

She’d always thought it wise to do so and save for any future calamity that came upon them.

Should an emergency of the monetary variety strike, the duke would be pleasantly surprised to discover that it could easily be covered.

But first, the all-important letter to Mr. Klonsume would arrive.

The very idea of it did give her comfort, which was sorely needed just now. Mr. Klonsume was currently bent over the servants’ table examining samples of wall coverings he’d had delivered. Though nobody had asked him to do it!

He was homing in on a print that appeared to depict the people and wildlife of the Far East as being just right for the duke’s dining room.

“It really is majestic, if I do say so myself,” Mr. Klonsume said.

“Look at this, Mrs. Right, it’s got maharajahs sitting under palms and monkeys hanging in the trees.

The maharajahs are being fanned by young boys on account of the heat.

Devilish hot there, is my understanding.

Maharajahs. Very apt for a duke, is it not?

If you think about it, he’s an English maharajah.

We don’t go in for maharajahs in America, mind you—nobody is above anybody else.

But then, it might be pleasant to be a maharajah. ”

Mrs. Right smiled at him. In not many more days, she would maharajah him right out of the house.

She would simply restrain herself from putting a pillow over his face in the meantime.