Page 3 of Lady Liar (A Series of Senseless Complications #5)

The thrill had begun to wane just a little bit, though.

At the end of each season, all these learned men, including himself, would retreat to their estates to spend the months in study.

He was happy to do it. He was content enough to write letters requesting notes from various volumes he did not possess, answer requests of the same, pore through the volumes he owned, and spend a lot of time… thinking.

However, recently his thinking had begun to take a turn.

All those months of study were done very solitary.

The days were not too terrible, he occupied his time in his library and riding round the estate on various matters.

In the house, there was the constant bustle of staff going here and there and doing this or that.

The nights were rather too quiet, though.

Dining alone, surrounded by a butler and two footmen, was awkward.

Did they watch him chew? Were they hoping he’d hurry up?

He supposed a baron was not to care if his staff wished he’d hurry up, but he did care.

There was something inherently uncomfortable about the whole thing.

There were those lords of England who went along happily, never imagining that anybody beneath them had a stray thought they would not say aloud.

Henry was all too uncomfortably aware of the fallacy of that, though.

If he were his butler or one of his footmen, he would be hard-pressed not to toe-tap through those dreary dinners.

Afterward, he would be left in the drawing room, with one of them standing round in case he needed anything.

He invariably sent them off early, as it was uncomfortable to sit alone with another person waiting to see if you would want anything.

Sometimes, he heard the household staff’s laughter drifting up from below stairs.

They certainly had a better time during these nights at home.

He usually was at home at night, too. His neighborhood was rather thin of amusements as it only consisted of an elderly countess who lived in the glorious past of the 1750s and a viscount whose sole interest seemed to be shooting things.

His opinion on his predicament settled. He wanted a family. He wanted to hear talking and footsteps and laughter and doors slamming overhead. He wanted company in the evenings. It was time to wed. He was tired of being alone with his thoughts, however intellectual those thoughts might be.

He supposed his aunt would be delighted. She was his last living relative, but for a handful of more distant cousins. He stayed in her house in Town, as being preferable to renting his own house or a set at The Albany. Why not? She was a sharp old girl and they both appreciated the company.

Just now, various members wandered round The Royal Society’s rooms for the annual reception that would kick off the season.

Sir Richard had cornered a few gentlemen, including himself, to outline his observations of the behavior of the frogs in his pond, which he had gone to great lengths to study to the detriment of his clothes.

In the interest of scientific progress and at great inconvenience to himself, Sir Richard had expanded his observations by traveling halfway across the country to study the frogs in Lord Hellburn’s pond.

As far as Henry could understand it, both gentlemen’s frogs had acted as very usual frogs.

“My conclusion based on my observations,” Sir Richard droned on, “is that, as a species, the common frog of England, or Rana temporaria as we would more properly name them, all share similar habits regardless of any environmental differences they might experience. Now what does this say about the more rare Northern Clade Pool Frog, or Pelophylax lessonae? That is not at all conclusive, but I assure you, my esteemed colleagues, I will be investigating exactly that in Norfolk over the next summer. The great question that hangs in the balance—do these two species of frogs maintain similar habits? The study of herpetofauna rather depends on our finding it out!”

Henry stared at the fellow. Did all frogs act like frogs?

That’s what they needed to find out? There were times when he really questioned some inquiries conducted by the society as being perhaps not critical to scientific advancement.

This was the sort of thing that might be mocked by those who were not members of the society.

“I plan to present my findings next year,” Sir Richard said. “Though, I did want my colleagues to have an early peek into my work. I will send all of you a copy of the paper I am developing.”

Henry smiled. He was soon to be in receipt of a riveting paper on how frogs acted like frogs, regardless of which pond they resided in.

Please, God, let me find a wife.

*

Verity watched the scenery go by, the farmland becoming less and the villages and small towns more frequent.

The trip to London had been full of interest, though of a far different sort of interest than the Nicolet entourage had been used to.

It seemed that they’d been so often to the various inns where they stopped over the years that the duke’s habits had become a bit too well understood.

One of his favorite jests, asking for brocabbage pie or Grassington hambac, neither of which existed, did not cause the usual amusement.

The duke liked to insist on the dishes as Yorkshire staples, the kitchens would go mad attempting to discover what they were, and then the duke would jocularly inform them that he’d made the whole thing up.

The duke had been foiled at that gambit several times. One innkeeper just answered flatly that they did not have those two items. When reminded that they were allegedly Yorkshire staples, he’d simply replied, “Then the Yorkshire lunatics can keep them to themselves. Your Grace.”

At another inn, the woman who ran the kitchen operation had already proved herself immune to the duke’s humor the year before by threatening to add some poisonous mushrooms to his brocabbage pie and pointing out she knew where to find those mushrooms. This time, she shouted loud enough for all to hear that she would “Grassington Hambac that duke all the way back to the Dales.”

Another innkeeper took things a step further.

That fellow joyously replied that they did have brocabbage pie.

The family was then faced with a pie filled with dripping, boiled cabbage covered in black pepper that was just as terrible as anybody would imagine.

The duke, not being at all offended to be the butt of a joke, laughed uproariously, and congratulated them all on the idea.

Verity got the feeling that they were a little let down over the duke’s approval and had much rather he’d gone mad over it and never returned again.

Of course, they did not know the duke as well as she did—there was nothing he liked more than a battle of wits, a cat and mouse game, and Verity was certain he’d come up with some new gambit to launch at them next year.

The duke’s footmen had been foiled as well.

They’d always been in the habit of drinking like young lords on a grand tour, singing into the early morning in the innyard, and then invariably depositing what they’d drank in that same yard.

At one inn, they’d been relegated to wine that had been so heavily watered that they could not drink it fast enough to get drunk.

At another, they were only given tea, that innkeeper explaining a local shortage of… everything else to drink.

Of the entire party, Sir Galahad seemed to enjoy the trip the most. He pushed his smushed pug nose out the window and took in the smells from the Dales to London.

Verity did not know what was so interesting about cow manure or grass or goats or chickens, but Sir Galahad found the English countryside an olfactory feast and spent most of his time drooling.

Verity had been happy for the distractions, and she hoped the new butler would distract as well.

Anything at all to keep people from examining her too closely.

At least, examining what she said too closely.

She worked with very little real information and anybody paying too close attention might notice it.

She did not exactly know what sort or how much information a gentleman would expect her to have, but it certainly must be more than she’d acquired.

All she could do about it was pretend to know things, else she looked a complete idiot.

As for the new butler, they were on the verge of discovering more about this man that Lady Marchfield had not revealed anything about. Other than he was meant to send a chill down their spines. The carriages had entered Grosvenor Square and slowed in front of the duke’s house.

Much to Verity’s surprise, Lady Marchfield stood at the doors with her arms crossed.

“Gracious,” Verity said, “what does our aunt do here?”

Winsome peered out the window. “Nothing good, I am sure.”

Valor did not look at all, but hugged Sir Galahad close. Verity wondered if they’d even be able to convince Valor to get out of the carriage.

Thomas opened the door, a look of trepidation on his features. “Chin up, Thomas,” Winsome said. “Whatever awaits us, Mrs. Right will see that it’s all to come right.”

“Indeed I will,” Mrs. Right said, patting Valor’s hand.

“A very usual case,” Verity muttered out of habit, climbing down to the pavement.

Their father had not been at all reluctant to get out of his own carriage. Loud enough for the neighbors to hear, he said, “What now, Lady Misery? What ill wind has blown you in to darken my door?”

“Dear Roland, you do jest,” Lady Marchfield said with a smile. “Of course I would be here to greet my dearest brother. Serenity alerted me that you would arrive today and I would not miss it for the world.”

Verity and her sisters stared at their aunt wide-eyed. Verity did not have the first idea of what her aunt was saying. Dear Roland? Her dearest brother? What was happening?

“What’s the game, Misery?” the duke asked.

“Game? No game. Look, there are my darling nieces. Come, my loves, let us get you out of the chill air. Do come away from that… servant.”

By servant, Verity supposed she meant Mrs. Right.

But they did not look upon her as a servant.

She was Mrs. Right! She was their stand-in mother, keeper of secrets, consoler of broken hearts, and the general of the duke’s household.

She cared for them when they were sick and brushed their hair at night and tucked them under their blankets.

She soothed Valor when she’d had a nightmare.

She kept the duke company with a brandy at night before retiring.

She was not a servant. She was something else altogether.

“Come, girls, and Mrs. Right,” the duke said.

“Let us proceed in and leave the lunacy of Lady Misery on the pavement. Charlie? You and Thomas see the trunks and cases indoors and make sure that diabolical woman does not try to hide herself in one of them to get into my house! Stand aside, you deranged woman.”

Lady Marchfield did step aside, though she looked suspiciously happy to do so.

As they stepped into the great hall, entirely distracted by Lady Marchfield’s outlandish behavior, they were all but accosted by a man rushing at them.

He was a lumbering individual with facial features that reminded Verity very much of a trout.

His lips, rather than turn up, took a decided downturn and his eyes bulged as if he were a fish caught on a hook.

His clothes were no less alarming—his coat was ill-fitting and underneath that coat was a simply bizarre waistcoat embroidered with little red, white, and blue flags.

Flags with stars—not the Union Jack, which would have been odd enough.

He grasped the duke’s hand and shook it heartily. Her father yanked his hand from the man.

“Duke!” the man said, “Mr. Morus Klonsume, Morry, to my friends. Pleased as Punch to make your acquaintance, been here for hours, had a look around. Took stock, as it were.”

Lady Marchfield leaned through the front doors and said, “That’s right, Roland. He’s an American with exceedingly original ideas. Good luck!” With that, she set off and Verity could hear her laughing all the way to her carriage.

Verity looked to her father. What on earth were they to do with an American? Especially an American such as this?

“Whatever your name is,” the duke said, “ my name is Your Grace. Do not ever touch me again. This lady’s name is Mrs. Right. She runs the place. Try not to get in her way.”

“Hah!” Mr. Morus Klonsume said, seeming overjoyed with the information.

“The English! Just as stiff as was said. Never fear, Your Grace , American ingenuity to the rescue. You’ve never seen the like and, if I may say so, I am quite the expert.

Born and bred in the new world and took to it like a duck to water, you understand.

The mind of Pliny the Elder and determination of General Washington!

The Delaware? I can cross it! Prepare to have this house turned upside down, shaken around, and settled into a brave new modern world! ”

“Mrs. Right,” the duke said, ignoring the man, “for the love of all that’s holy, send this individual below stairs,” the duke said.

“Below stairs,” Mr. Klonsume cried. “Know my way, been there already. Threw the cook for a loop, funny fellow. He says, do I want tea? I say, my good fellow, don’t you know we threw it all into Boston Harbor? It was a good joke but I don’t reckon the man knows his history very well—blank stare.”

“I’ll bet it was a blank stare,” Mrs. Right said, grasping the fellow by his ill-fitting coat sleeve and pulling him away.

Verity took that moment to shoot up the stairs ahead of her sisters.

Whatever was to happen this season, she was determined to secure the best room.

Gracious, she had hoped the game of Mrs. Right driving the latest butler from the house would prove a distraction but Mr. Klonsume was…

well, she did not really know what he was.

All she could guess was that Mrs. Right and the footmen would have their hands full.