Page 30 of Lady Liar (A Series of Senseless Complications #5)

L ilith was not entirely sure what she had unleashed. She had simply meant to turn Lord Wembly from Lady Verity. She supposed she had, though it seemed to be accompanied by some unintended consequences.

It seemed there was a new print going round that she’d had nothing to do with and it was very unfavorable to Lord Wembly.

Certainly it must be aimed at him. It was a red-haired gentleman with his posterior in flames who appeared to be running from the doors of The Royal Society. It said: “Not very stoic.”

Was it a comment on Lord Wembly’s courage? Was he to be expected to carry on his courting of Lady Verity despite her being named Lady Fiction? She had really not predicted that as a consequence.

What if he discovered she had been the author of the original print naming Lady Verity as Lady Fiction? It would ruin everything.

She must not allow that to happen. The only other gentleman who had taken an interest in her was Mr. Grantley. He was rich, very rich, but he was ten years too old. And, worst of all, his money came from trade. He had some sort of factory near Bristol that made yarn and thread.

Lilith knew very well why she was of interest to that gentleman.

She was an earl’s daughter and Mr. Grantley had aspirations.

He was well read and well mannered and was invited to certain things, but there would be places where the doors would always be shut against him.

He imagined that an earl’s daughter would polish him up in the eyes of the ton . Or perhaps his children would benefit.

It was not what she wished for, though. It would be a step down when she was determined on a step up.

Her temporary maid, Clara, was snorting over the print. “I guess a person never knows how a thing will take effect,” she said. “According to this, Lord Wembly ran the other direction from Lady Verity, but then he’s also revealed himself to be a feckless lothario.”

“Lord Wembly is not feckless and certainly not a lothario. He is sensible,” Lilith said. “Whoever sent this print around is an idiot.”

“It’s still funny, though,” Clara said. “His posterior in flames is funny.”

Lilith did not answer, as she did not think Clara had the least understanding of the situation.

*

Henry could not work out what was happening. Was he shunned? Was Lady Verity ill? He did not know.

He had called on the duke’s household twice and not been admitted. He wished to apologize and take full responsibility for the damnable print that had gone round naming her Lady Fiction. If he’d not said anything of the matter, the print would not exist.

Certainly she must have concluded the fault was his, but he must be allowed to state it aloud and take responsibility for it.

And yet, both times he’d gone to the house, the housekeeper, Mrs. Right, had met him at the door. That was odd enough in itself. That lady had positively glared at him and told him Lady Verity was not at home to visitors. He supposed that meant she was at home, but he was not to be let in.

If he would only have an opportunity to apologize.

Would she come to Lady Darlington’s masque? If she did not, that would indicate a retreat from society. The duke might well pack up his family and return home for the year.

Perhaps he should send flowers? What could he send to indicate regret? Marigolds? Or send a note and hope it got past the duke?

As for the duke himself, how did he view his daughter’s current circumstances?

He would ask Lady Pegatha her opinion of it all.

Just now, he was milling round Lord Ledwell’s rout.

He had no prior indication that Lady Verity would attend, as he did not have access to her full calendar.

However, it was one of those parties people liked to call ‘the event of the season.’ Henry was not certain why.

The only thing this crush of an event had to offer was a punch Ledwell served each year of rum, sugar, lime, and nutmeg.

However, he could be reasonably assured that the duke and his family had received an invitation.

If there was the smallest chance she would turn up, he would not miss it.

Sir Reginald, a loud and voluble member of his club, suddenly slapped him on the back. “What’s it all about, Wembly?” he asked.

Henry presumed he inquired into the Lady Fiction print. It seemed there were so few lords in Town with any shade of red hair that he’d been easily identified.

Before he could compose an answer, Sir Reginald said, “Pants on fire, eh?”

What on earth did he say? What pants on fire?

“Mind you, nobody can blame you for running from a lady inventing strange stories about fish. I understand the duke has raised them all in the wilds, somewhere up north—no surprise they come out of it with strange habits.

Lord Frederickson pushed his way into their conversation, though Henry had not much of an idea of what they were talking about to begin with. “Wembly, brave lad,” he said.

“Brave? Why?”

“Somebody’s got it out for you, eh?”

What was going on? Was he talking about this pants on fire idea too?

Just then, Lady Caroline tapped his shoulder with her fan. “Gracious, Wembly,” she said. “Whatever it is you’ve done, do fix it. I do not care for a gentleman of my acquaintance to be named spineless. You have not refused a duel, I hope?”

Spineless? “Lady Caroline, I have not the first idea of what you are referring to. For that matter,” Henry said, turning to Sir Reginald and Lord Fredrickson, “I do not know what either of you are referring to either.”

Those three people looked at one another. Lord Frederickson said, “I was talking about that print going round where you are lying on a fainting couch, waving a vinaigrette under your nose. I mean, I assumed it was you, what with the red hair.”

“His hair is an auburn shade, really. However, a print of a fainting couch is not at all what I referred to,” Lady Caroline said. “I spoke of the print where Lord Wembly is slumped in a chair as if he cannot sit up straight and it simply says: Spineless.”

Sir Reginald laughed heartily. “Now this is amusing! I was talking of neither of those. I meant the print where Wembly is running out of The Royal Society with his posterior in flames. It says: Not very Stoic.”

“Good God, Wembly,” Lord Frederickson said. “How many prints are going round about you?”

“I’ve no idea,” Henry said softly. “Gentlemen, Lady Caroline,” he said hurriedly. He excused himself and made his way out of the house, lest somebody mention another print meant to mock him. How many were there?

Why was he being mocked in the first place? He hadn’t done anything.

Perhaps it was because he’d caused Lady Verity so much trouble by mentioning her research into fish? But he was not running away with his backside on fire and he was not spineless and he certainly had not fainted over it.

Had he failed to do something he ought to have done? Was that the problem? Was he being mocked because he’d not yet done anything? He’d tried to apologize but had not been let through the door.

He’d better find a way to get hold of these prints and see exactly what he was up against. With any luck, Lady Verity would attend Lady Darlington’s masque, and he could apologize there.

He would also make a show of seeking out Lady Verity to prove he was not running away or slumping in a chair or fainting on a couch.

Really, when his thoughts had turned to finding a wife, he’d thought it would be a deal more straightforward!

*

Nobody belonging to the Nicolet household had ever been called to Buckingham House to answer to the queen.

Of all of them, only the duke was really acquainted with her.

Some of her sisters had met her at various events, but she was not nearly as out and about as she had once been, due to the king’s illness, which seemed to come and go.

Though it seemed these days it mostly came and rarely went.

The duke had been in the habit of writing a letter to the palace, excusing his girls from arriving for the formal curtsy.

Because of the king’s illness, some years it was held and others it was not, and it was the duke’s opinion that Queen Charlotte did not give a toss about it anyway.

Verity’s father thought there could be nothing sillier than to have a monstrosity of a gown built and secure wildly large ostrich feathers for a lady’s hair, all to go and curtsy to a lady who would rather be elsewhere with a tea tray.

As the queen had not brought up the Nicolets’ absence over the years, Verity presumed he’d been right in his judgments. Or at least not condemned for them.

All that did not wash away the idea that Verity Nicolet, of all of them, had been called on the carpet to answer for herself. It prompted an immediate family dinner so they might discuss what had happened, what might happen, and how to go forward.

Just now, they were seated round the duke’s dining table, with Thomas and Charlie expertly managing the sideboard.

As the two footmen brought round the wine, Lord Thorpe said, “The American butler is gone, is he?”

This caused snorts from Thomas and Charlie. The duke said, “Gone back to America where he belongs. I’ll tell you the story one of these days, but suffice to say that Mr. Klonsume left here in high style and Lady Misery was off her head over it. Very amusing.”

“Sir Morus,” Thomas whispered, his shoulders shaking.

“Now, why do not we start off with Verity relating what occurred,” the duke said. “That will give us a direction, I think.”

All eyes turned to her. Verity took a sip of wine to fortify herself. “Well, it seems there is a print going round. Lord Stanford’s seen it.”

Lord Stanford nodded. “It names Lady Verity as ‘Lady Fiction.’”

“Because of when she accidentally said she was studying whether or not fish could see out of water,” Winsome explained.

As most of her sisters and their husbands, but for Grace and Lord Dashlend, had been on the scene when she’d blurted out that ridiculous idea, they all nodded sadly.