Page 7 of Lady Liar (A Series of Senseless Complications #5)

“There you are, Serenity,” Lady Marchfield said, seeming to come out of nowhere.

“You look lovely, my dear, just like your mother.” She turned to the duke.

“Roland? Might I be congratulated on your new butler? Mr. Klonsume is everything I would wish for you. Ah, those jests about Boston Harbor—one cannot hear them too many times.”

The rest of his family turned toward the duke. None of them but for Serenity had set eyes on Mr. Klonsume, though they all were well-used to the butler game between the duke and his sister.

As he did not say anything at all to her teasing, she went on.

“Yes,” she said to the rest of the party, “Mr. Klonsume is an American and arrives with all the confident barbarism that land has to offer. What does he say? He has the wisdom of Pliny the Elder and determination of General Washington? Oh, and a soupcon of American bluster and imagined ingenuity ladled on top. Positively enchanting. Now come, Verity, I will introduce you to Lady Pembroke before the ball starts. She is the queen’s Lady of the Wardrobe and an important person for you to know. ”

Before Verity could invent a way to avoid it, she was whisked away and introduced to the imposing Lady Pembroke. The lady had some very nice things to say about Serenity and her opinions about bees and the new idea of slatted skeps.

“Do you have an interest in bees yourself, Lady Verity?”

Verity searched her mind for anything Serenity might have said about bees. She could not recall much. “Oh, not as much as Serenity does, I’m afraid. They seem to prefer to die in the garden, I’ve heard say.”

“Do they?” Lady Pembroke asked. “Well, I suppose the garden is as good a place as any. Lady Marchfield, good to see you again.”

After Lady Pembroke left to greet an acquaintance, her aunt said, “Verity, I do not know where you come up with these things. I don’t believe you’ve ever heard anybody say that bees like to die in a garden.”

Verity shrugged. “That’s where Serenity always finds them, though.”

“Have a care about spouting off these ridiculous opinions and attempting to pass them off as facts. It will not get you far. You are grown now, and those sorts of childish habits must be left behind.”

Verity did not answer her aunt, though Lady Marchfield’s words terrified her.

Her aunt did not understand that her niece said stupid things like that because she had nothing else to say.

She was certain other people had read piles of information about bees from books, but all Verity had to go on was what she could remember Serenity saying about them.

She’d probably be better off saying nothing at all to anybody, though she did not know how it could be managed.

*

Mrs. Right never did like to give Lady Marchfield credit of any sort, but she was hard-pressed not to on this particular occasion. Never in her wildest imagination had she thought that someone like Mr. Klonsume even existed. Or that Lady Marchfield would locate him.

According to Mr. Klonsume, he knew everything under the sun and everything in the duke’s house could be improved. He kept talking about bringing in his modern ideas and American confidence. She did not know if they were modern, but they certainly were confidently bizarre.

Why was he so determined to put a striped wall covering in the duke’s drawing room?

Why did he keep talking about ears of corn as the side dish no table could be without?

It had taken her some time to understand that this ear of corn was some vegetable she’d never laid eyes on, and not an exotic grain.

And why on earth did he keep asking the footmen for their opinion on being bossed about by a King and Queen?

Did he imagine the footmen were in regular correspondence with the palace?

In general, Mr. Klonsume had no notion about rank at all.

He had actually asked if a title could be left in a will if a fellow did not like his eldest son.

That drunken viscount he’d worked for had explained it could not be done, but Mr. Klonsume had wondered if that was only hopeful drunken imaginings.

He’d had to be told several times which rooms were for the servants’ use and which were not.

He’d sauntered into the drawing room while Winsome and Valor played Vingt-et-un and offered to teach them the American game, Twenty-one.

When informed they were one and the same, he wondered aloud why the English went in for complicated names. Then he sat down.

He sat down. In the drawing room. Only Mrs. Right had the honor of sitting in the drawing room with the family. And that honor was on account of long service and the fact that she’d mothered the duke’s girls all her life. This fellow just swanned in and sat himself down.

At that particular moment, Valor had hugged Sir Galahad.

Winsome chose to go in another direction. “Get out of my father’s chair,” she said to Mr. Klonsume in the threatening manner that only Winsome could muster.

Mr. Klonsume did so, and not particularly unhappily. It seemed he did best when someone hit him over the head with their meaning and he was near-impossible to offend. He claimed to be an expert at everything in the world, though subtlety must be left off that exhaustive list.

What was she to do to get rid of him? She’d briefly thought of drugging him with laudanum and leaving him down at the docks with the hopes he’d get pressed into service.

What if he got away, though? He did not have the nice English manners she was used to.

Had she left the last butler at the docks, he might have made his way back and delivered a stern lecture on her “outrageous behavior” and “lack of decency.” An American might slit her throat for all she knew about it.

Maybe he could be framed for a crime and sent to Botany Bay? He’d fit right in at that foreign locale and might even be eaten by a crocodile. He could tell that reptile all about Boston Harbor as he disappeared into its gaping maw.

She realized her mind was going to very extreme ideas on account of the challenge Mr. Klonsume presented and how absolutely irksome he was. She’d lain awake the night before, wondering if she could put a pillow over his face—after all, she was still a strong and vital woman.

Mrs. Right well knew she had to get more practical. It might cheer her to think of putting a pillow over his face, but it really was impractical. Perhaps she might consider more straightforward options.

That viscount Mr. Klonsume had worked for had seemed to enjoy his company, which could be accounted for by the idea that said viscount was drunk all the time. It had been the drunken viscount’s father that had been against him. Perhaps master and servant might be reunited somehow?

She would look into it. She had to look into it, as she did not know what else to look into.

*

Verity thought she had got through the dances with various gentlemen very creditably.

She’d kept up her end of the conversations in a satisfactory and rational manner.

She’d not felt the dreaded panic rise in her when she was asked about something and could not think how to answer.

In those moments, she was likely to say something that made no sense, like bees preferring to die in a garden.

Lord Granger had mentioned he’d just purchased a spaniel puppy for his younger sister.

Last season, Verity had extensive conversations with Lord Thorpe’s brother, Lord Charles, on the subject of spaniels.

During the dog walks between Serenity and Lord Thorpe round the square, she’d kept Lord Charles occupied with the topic.

Now, she was able to mention that it was her understanding that spaniels could be depended upon to warn of fire.

She really could not remember whether she’d posited that fact to Lord Charles or vice versa.

Or if it was a fact at all. It did not seem to matter, though.

Lord Granger had appeared very pleased to hear of it.

Sir Roger speculated that they were to have a warmer winter than they’d experienced the year before.

Verity found this a particularly safe subject.

While she did not know much about the weather, she did know one thing—it was rather hopeless to predict it.

She posited that much would depend on North Sea storms. Sir Roger said he had not known that was the case.

She did not know either, but it might very well be true and how would anyone prove it was not?

Other gentlemen were even easier to manage, as they did not talk of anything at all, really. They asked her things like: where she was from, and was this her first time in Town, and how was she enjoying it? All easy enough to answer without knowing anything in particular.

Now, though, she would face the real challenge.

This was the high fence to clear on her ride across Almack’s.

The dance with Lord Wembly, the intellectual, and then the supper that would follow.

She would not attend the supper long, Grace had alerted her to the fact that by the time supper rolled around, their father’s flask, and his patience, were emptied.

He would come to collect her before her second cup of tea.

But nevertheless, they would dance and then walk into the supper room together.

“Lady Verity? Lord Wembly,” he said with a bow. “Lady Westmoreland contracted me for this dance.”

“Lord Wembly,” she said. Now that he was up close, he made her even more nervous.

His eyes were green, as she had suspected, and a rather dark shade.

They were like moss in a shady forest. His complexion had a certain ruddiness to it that made him look as if he spent a deal of time out of doors. He was simply divine.

Why could he not be a Corinthian who had not opened a book since school and forgotten everything he’d read? He certainly looked like one. Why must he be a member of The Royal Society?

Verity was not altogether certain of what went on in that institution, but she did know that her father received a periodical from the society from time to time.

She’d once asked Winsome to read one aloud, but they’d not got far with it.

It was about, it said, the decomposition of muriatic acid.

They did not find out much about that item’s decomposition though, nor why it would be important to know.

A few sentences in, Winsome named the whole thing too tedious to be borne and picked up a gothic novel.

Those few sentences Winsome had got through, though, gave Verity the idea that the society was a collection of exceedingly learned men who delved into obscure areas of knowledge. She had not even had the chance to delve into not obscure areas of knowledge.

Lord Wembly led her to the floor. The Countess of Westmoreland had called a cotillion for the last set, and Verity found herself wildly relieved to note that her family had decided to follow her there.

Serenity and Lord Thorpe, Patience and Lord Stanford, and Grace and Lord Dashlend hurriedly took the places of the three other couples to form their group.

It was her understanding that it was not at all usual for husbands and wives to dance together at a ball, but her dear family did not care a whit for that when it came to supporting one another.

Patience gave her a wink and Verity did feel buoyed by it. The orchestra struck up for the Grand Rond.