Page 29 of The Derbyshire Dance (Kendall House #3)
“Turned off from his post?” asked Bel in confusion. “What do you mean?”
Jenny lowered her voice and came nearer.
“It’s that harpy in the red dress. She brought his grace’s London valet to Derbyshire with her, and now Archie’s out in the cold with nothin’ but an acre of brown rosebushes to tie cravats on.
An’ he was so proud of the promotion too!
He was hopin’ it might…lead to somethin’. ”
Bel patted Jenny’s shoulder comfortingly. She was aware that her maid had hopes that Archie would make enough money someday to set up his own house and make her an offer.
“How angry is Archie?”
“I ain’t never seen him so put out. Every time I go back into the kitchen, he rants a little more about Londoners and their kind, an’ then he storms outside a bit to cool his head before comin’ in again to rant some more.”
“Pinn, Pinn!” said the shrill voice again, as the lady in red velvet swept past the door of the parlour. “Go back to that horrid, draughty bedroom and pack my trunk. We won’t be staying here tonight.”
“But my lady—”
“I’ll have no argument. My vinaigrette has disappeared now too.”
Bel and Jenny cast each other looks of amusement and kept quiet as they eavesdropped on the conversation around the corner in the hallway.
“My dear Lady Maltrousse,” said a voice that must have been Harold Brownlee.
It was all care and consideration, so clearly Lady Maltrousse’s hysterics had worked their charm on at least one member of the phlegmatic countryside.
“It is only two hours till midnight. Surely, you cannot make your way back to Chatsworth so late?”
“No,” she said with a huff, “but this inn is a cutpurse’s paradise. I’ll lose my earbobs next or my necklace. See if I don’t!”
“If the inn is unsatisfactory, perhaps you might honour our home with your presence tonight. Mullhill Manor, it’s called. Just a half mile down the road.”
Bel rolled her eyes. Of course, Harold Brownlee would open his home for an attractive female. And plump Mrs. Brownlee would delight in the honour of the imposition. The conversation faded away with what sounded like an acceptance.
Jenny picked up an empty tray and returned to the kitchen while Bel closed her eyes momentarily, trying to shut out the inanity and insanity of it all.
“Miss Morrison, are you all right?”
Bel opened her eyes. The vicar, Mr. Townsend, was a mere three feet away from her, his blue eyes gazing solicitously at her.
“You seem overcome. May I lead you to a chair?”
Bel almost declined, but a slight wobble in her knees made her think better of it. “Yes, thank you. A chair sounds lovely right now. ”
“I would offer you some hartshorn, but I don’t carry such a thing.”
Bel put a hand over her mouth as he seated her in the chair against the wall in the parlour.
“No, Mr. Townsend, I don’t suppose you do.
” The thought of the stolid vicar mincing about with a bottle of vinaigrette was too much for her.
She began to giggle, and once she started, she was wholly unable to stop.
“This levity, Miss Morrison, is not the most praiseworthy aspect of your character, but I confess I cannot find it as unbecoming as I did at first.”
Still giggling uncontrollably, with tears in her eyes, Bel gasped out a response. “What on earth is that supposed to mean, Mr. Townsend? That you now like it when I laugh?”
He looked at her a little shamefacedly. “Yes, I’m sorry to admit that I do. But, I daresay, it is a facet of your character that will settle with age.” He paused, allowing her a moment to regain her composure. “Miss Morrison, might I call on you tomorrow?”
“As my spiritual advisor?” she said warily. “To warn me away from the Duke of Warrenton again?”
“No, no,” he said hastily. “I think you have seen enough on that score tonight to want nothing more to do with the duke and his associates. I would like to…get to know you better, if I may.”
It was an unexpected request, and one that Bel might have declined if the moment had been different. But as matters stood, she was currently reconsidering everything that she thought she knew. “Very well,” said Bel slowly. “I shall endeavour to be home to receive you.”
“Thank you,” he said, giving her a nod and leaving the parlour.
Nigel breathed a sigh of relief as Mr. Brownlee escorted Lady Maltrousse out the door of the Jester’s Arms to take her to Mullhill Manor for the night.
The evening had gone from bad to worse as Lady Maltrousse execrated all the assembly-goers as potential thieves, hung upon his sleeve demanding his protection, and finally exacted the dance from him that he had been most unwilling to yield.
“What an odd little country waif you’ve developed an attachment for,” she said as they promenaded down the floor, without a care for who nearby might hear her.
“Her skin is positively brown as a nut, and she has no manner, no bearing to even mark her out as a gentlewoman. I’ve spent months teaching you how to be good ton and conduct properly discreet liaisons with properly ranked noblewomen, and you throw it all away to dance attendance on this nobody! ”
Although this London lady might dazzle Harold Brownlee, Nigel knew her better. He could not stop imagining Mrs. Hogg’s mean face on Lady Maltrousse’s white shoulders. “Perhaps I’ve finally realised that I don’t want a liaison. I want something else entirely.”
Her rouged lips fell open. “Are you really considering marriage ? To a countrified little spinster?” She gave a tittering laugh and was so overcome with the hilarity of the situation that Nigel had to escort her from the dance floor where she could regain her composure.
Lady Maltrousse’s outburst had been the final nightmare in an evening that ought to have been divine.
Miss Morrison took great care to avoid Nigel for the remaining dances, and he had no opportunity to solicit her hand a second time.
Their shared connection from last night and their shared camaraderie from this morning had been stolen as surely as Lady Maltrousse’s lost things.
As Nigel stood on the porch of the inn watching the Brownlees leave, John the coachman approached. “It’s just as you suspected, your grace,” he said in low tones. “It were Archie that sabotaged the wheel.”
“Hmm. He was upset with me.” Nigel knew that it was no excuse, but he still felt guilty about preferring Simpson over Archie for his toilette this evening.
“With you and with everyone else from London.” John looked at the duke gravely.
“I caught him hiding a bottle of smelling salts under his coat and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck to turn his pockets inside out. He’s been playing Jester all night, pinching things from that red-gowned Rahab.
” He tugged his forelock as he thought better of that descriptor. “Beggin’ your pardon, yer grace.”
“No pardon needs begging,” said Nigel with a wave of the hand.
“’Twere all on impulse, but the lad’s in danger of being hauled up in front of the magistrate for it.”
Nigel snapped his fingers. “I know what we shall do. We shall give the lost things to Simpson tomorrow and send him over to Mullhill Manor with my compliments. No one will be any the wiser about the matter, and Lady Maltrousse will hardly report me to the magistrate for theft.”
John gave a whistle at the temerity of that plan and then lapsed into a low chuckle.
“Ingenious, yer grace. It’ll serve that fellow right to have a peal rung over his head, and it’ll put Archie in better spirits.
” He watched Nigel place his beaver on his head and shrug into his greatcoat.
“Are we heading straight for home, or are we giving anyone else a carriage ride tonight? ”
“I assume you mean the Morrison ladies?” said Nigel, cognizant that his partiality was apparent to everyone, including the coachman. “No, no. Mr. Ferris has that well in hand.”
Nigel combed a hand through his dark hair.
A dark carriage ride with Bel Morrison on the bench beside him would have been bliss.
But the evening had turned out far differently than he had hoped.
He would have to pick up the pieces the following day and hope that the fragile understanding he had built with Miss Morrison was not shattered forever.