Page 52 of The Sprinter
He was not a stickler. Certainly, he was not.
Now what, though? Miss Yardley might be asked for her hand by anyone at any time. There would be no days of her thinking about it when he might step forward himself. No, she would accept on the spot!
“I won’t have it,” he said loudly as he bounded up his steps. “I will not brook this nonsense.”
A footman had flung the door open at his approach and looked at him in near terror. George strode past him and into the library to find his brandy.
“Tell Pemmington that if my brandy decanter is not filled, I want it filled,” he shouted over his shoulder.
If that little miss thought she was going to wed herself to the likes of Harry Vance, she had another thing coming!
*
Jacobs had notrouble at all discerning who in Lady Heathway’s household might be prevailed upon to be bribed to do his bidding. There were some officious-looking lady’s maids and an even more officious-looking housekeeper. The butler looked as they always did—as if they found the world a very dreary place. The two footmen gave themselves away by always looking to the butler for his opinion, so they would never be disloyal and throw in with an outsider.
He had almost given up on watching the comings and goings from the house. But just before he did, he found Jenny.
She was precisely what looked for and he’d known it in a moment. She’d walked by him and given him a daring and saucy smile. He’d followed her and struck up a conversation. She’d looked his clothes over and said he seemed like a rich swell. He mentioned he was very rich and might share some of his riches for certain information.
For a mere ten pounds, he’d already been informed of why Miss Yardley had been climbing down a drainpipe—she had got the idea of flying to Kent to rescue her malingering mother. Now, apparently, the mother had made improvements and was no longer a concern.
He also discovered the mechanism for the abuse heaped upon his head. Lady Heathway and the Duchess of Stanbury had sent out letters asking that he never be invited anywhere they chose to bring Miss Yardley.
It had taken all his self-control not to shout to the wind when he’d heard that. He did control himself though. Because Jenny had given him a rather ingenious idea that would put a period to the end of Miss Yardley’s sentence, thereby restoring himself to society’s good graces. He had an idea of how to make the sprinter sprint again. Publicly, this time.
He’d promised Jenny twenty pounds if she could deliver what he required. He needed the latest letter written by Lady Barlow.
Jenny seemed a brazen thing, so he had every confidence in the world that she would breeze right into Miss Yardley’s room and breeze back out with it. How a kitchen maid was to explain being above stairs was her own problem. There was no risk to himself if she were caught—he’d told her his name was Mr. Smythe.
In the meantime, he’d take a little trip to Kent. There was nothing further he need know about Lady Barlow, but he did need to know a few things about her neighbors.
*
Despite the upsetof the past few weeks, Grace found herself looking forward to Lady Tredwell’s masque. She’d never attended one before and it seemed rather delightful to disguise oneself in some manner. While she could hardly imagine the costumes she would encounter, on her own behalf Lady Heathway had outdone herself.
Grace was to be a butterfly and the gown was positively lovely. Done in a deep blue satin with subtle purple stripes and thin yellow swirls, it caught the candlelight and shimmered. A voluminous cape was sewn onto the back of the dress and then attached to her wrists in purple ribbon so that when she raised her arms she would have the wings of a butterfly. It would look divine on the ballroom floor.
Dyed deep purple gloves and a delicate mask of blue and purple iridescent sequins that Betsy had since secured to her hair completed the ensemble.
Lady Heathway was magnificent as Boudicca. She wore a pleated white silk dress gathered at the bodice with ropes of gold braid. The pièce de résistance, however, was the war-like helmet fashioned in gold. The lady’s hair was swept up beneath it and it had a clever gold mesh mask dropping down from the rim.
Grace was confident they should make a good impression. As least she thought so, as Benny and Gregory had seemed slack-jawed upon viewing them and Ranston claimed there could be nobody as well-turned out as the house of Heathway. Grace appreciated the sentiment, though she could not help noticing that Ranston’s eyes were darting around the foyer as if he were already ginning himself up to guard the house. Grace just hoped there would not be any actual gin involved since he’d been barred from the lord’s brandy.
The carriage had come, which was entirely ridiculous, as Lady Tredwell lived on Berkeley Square just as Lady Heathway did. They would embark, ride from the west side of the square to the east, and then disembark. There would hardly be time to sit down.
Grace was so filled with energy that she felt she could have kicked off her slippers and run across the park and around the plane trees to Lady Tredwell’s doors.
She must give her lady’s maid the credit for her high spirits. Betsy had given her quite the lift-up as she did her hair. Whether or not Grace should have been confiding in her maid about a particular lord was beside the point. Betsy was the only person who knew her well enough and would be on her side no matter what. Lady Heathway was a stalwart ally, but she would hardly side against her own nephew. Betsy, however, would land firmly in Grace’s court even if the other party were the King of England.
She’d told Betsy of Lord Gresham’s various machinations, the latest being the suggestion that she should not attend the masque.
Betsy’s outrage had been positively inspired. Betsy’s father had never counseled composure and so she let loose with such a string of insults that Grace was nearly crying with laughter. She was also blushing, as even a sailor would, over the various expletives Betsy peppered amongst her insults, some of which Grace had never even heard of and did not dare to ask the meaning of.
It had been a good dose of commonsense. Betsy had pointed out that Lord Gresham was only one gentleman among hundreds and yes, he was handsome as a devil, but that would not last and was half due to his valet anyway. What would Grace think of him when his jowls drooped and all that was left of him was his less than genial manner? Who would swoon over the fellow when his middle paunched out and he had hair growing from his ears and his most charming quality was attempting to stop people from going to masque balls? He would not seem so prepossessingthen.
Grace had not felt so lighthearted in ages. Dear Betsy had known just what to say. She’d finished by attaching Grace’s mask securely to her hair with a myriad of hairpins and saying, “Fellas like that are a pence to a pound. The mighty Lord G might be better dressed than most, but he’s only one grain of salt in the cellar.”
Now they were on their way to the masque, though not for long. They descended from the carriage after their exceedingly short journey. “You could not look more charming, my dear,” Lady Heathway said. “I congratulate myself, if I may be so bold.”
