Page 23 of Lady Graceless
Nelson, in his usual enthusiastic fashion, raced forward, tripped himself up, staggered back on his three legs, and licked the hand of the nearest person to him, which was Lady Marchfield.
She snatched her hand away and rubbed it with a napkin. “What on earth is that?”
“His name is Nelson,” Serenity said. “He is just the loveliest dog in the world.”
“Really,” Lady Marchfield said. She did not say it as a question, but more as a condemnation. “Might I ask how it is that you are in possession of an ill-bred cur who is missing a leg?”
“We found him at The Dolphin and the Dove,” Winsome said.
Serenity brushed a tear away. “He was living on scraps, Aunt.Scraps.”
“People are so cruel,” Patience said. “Can you imagine? Just because he is short of one leg and can only see out of one eye, he is meant to live on scraps?”
Nelson took that opportunity to release some noxious fumes in Lady Marchfield’s direction. Grace almost felt sorry for her; she’d been nearby such an eruption herself and it was near overwhelming.
Lady Marchfield staggered to her feet. “That is a wildly inappropriate dog for the daughters of a duke. I pray you keep him to the back garden. Under no circumstances go parading with him round the square. I shudder to imagine what people would think.”
Nobody volunteered the information that Nelson had been out and about in the square every day since they’d arrived. Not even Valor, who pushed her face into Mrs. Wendover’s raggedy form to stop herself from admitting it.
“I will take my leave. I understand Felicity and Mr. Stratton are due to arrive to Town in a day or so—I presume they also will receive an invitation for the dinner next Wednesday. Though really, to have scheduled it for a Wednesday rather than attend Almack’s is bad form in my view.”
With those pronouncements, Lady Marchfield sailed out of the room, her head held high.
After the door closed, Winsome said, “You know what this means? Next Wednesday, when our aunt realizes the dinner was on Tuesday, she is going to explode.”
“I wonder if she will bring our uncle,” Serenity said. “We do not see him near as often and he’s ever so much nicer.”
“I know what we will do,” Verity said, “on Wednesday, we will just say that Lord Dashlend had to cancel for some reason. Then we just have a family dinner with our aunt none the wiser.”
“Excellent notion,” Grace said. She did not know if Lady Marchfield would fall for the ruse or not, but it would be very pleasant to see her uncle. She felt just the littlest bit guilty that they’d given Lady Marchfield the wrong day, but then she felt more strongly that she did not wish for her aunt to throw cold water on her dinner with Lord Dashlend. She did not wish to frighten him off, and Lady Marchfield was the most frightening person she knew.
*
MILES THOUGHT IThad been deuced odd that Lady Grace had not attended Almack’s on Wednesday. Now it was Thursday and he’d thought to visit the duke’s house with the excuse to return the clothes that had been lent to him. Moreau had worked diligently on the duke’s valet’s oldest set, and probably used too much starch in the pressing. He was convinced he could return the oldest set better than he got them, which would be a silent slap in the face to that inferior valet.
That pleasant errand was not to be. The elderly butler of an even more elderly distant cousin had arrived to the house with a message—Lady Margaret required his attendance instantly.
He’d attempted to question the old fellow regarding the cause. Was the lady in distress or was it only Lady Margaret’s usual eccentricity at work? The lady lived permanently in Town and when the season began, he usually did get an order to present himself. That order usually included the timeframe of instantly.
Marcus, that was the butler’s name, hemmed and hawed and mumbled about his lady getting up in years and not being able to chew meat very well these days. In short, his question had not been answered.
Miles had realized he had no choice but to attend her. She reallywasgetting up in years and there was every chance she did poorly. The season before, he’d suggested she hire a competent companion who could help her manage the household, as the house had begun to look a bit ramshackle and dusty. He doubted that advice had been taken—Lady Margaret was a stubborn old bird.
He made his way to Bedford Square on horseback, the butler returning ahead of him in a hackney. When he arrived, there was nobody to take his horse. He walked him down the mews to the stables and found nothing but empty stalls—no hay, no oats, no water buckets. He finally went across the way to the neighbor’s stables and asked if he could leave his horse there. Lord Marchand’s stablemaster was most accommodating, though Miles had been a little alarmed when the fellow commented that “it was about time one of the lady’s relatives turned up.”
He made his way back to the front of the house and used the door knocker. Marcus opened it up.
“Where is Lawrence?” Miles asked. Lady Margaret’s senior footman usually answered the door.
“Dead,” Marcus said. “Old age, you know.”
Miles entered the great hall, wondering how Lady Margaret got on with only one footman.
“What has happened to the stables?” he asked. “Where is the stablemaster or at least a groom? Where are the horses?”
“Dead,” Marcus said. “Old age, you know.” Marcus paused. “That’s not right. The horses aren’t dead, they were sold on account of the coachman being dead. From old age.”
Miles looked round the empty great hall. “The other footman who was here? Where is he?”
