Page 63 of Lady Graceless
But if she did attend, would Dashlend clear things up with her? And then propose?
How could he stop it? He had to ensure it never happened. If they became engaged, he did not see any practical way to undo it. Short of a murder, which he was entirely against as he had no wish to swing for it.
Mr. Twining returned with Mrs. Featherby’s order. It was in a plain brown sack. Not exactly the careful wrapping of Lady Margaret’s order.
“I send Mrs. Featherby my compliments,” Mr. Twining said, in a tone that indicated that he certainly did not, and would prefer her to move on to another tea merchant.
Montclave was not particularly offended. He did not send any compliments to Mrs. Featherby either. In any case, he had far more serious matters to consider than what a tea merchant thought about Lord Doanellen’s indecency.
Somehow, he had to stop an engagement that might be in the offing this very night.
*
MILES HAD BEENround the town all afternoon, ending with a stop at Rundell & Bridge. Should Lady Grace accept him, he planned to present her with a small gift as a token of his regard.
At least, he’d planned on a small gift. However, when he’d spotted a rather glorious necklace of green garnets branching out around an exquisite emerald, he’d known it was just the thing. It would set off her eyes marvelously, it was delicate and not too heavy or overbearing, and it was suited to her.
Mr. Rundell had placed it in a slim green velvet box that would slip easily into Miles’ waistcoat, ready to be pulled out when the time was right.
Now he headed toward Chesterfield Street, intending to relax, eat something, assure himself that his clothes for the evening were in order, and think. He would spend some time alone in the quiet of his study with a strong pot of coffee, contemplating the night that was to come. It was to set the course of his life, and that deserved careful reflection.
He was startled to find Wainwright standing at the top of the street. He was even more startled to see his butler hurtling toward him. He’d never seen his butler run—it was not a graceful operation and might very well be the first time he’d tried it out. As the fellow drew near, Miles could see that he looked near panicked. He briefly glanced down the street toward his house, wondering if it had caught fire or collapsed in a pile of bricks.
“My lord, thank the heavens you have returned. We are in a topsy-turvy just this minute.”
“What on earth has gone on?” Miles asked. “Lady Margaret hasn’t done something… odd?”
“Well of course she has, but that is the very least of it!”
“You’d better prepare me for whatever it is I am to face before I get there. What has got you looking as if you are ready to expire?”
Wainwright took in a long slow breath to compose himself. “The flowers came. That was the first thing.”
Miles smiled. “Allow me to guess—Lord Harraby has sent Lady Margaret red roses? The staff are all fanning themselves over a lady of a certain age daring to have an admirer?”
Wainwright looked at him as if he were mad. “Nobody cares what Lady Margaret gets up to with Lord Harraby. The two of them are as old as the hills—how much could they get up to?”
“Who were the flowers for then?” Miles asked, certain he was to be told some young adventurer was attempting to seduce one of his housemaids. If that were the case, he’d make quick work of ending the attempt. No good could come of it, for the housemaid at least.
“They are for you! Piles and piles of them. Plants, too. The florist had to bring them in a cart.”
Miles paused. He did not know why anybody would send him a single flower, much less a cartful of flowers and plants.
Then he did get an idea. “You do not suppose they’ve been sent up from the estate? Perhaps my father is determined I do something more extensive with the garden?”
Wainwright lowered his voice so he could not be heard by a gentleman passing by. “He would not send what has been sent. It is thetypeof flora that is frightening, my lord. “Marigolds, Columbine, Lavender, Thistle, Rhododendron, and Basil.”
Miles leaned back in his saddle. That was quite the message. He ran through the various meanings. Sorrow, folly, distrust, defiance, danger, and hatred.
He would almost think Montclave must be at the bottom of it, though he could not see how the fellow afforded such an outlay of money. Unless, of course, he managed to slip past the men left to guard Lady Margaret’s house and had made off with some of her silver.
But no, Montclave never declared outright war. He was shifty, he did things on the sly, all the while with a smile on his face. He would never challenge directly and give his hand away. Especially with no purpose in mind other than an insult.
“Rhododendron and basil, my lord! Danger and hatred. What can it mean?”
“I do not know. Perhaps they’ve gone to the wrong address?”
Wainwright shook his head vigorously. “They were addressed to you, my lord.”
