Page 72 of Lady Graceless
He said it in a genial tone, as if he did not intend it as a slap. Though, he very much did, and well-earned too. Lady Agatha’s eyes were a dull brown, on the small side, and set too close together. If he were her, he would not bring any attention to them.
The lady turned several shades of pink and fell to silence.
It was well she did. He needed time to think!
When he could, he watched Lady Grace. She did not seem as if she were enjoying herself very much. However, it would be only another half hour before Dashlend collected her. Only a half hour before Dashlend would have the opportunity of clearing up any misapprehensions about the flowers.
He had to do something. What? What? What?
The set blessedly came to a conclusion. He bowed and said, “Lady Agatha, charmed,” as if he had not the first idea that he’d insulted her.
The lady hurried off, no doubt to locate her mama and inquire if her eyes were or were not her best feature.
As there would be a quarter hour between sets, Montclave had hoped to engage Lady Grace in conversation. It felt as if he were only putting off the inevitable, but he must do what he could. An idea might spring upon him, even at the last minute.
As Lady Grace curtsied and broke away from Lord Kendrick, she inexplicably set out toward the great hall. Where was she going?
Could it be that she was going home? Perhaps she felt ill? Would the fates smile upon him in such a manner?
He hurried through the ballroom, silently praying as he did so. He must know—was she leaving?
He passed through the ballroom doors into the hall and saw a wisp of the hem of her gown disappear as she entered a room. The door closed behind her.
Where was she going? The library? Music room? Where? And most importantly, why?
Was Dashlend in there? Had they arranged to meet?
Montclave strode down the corridor. He noted an old brass key hanging by the door she’d just slipped through—the type used when the house was closed up. Many a Londoner locked every door when they departed for the countryside, the idea being that a housebreaker would discover he did not have access to the entire house, just the room he broke into. For the skeleton staff staying behind it was felt an added security measure.
He could lock her in there, and then Dashlend might decide he’d been stood up and leave in a huff. That was, if he was not in there with her. It would not do him any good at all to lock them in together. They would be discovered and a wedding would become a necessity to maintain the lady’s honor.
If Dashlend was in there, he could say that Lady Margaret needed him urgently and did not look well. What he would do after that, he did not know.
He must just take one step at a time.
Montclave slowly pressed the door open enough to see inside.
What he saw, he was not even certain he saw, so little sense did it make.
The room was lit up with candles. Lady Grace was near the windows, jumping up and down. She was alone, and just jumping.
In that moment, she perceived that she was not alone. He pulled back, but she could see the door had been opened.
With one eye he peered in from the dim corridor.
“Oh!” she cried. She stumbled into a brass candelabra with eight bright burning candles ranged across it. The candelabra tipped over and the lit candles fell to the floor.
One of the flames caught the netting of her dress. As she beat it out, another was busy setting the curtains alight. Lady Grace pounded at it but it did little good. The flame began its rise up the material.
Montclave felt his mind in a muddle. Without thinking, he shut the door, turned the key in the lock, and threw the key down the dark corridor.
He hurried back into the ballroom, hardly understanding what he’d done.
Should he go back?
He passed through the ballroom doors and the acrid smell of smoke seemed to follow him there. What had he done?
A footman in the hall yelled, “Fire!”
