Chapter 6
Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris.
It was the one line that Lewis remembered from Christopher Marlowe’s play Dr. Faustus. Misery loves company.
Lewis doubted the veracity of that statement in part because the line had been delivered by Mephistopheles, who was a demon from Hell, but also because he had never found it to be true. If anything, misery made him want to hide away from everyone.
He could not. Already, he was late, and the world had been thrown into chaos.
Lewis grimaced, as he approached his grandmother’s familiar townhouse.
She was the last person who he wanted to interact with after such a trying day, but he knew that he must. If Lewis did not make an appearance, his grandmother would launch into a fit of hysterics, and she would inevitably send her entire staff to his townhouse, fearing that some terrible calamity might have befallen him.
Technically, he supposed one had.
Simon Black, his grandmother’s butler, promptly opened the door. “Welcome, Your Grace.”
Lewis only grunted in response. Simon Black was a middle-aged man, quiet and efficient.
Discrete. Lewis had never thought much about him or any of the staff, except for Mrs. Eleanor Clove, who worked as his grandmother’s housekeeper, nurse, and lady’s maid.
In a sea of servants, she was the one paragon of virtue and the only true necessity in his grandmother’s household.
“Her Grace is waiting for you in her bedchamber,” Black continued. “She complained of a headache, and—”
“Doubtlessly.”
His grandmother was forever complaining of headaches, which no amount of valerian root or laudanum seemed capable of soothing.
Lewis crossed the foyer and darted up the stairs, taking them as quickly and quietly as he could. Was it too much to hope that his grandmother might have fallen asleep? That was the usual end of her headaches.
When he reached the bedchamber, he paused at the entrance.
The door was slightly ajar, and he peered inside.
His grandmother’s room was dark, the drapes having been drawn, and only the smallest amount of light flitted through the window.
In that small piece of light, Mrs. Clove sat mending a stocking.
Lewis gingerly opened the door, which groaned slightly. Mrs. Clove turned her head and, seeing him, rose. She curtsied neatly, abandoning her mending, and joined him in the doorway.
“How is she?” Lewis asked softly.
“She has been in a foul mood.” Mrs. Clove’s brown eyes darted into the darkness, as if she feared that the Dowager Duchess might emerge from the shadows and chastise her for being so blunt.
“A quarter of an hour ago, she went to bed. Before that, she was asking after you. I am uncertain if you realized, but you are a little later than usual, Your Grace.”
Precisely four hours late.
“And surprisingly, the world did not end,” Lewis said dryly.
Mrs. Clove gave him a chastening look, which Lewis chose to ignore.
She had no right to gaze at him like that, but he appreciated Mrs. Clove too much to antagonize her over something so slight.
Mrs. Clove was everything to his grandmother, and the poor woman might well fall to pieces without her aid.
“It has been a trying day,” he said by way of explanation. “Aside from my tardiness, how has she been?”
“Mostly fine,” Mrs. Clove said hesitantly.
“Mostly?”
“There is a new servant,” she said. “Just a boy, and he has not yet learned all the rules. He made the error of knocking on Her Grace’s door.”
Lewis pinched the bridge of his nose. There were many rules in the household, some of them quite unusual, and one was that none of the staff should ever knock on a door.
His grandmother was terrified of knocking sounds.
For no discernable reason, she feared that every knock on the door was some careless burglar seeking to cause her harm.
When that happened, she would insist on having the entire staff accompany her, searching the house for any signs of intruders.
When none were found, that only seemed to make her more anxious, and she would insist upon checking again. And again.
“I do not imagine he will make such an error again,” Lewis said. “If he does, he will need to find himself another profession. Tell the boy that. Unlike Her Grace, I do not repeat myself.”
Mrs. Clove inclined her head, acknowledging the order.
“I have other obligations this evening,” Lewis added. “I do not have time to speak with my grandmother.”
“Will you at least see her, Your Grace?” Mrs. Clove asked. “For just a moment? It will do her heart some good.”
Lewis clenched his jaw. The last thing he wanted to do was see his grandmother.
She would want to tell him about how worried she had been, and he would experience that familiar sensation of guilt mingling with frustration.
His grandmother seemed to have no notion of how frustrating it was to be expected to construct his entire life around her wants.
“Fine,” he said flatly.
Despite the sharpness of his words, he was cautious in opening the door. Silently, he prayed that his grandmother would be asleep. If she was, he could slip away unscathed, and it would be the one thing that had gone right on this wretched day.
Lewis tread softly over the Persian rug, his heart sinking when his grandmother met his gaze.
As Mrs. Clove had said, the Dowager Duchess was in her bed.
The woman’s white hair was wild about her shoulders, pulled free of whatever style Mrs. Clove had doubtlessly put it in that morning; when distressed, his grandmother sometimes became obsessed with pulling at her hair.
She would pick it apart and rip out the strands one by one, watching with a strange fascination.
“Lewis!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide. “You do not know what a trying day it has been! You must—no, you must stay—and—”
Her eyes darted about, as if she could not decide what he ought to do. Lewis had thrown her entire routine into disarray by arriving late, but if he remained, he would only continue to disturb her. His grandmother made a low, pained sound.
“As you can see, I am whole and hale,” Lewis said.
He just did not need this today.
“I have other obligations this evening, so I apologize for the quick visit. However, I must go.”
“But—but I was worried about you!”
“You always worry!” he snapped, temper fraying. “And I am always fine!”
She stared at him with wide eyes, so still that he might have believed she had stopped breathing if it was not for the subtle rise and fall of her chest.
“Good day.”
He turned brusquely away, determined to leave before either his grandmother or Mrs. Clove could make him feel guilty enough to stay. After everything, Lewis just wanted to visit his usual club and have a strong drink. He deserved that.
A better man might have been able to resist the impulse, especially when his grandmother began sobbing behind him, but Lewis was not a better man. He was just himself, flaws and all.
George Bingley, the Marquess of Morington, tossed his head back in laughter.
His hazel eyes were full of mirth, and when he smiled, the expression was so infectious that Lewis’s own lips twitched upward just the smallest amount.
Morington was a lively and energetic man, and after the whole dreadful day, Lewis found himself feeling even fonder than usual of his one and only friend.
A drink and conversation had been precisely what he needed.
“I cannot believe that you are to be married!” Morington exclaimed, lifting his glass of scotch in a toast. “Congratulations, Wheelton.”
Lewis clinked his glass against the other man’s. “Thank you, although I am uncertain that congratulations are really warranted. The lady was disgraced because of me. It was by chance that I found a bride.”
“It does not sound so disgraceful to me,” Morington said.
Lewis arched an eyebrow. “What manner of lady have you been spending your time with?”
“I will concede that ripping her skirts and exposing her sounds distasteful,” Morington said. “But it is not as though you did it intentionally.”
“Tell the rest of the ton that.”
Morington snorted. “I would if I cared to interact with them. They are like hounds on a fox hunt, desperate to find some prey to tear to pieces. I can think of little more disgraceful than ruining a young lady over something so absurd.”
“I do not disagree, but I am pleased with the result.”
“Yes. I have seen Lady Bridget, and she is a rare beauty. You are quite fortunate to have her.”
“Yes.”
Her beauty was important, but her age more so.
Lady Bridget was young enough to learn her place, to learn how to behave.
She showed more defiance than he might like, but it was the defiance of youth and wildness caused by a brother who did not care to discipline her.
It was not the defiance of a woman who was determined to have her way or worse, a woman who schemed.
A foolish woman could learn. A selfish or scheming one could not.
“I will need to train her to survive at Wheelton,” Lewis continued.
“That would have been true regardless of who you chose to wed,” Morington said. “I have never seen any household run quite like yours.”
“For good reason.”
Lewis finished his drink and held the glass loosely with his fingertips, imagining instead that he was grasping the back of Lady Bridget’s neck once more, his thumb stroking those strands of damp, red-gold hair.
“Aside from her scandals, she does not seem especially troublesome,” Morington noted.
“I am not entirely certain that is true,” Lewis replied thoughtfully. “But it is difficult to say. The young lady has made it clear that she does not have a high opinion of me. She is marrying me out of necessity, after all.”
“Most women marry out of necessity,” Morington said, waving a dismissive hand. “Men, too.”
“Indeed. Sometimes, it is enough to make me wonder if I might be happier if I abandoned my title and chose instead to live as a shepherd in the fields.”
Morington furrowed his brow. “My friend, I wish sometimes that you would show a little more feeling when you speak. I am uncertain if you intend for that to be in jest.”
Lewis forced a small grin. “Of course, I mean it in jest. Shepherds do not have fine spirits, such as this!”
“The scotch is extraordinary,” Morington agreed, taking a sip of his own drink. “And the ladies. I have yet to see a shepherdess as beautiful as a woman of the ton.”
“And have you seen many shepherdesses?”
Morington winked. “On stage, I have.”
Lewis shook his head. “Somehow, I doubt actual shepherdesses resemble actresses on a stage.”
“Oh, ye of little faith.”
Lewis rolled back his shoulders and let himself relax just a little. The scotch had done its work and managed to loosen the tightly wound knot of his nerves. The day did not seem quite as impossible as it had. If anything, it seemed almost as if it had been adequate.
Not good, but…
Adequate. Controllable, rather than chaotic. Even better, he had managed to find a duchess, which meant one less matter that he needed to tend to in the future.
“We shall have to find you a wife next,” Lewis said.
Morington hummed. “I suppose so. I can scarcely believe that you are married before I am! And to such a lovely woman.”
“Yes.”
“Her family is good, too.”
“Respectable.”
Morington cast him an odd look. “Respectable, certainly. But they are also all quite good people. They love one another very much and support one another. I have never seen a set of siblings with such fondness between them.”
“I suppose. I had not given it much thought.”
“Well, you are not just marrying a woman,” Morington said. “You are marrying into her family, and that matters. It matters that they are good, honest people who enjoy one another’s company. I imagine they will also be welcoming to you.”
To that, Lewis had nothing to say. This was not the first time that Morington had suggested Lewis needed a family of his own, rather than simply a wife and duchess. It would probably not be the last time Morington broached the topic either.
But there was no point in arguing. The whisky had given everything a soft, hazy feeling, and Lewis just wanted everything to be at peace for a little longer.