Chapter Five #2
Valor did not know precisely what she had expected of Lord Tramondeley, but she’d not conjured the reality of him. He was a regular confluence of contradictions.
On the one hand, he was the most handsome gentleman she’d ever laid eyes on.
He was tall and seemed muscular under his coat.
His hair was a marvelous caramel color and his eyes a deep blue.
He had the sort of features that were perfectly balanced, not too sharp and not too round.
He was also easy to talk to, she certainly had not imagined that.
He was not stern and reserved and thought her harassment of the vicar was amusing.
He was not as delicate as Count di Compressio, not at all.
And yet, there was a calm assurance about him, as if not much ruffled his feathers.
But on the other hand, it could not be ignored that his mode of living was positively bizarre. He took a sloop out to sea at night to chase French boats? With his valet? Was he mad?
If he’d come to Town to find a wife, he’d better give up the habit at once. How on earth was a lady to sit alone at night, shivering from the fox’s screams out of doors and wondering if her husband was drowning at that very moment? The poor lady would be a wreck. What a life.
And yet, she thought he would probably convince somebody to put up with it. He was very hard to look away from. Somebody sturdier than herself would take the chance.
It really was too bad, as in every other respect she liked him very much.
Yes, she really did. However, he was not exactly her picture of a retiring baron who collected rare books or coins.
He did not even collect shells though he must be surrounded by them.
He was not a collecting sort of person. She was not either, but it seemed to be the most likely way to judge how a man lived.
Count di Compressio was far closer to that type of man—he liked the peace of Hertfordshire and collected art.
“Has anybody told him yet?” her father said from the other end of the table.
Of course, Valor knew very well that the duke spoke of Fact or Fib.
Though, they usually trotted out that game when there was a budding romance in the offing.
She suspected her father just wished to put Lord Tramondeley on the back foot.
Her papa was rather adoring of putting people on the back foot.
Lord Tramondeley looked round the table to see her sisters’ smiling faces interspersed with her brothers-in-laws’ rather downcast expressions.
“The game is on,” the duke said.
“Gracious,” Lord Ledderbey said. “We are so isolated in Cornwall that we’ve not kept up with London games. Is it cards?”
“In a manner of speaking,” the duke said.
“No it isn’t,” Mr. Stratton said. “It’s diabolical.”
“They invented it,” Lord Stanford said.
“Drink a lot of port and keep your head down, that’s my strategy,” Lord Wembly said.
Lord Manderbey nodded. “The port is essential.”
“What my rascally sons-in-laws are getting at,” the duke said, “is that I don’t go in for the men sitting here with their port and the ladies relegated to tea in the drawing room.
I’ll bring in the bottles.” The duke looked round the table.
“Unless anybody opposes the scheme because they wish to bore me about a horse they’re thinking of buying. Or worse, politics.”
“My brother considers all of our fine traditions to be primed for upset. If a thing is done, he must undo it,” Lady Marchfield said austerely. “If it is accepted, it must be rejected. Furthermore, Roland, that game is a deplorable scheme to embarrass people.”
“Maybe, but it’s also fun,” the duke said. “Oh, that’s right, I forgot. Lady Misery over there likes to stomp on fun wherever she finds it. Fun is against her religion.”
Valor gave Felicity a glance, as Lady Marchfield was getting very heated. Things never went well when their aunt got heated.
“It is just a harmless little game, Aunt,” Felicity said soothingly.
“It is the devil’s work, in my view,” Lady Marchfield said.
At mention of the devil, Mr. Huberville dropped the cheese and fruit he’d been just moments from setting down on the table.
In his scramble to pick up an array of cheeses, rolling grapes, and candied cherries scattering on the floor, Sir Galahad made an appearance from under the table.
Valor had been well aware that he’d been there patiently waiting for something to drop and now a whole tray had.
He wasted no time in hurrying there to investigate.
The pug got under Mr. Huberville’s feet, he staggered back and stepped on a generous wedge of stilton.
That particular leg went flying toward the ceiling and he landed on the floor like a pile of bricks.
Sir Galahad glanced over at the sound but speedily put his attention back on what was to be had from the spilled tray.
The duke peered down at his butler. Then he said to Lady Marchfield, “That right there, on my floor, is the real devil’s work, in my opinion.”
“Just say it!” Mr. Huberville cried, rolling over and kneeling on the ground with a handful of Stilton in one hand and a wedge of cheddar in the other.
“Pack your bags, Huberville! It always comes to that. But nobody stops to think—I had to choose, step on the dog or the cheese! Stilton is slippery!”
Sir Galahad took that moment to relieve Mr. Huberville of the cheddar wedge in his hand and trotted out of the room.
The duke gave a look to Charlie. The footman nodded. He helped Mr. Huberville to his feet and whispered some soothing words in his ear, leading him out of the dining room.
“Thomas,” the duke said, “you’ll bring the bottles into the drawing room. After that, see if Cook can be convinced to compose another cheese tray and send that in too. And send that lunatic to his bed.”
They all rose and gingerly stepped round the cornucopia of cheeses and fruit on the floor.
Though Valor was always eager to play Fact or Fib, especially now that she was older and did not need to excuse herself on account of feeling tired, she did experience some hesitation.
She hoped she was not the subject of any embarrassing inquiries.
She had always been the inquisitor; nobody had ever asked her anything of note.
Would things be different now that she was grown?
She did not see how it could be so, she had just arrived and not been anywhere yet—what was there to ask?
However, with Fact or Fib anything could happen.
“If you are bound and determined to play that ridiculous game, I will depart,” Lady Marchfield said.
“You know where the door is,” the duke said, laughing.
She turned to Lord Ledderbey and said, “I would advise you to do the same.”
The lord shrugged. “I do find my interest piqued, though, Lady Marchfield.”
Lady Marchfield sniffed. Thomas hurried over to her with her pelisse.
In a low tone, she said, “Remind Mr. Huberville of our conversation. He is a barnacle on a boat, regardless of what happens. No need to fetch my coachman, he will be outside at the ready, as he knows very well that I might find the need to leave at any moment when I come to my brother’s house. ”
Valor was surprised to see the look of astonishment on Lord Tramondeley’s expression, until she remembered that while Lady Marchfield’s departure had been done in a very usual fashion for that lady, it was perhaps surprising to an outsider.
He did not seem to see anything alarming in floating around in a dinghy in the dark, looking for French frigates, and yet he seemed alarmed at Lady Marchfield’s stomping off. Very odd.
*
Weston was not at all clear on what this game was. Only that it was so offensive to Lady Marchfield’s sensibilities that she’d departed.
Then it was explained to him. It was called, very aptly as it turned out, Fact or Fib.
They would be asked questions and then the answers would be determined to be a fact or a fib.
He did not understand how it could be so.
They knew next to nothing about him—how could they judge whether he was truthful or lying?
He supposed he’d find it out. All he knew for now was that one received a yellow ticket for the truth and a blue ticket for a lie, a blue ticket canceled a yellow, and it took three yellows to win. At least it was not complicated.
The footman brought round the port and he could at least be grateful for that.
“Val,” the duke said, “you’ve always insisted on going first.”
“Oh no, Papa, not this time,” Lady Valor said. “That was only when I was too young to stay up late.” She appeared embarrassed to be asked.
“I’ll start us off, Papa,” Lady Felicity said. “Lord Tramondeley, I understand from my aunt that you have received a voucher for Almack’s. Who shall you request the patronesses to put you down for?”
From that, Weston presumed that one had to ask the patronesses to be put down on a lady’s card, rather than the lady herself. It seemed an unnecessary palaver, but it was none of his concern. He’d still not got around to telling Lady Marchfield he would not attend, but now he felt backed into it.
“Nobody,” he said. “I will not attend as I do not dance.”
The sisters all stared at one another. Lady Felicity picked up a blue ticket. “Fib,” she said. “It must be. Everybody dances.”
“I am afraid it is my fault,” Lord Ledderbey said. “I was remiss in neglecting that part of the boy’s education.”
“Now hold on,” the duke said. “Tramondeley says he does not dance and Ledderebey says he never learnt. Two different things, to my mind.”
“I’ve never learned,” Weston said. “It has never seemed a priority.”
Lady Felicity slowly switched the colored tickets in her hand.
“Easily remedied,” the duke said. “Val can teach you. I’ll send her over with Mrs. Right and I’m sure her sisters will pitch in as they can.”
“Oh yes, certainly,” Lady Serenity said. “I am just a few doors down.”
“Yes, Serenity will be the best to go. She is so nearby and, in any case, I might not be the very best teacher,” Lady Grace said. “I sometimes wobble.”
“She’s adorable when she does wobbles, though,” Lord Dashlend said. “And it’s not nearly as much as it was.”
Lord Dashlend’s caveat to Lady Grace’s wobbling was met with nods of approval from her sisters.
Weston was dumbfounded. They would come to his house and make him dance? He was not at all certain how Lady Valor viewed the idea of being volunteered for the task. Her cheeks were a rather fiery color. He would not be surprised if she were furious. Why should she not be? It was an imposition.
“What an admirable solution,” Lord Ledderbey said. “Look at that, my boy, you can attend Almack’s after all.”
Wonderful.
The game continued and Lord Ledderbey was asked just how badly he thought of the duke, considering he had been a friend of his departed brother. Lord Ledderbey hemmed and hawed and claimed it was not so bad and was instantly named a fibber.
The crowning moment came when Lady Patience inquired what Weston had first noticed about Lady Valor.
The real answer was how different she looked from Lady Letitia, but he thought it unwise to say so.
He claimed it was her elegance. There was some whispering between the sisters over it, and then it was deemed true.
Nobody was getting anywhere near three yellow tickets, but fortunately Lord Ledderbey mentioned he was tired. There was nothing for it but to conclude without a winner. Weston could not help but notice the various looks of relief and joy on the other gentlemen’s expressions.
They were led out by a footman. It seemed that Mr. Huberville had been sent off to recover from his violent encounters with a doorframe and a cheese tray.
The carriage set off. Lord Ledderbey said, “Well that was something.”
“It was something, but what?” Weston said with a laugh.
“It was not what I expected. Yes, the duke is entirely bizarre and his treatment of Lady Marchfield is abhorrent. On the other hand, she seems to give as good as she gets. I did find him likable in a very odd way. What did you think of him?”
“He’s a strange fellow, there is no doubt about it. And very presumptuous too. He never even bothered to inquire if I wished to know how to dance. I am not sure I do.”
“Ah well, too late now, I suppose. He’s arranged to send Lady Valor, Lady Serenity, and their housekeeper over tomorrow afternoon. I will be interested in getting a look at this housekeeper—Lady Marchfield is convinced she is the devil in disguise.”
“At least they do not send Mr. Huberville,” Weston said laughing.
“That poor fellow. He is very excitable. But tell me, what did you think of Lady Valor? I found her very pretty and composed. Very much a lady, I thought.”
Weston shrugged. “She seems to admire some Sardinian count with an estate in Hertfordshire who likes peace and quiet.”
It was true, she did seem to admire that Sardinian fellow.
It was also true that Weston seemed to admire her.
However, if that was what the duke had in mind, he was not amenable to cooperating.
There were a hundred ladies in London he might wed.
There was no reason why he must go for the duke’s daughter.
Though, she was exceedingly pretty and he liked her manner very much.
“Well, we’ll see what the future holds. Excellent news that they will teach you to dance, in my view. I feel I have been given a reprieve from my laxity on the subject.”
Weston nodded. He could not say he wished to know how to dance as it seemed the sort of frivolous activity a dandy spent his day on.
But on the other hand, he had noted the ladies’ expressions this evening when he said he did not dance.
They were incredulous and assumed he was lying.
Clearly, a lady expected a gentleman to dance.
Therefore, he ought to learn how to do it whether he liked it or not.