Chapter Seven
Mrs. Right had followed Valor into the drawing room and noted her watching Lord Tramondeley make his way home.
She should not be surprised, as the lord was handsome and seemed a pleasant and reasonable sort of person.
She supposed the duke would be pleased if there were to be a match.
She, herself, would be pleased too. If she had to lose her last girl to matrimony, he would be the best choice.
After all, he was the duke’s heir and would eventually take over in the Dales.
They might all go on very comfortably together, assuming the lord did not insist on a butler.
Anyway, if he were in the Dales, he could not go off sailing in the middle of the night which, as far as she could see, was the only thing Valor held against him.
There was a sudden crash coming from the dining room across the corridor. She and Valor looked at each other.
“Do you suppose it is Mr. Huberville again?” Valor asked.
“Probably,” she said. “That fellow will not leave us with one unbroken piece of crockery in the house if he has his way. I’d best go see what he’s smashed this time.”
She hurried from the room and crossed the hall. She found Mr. Huberville staring forlornly at the remnants of a porcelain dish that usually held potatoes.
“It just flew right out of my hands, Mrs. Right,” he said.
“Quite a lot flies out of your hands,” Mrs. Right pointed out.
“Very true, very true,” Mr. Huberville said, his head bobbing up and down.
“Mr. Huberville, have you considered that butlering is perhaps…not for you?”
“Of course I’ve considered it! What do you take me for, a dullard? The idea haunts me night and day.”
“Well then, why not find another line of work? Find something you’d be more suited for.”
“Like what? That’s the question, Mrs. Right. Like. What.”
Mrs. Right tapped her chin, attempting to come up with something Mr. Huberville might be suited for.
He was a short and round individual, so she imagined any sort of physical labor was out.
He had not demonstrated any sort of special knowledge or skill.
Any skill he attempted to demonstrate ended badly. He was the clumsiest person living.
His mind was not much better. He’d made a complete mess of the household accounts when he’d decided to “modernize” them.
It had taken Mrs. Right hours to straighten it out.
He seemed to be fond of adding zeros everywhere, so suddenly nine shillings for butter was recorded as ninety shillings.
He’d tried to defend it until she asked him how one pound of butter could cost four pounds and ten.
Then he admitted it “seemed like a lot.”
He’d enraged the cook when he’d thought to be helpful and unbox the groceries, which would have been perfectly fine if he had not got the flour and sugar bins mixed up. That misstep had been discovered when Cook had tasted a gravy and found it sweet.
Reynolds, the duke’s stern valet, was quietly steaming because Mr. Huberville had tripped and dropped his toast, which had been dripping with jam.
That item had landed on some of the duke’s newly laundered neckcloths and then Mr. Huberville had attempted to rub out the stain.
Any person over the age of five understood that rubbing out a stain was in fact rubbing in a stain.
It was presumed Mr. Huberville now knew it too, considering the tongue lashing he’d heard from Reynolds.
Mrs. Right briefly thought Mr. Huberville could perhaps be a waiter in an establishment, until she recalled the broken china at her feet.
“You see?” Mr. Huberville said. “You cannot think of a single thing! Anyway, I cannot leave the house. Lady Marchfield told me I must be a barnacle on a boat and a barnacle I will be!
Mrs. Right sighed. She really did not know how she was to drive Mr. Huberville out.
If she could not, the duke would eventually send him packing.
However, there were two problems with that solution.
One, she would have been defeated and she did not like to contemplate that.
Two, she suspected Mr. Huberville might starve on the road.
Unlike the other butlers who had landed firmly on their feet, he would not.
He was one part enraging and another part pitiable.
As much as she resisted it, she’d begun to feel sorry for this particular barnacle.
*
Weston had been pensive as he returned from escorting Lady Valor to her house. If there had been anything in the world that might show that lady’s worth, it was viewing her side by side with Lady Letitia.
Lady Valor had arrived in a simple white muslin dress with only a blue ribbon round the waist for decoration.
Her manner was…not reserved, not demure, she was rather frank actually.
But she was not a chatterer. She had a particular wit about her and he was certain she was as put off by Lady Letitia’s manner as he was himself.
And then, she seemed to be a rescuer of dogs, which was admirable. Really, when he’d spotted the three-legged and half-blind Nelson, he was surprised the duke had allowed it. A highly unattractive and deformed dog did not seem as if it would be a duke’s choice for his daughters.
The story about the pug was unusual, to be sure. Why would Lord Thorpe leave it up to Lady Valor, who was apparently very young at the time, to rescue the dog?
He did not know and supposed it did not signify.
What did signify is that Lady Valor had pointed out that Lady Marchfield would expect him at Almack’s.
She’d said the matron would hunt him down if he did not turn up and upon thinking about it, he did not doubt it.
Therefore, he and Lord Ledderbey came up with a plan.
While it had been nice that Lord Ledderbey had done his best in showing him steps and very nice of Lady Valor to come and help him practice, he could not fool himself that it was enough.
They sent Malberry to make inquiries at an employment office and he’d returned successful.
For the next two days, Mr. Riley and his wife were with them night and day, putting him through his paces.
Weston had paid dear to hire a dancing master who was willing to work twelve hours a day, but it had been worth the price.
His legs ached, but at least he knew what he was doing.
He could not say it was something he wished to spend endless amounts of time doing, but if he must do it he would prefer not to appear the fool.
It was well he did put the time into it, as Lady Marchfield had sent a note saying she would come for them in her carriage. Apparently, she was not willing to wait and see if he would turn up but would escort him herself.
She had just sailed into the drawing room and looked him over. “I see you took my advice on a tailor, excellent. Lord Ledderbey, how do you do?”
After the introductions, they made their way to the carriage. “Lord Marchfield does not attend?” Weston asked.
“He will be deep in cards at his club by now. He convinced me long ago that he ought not attend balls—he does not care for dancing and makes himself a nuisance with complaints until the carriage is called.”
“I will be sorry we do not see him,” Weston said.
“It cannot be helped. One realizes, in a marriage, that one ought to carefully choose one’s battlefields. I do not complain about his cards and he does not complain about the new furniture in my writing parlor.”
“Very sensible,” Lord Ledderbey said.
Weston had not considered the matter, but it did sound sensible.
“Now, Lord Tramondeley, I do not suppose anybody has explained to you how things are done at Almack’s.”
“Not specifically, no.”
“One of the patronesses will arrange who you dance with. It will likely be Lady Westmoreland as she will know you are the duke’s heir presumptive and she has always taken a particular interest in the Nicolets.
Though how she tolerates my brother, I am sure I do not know.
Maybe I should ask her for tips. In any case, if she asks, feel free to inform her if you have any specific preferences on which ladies you might like to be paired with. ”
“I’ve only met Lady Valor and Lady Letitia,” Weston pointed out.
“Two dukes’ daughters, very good choices.”
“Can I tell Lady Westmoreland who I’d like to avoid?” Weston asked. “I really do not care for Lady Letitia.”
Lady Marchfield frowned. “Certainly not.”
Weston sighed. He was afraid that would be the case.
A gentleman could never offend a lady, even if the lady was offensive.
Upon being apprised of this some years ago by Lord Ledderbey, he’d decried it as unfair.
Lord Ledderbey had gone on to outline all the advantages in the world that gentlemen had and ladies did not. Then it began to seem a deal more fair.
“I hope you have eaten a good dinner,” Lady Marchfield said. “I did outline in my note that you will not find much there.”
“We took that advice to heart, Lady Marchfield,” Lord Ledderbey said.
“Why is that, though?” Weston asked. “If this place is supposed to be a pinnacle of some sort, why do they allow their guests to starve?”
“Because it is the pinnacle and they will dare you to complain about it,” Lady Marchfield said. “I suggest you wait until you are a duke to do so.”
Weston suppressed a snort. “I presume the Duke of Pelham does a lot of complaining.”
“And worse,” Lady Marchfield said. “Do not follow his habits in anything.”
Rather than answer, Weston looked out the carriage window at the lights from various windows shining down on the wet streets.
He might never get over how closely packed together everything was in this town.
As for Lady Marchfield’s warning regarding the duke, he did not know what it was about, but as he was not likely to begin following the duke’s lead in anything, he did not suppose it mattered much.