Chapter Two
As the Nicolets made their way to Town, they were now a much smaller party than they had been.
Winsome recalled when it had at one time required two carriages to accommodate all of the duke’s daughters.
Now, one carriage was sufficient for herself, Valor, and Mrs. Right.
At least, it would have been more than sufficient, but for Sir Galahad’s four poster miniature bed and Sir Galahad himself being in there too.
The bed had been dismantled to fit and most of it was under their feet.
Nevertheless, the trip had held its amusements.
The year before, their dear Papa had found that all his usual jests did not work anymore.
He’d been in the habit of ordering something that did not exist, like brocabbage pie or Grassingdon Hambac, and feigning outrage by claiming it was a Yorkshire staple.
After the innkeeper scrambled to discover what it was, the duke would jovially inform everybody that he’d made the whole thing up.
His outlook had been that sort of jest was fun for everybody, despite some of the everybodys not appearing particularly amused.
But then that gambit had been tried too many times and last year the duke had been roundly defeated at inn after inn.
Their father was nothing if not inventive though. This year, at each inn they stopped at, he claimed it was Captain James Cook Day. Cook was a Yorkshire man, so it was almost plausible. The associated ritual, however, was not at all plausible.
The duke would stand at precisely nine o’clock in the evening, claiming it was the very moment the captain had been struck down, with only his bones returned to England.
Then, he would put hand over heart and recite a poem of his own invention while the staff of the various inn’s looked on, not entirely certain of whether they ought to appear reverential.
He sailed the oceans for king and queen; He kept sailing until he was no longer seen. At the Sandwich Islands he met with a lance; He should have turned back when he had the chance.
Then the duke would ask for a moment of silence, which did not go on very long as he could not help himself from laughing and revealing he’d made the whole thing up.
Winsome had not known that a party could actually be barred from returning to an inn.
It seemed to be the case though. That particular innkeeper, seeming to lose all reason, said the duke would not be allowed through the doors again and he would personally write to the queen to inform her of it.
Apparently, there was not enough money in the world to induce him to put up with it.
At another inn, the woman who ran the kitchens and who had previously proved herself entirely immune to any respect for the duke’s rank, came into the dining room with a butcher’s knife still in her hand and said: “I’ll Captain Cook you all the way back to the Dales.”
The duke took it all as being the height of amusement, but Winsome began to wonder if one of these trips would entail them all sleeping in the carriages, as nobody would allow them inside.
They had arrived to their last overnight stop before pressing on to London. Winsome had gently suggested to her papa to forgo the Captain Cook Day poem, but he’d only laughed and said he’d take it under advisement.
Winsome, Valor, and Mrs. Right all stayed together in one room, an extra bed having been dragged in.
Mrs. Right fussed with Winsome’s hair while Valor was lounging on her bed with Sir Galahad.
She’d already explained to the little dog, again, that his special bed could not be brought in because it was just now in pieces.
“Do you suppose Papa will heed my advice and give up on Captain Cook Day?” Winsome asked.
Mrs. Right considered it. “Probably not. He does like a jest and he spent ages composing the poem.”
“I hope he doesn’t,” Valor said. “It’s so funny. They get mad like Lady Marchfield does all the time. Maybe Papa will read her the poem too.”
“But that’s the point, Valor,” Winsome said. “They do get mad. We’ve already been barred from one of the inns. As well, that cook at the other, she might really come after us with a knife one of these days.”
“Papa would be very cross about it and make her stop,” Valor said. “And Sir Galahad would protect me. I believe he would be very brave on my account. If he really had to.”
Winsome noticed there was no mention of Sir Galahad racing to her own rescue. She supposed that was just as well, as the little dog was unlikely to save anybody from anything. Sir Galahad’s primary skill appeared to be lounging.
“Come now, girls,” Mrs. Right said, “your father will already be in the private dining room waiting for us. You know what happens when he’s left alone for too long a time and there’s a bottle in front of him.”
Valor scooped up Sir Galahad. “Our poor Papa does not like to drink alone because he drinks too much when he doesn’t have anybody to talk to.”
“Let us go talk to him, then,” Mrs. Right said.
They made their way down the stairs. In the front hall of the inn, a rather outraged gentleman was having words with the innkeeper.
“My good man,” the gentleman said sounding almost panicked, “you cannot expect me to dine out here? In public view? Out here?”
Winsome thought he said “out here” as if they were the two most preposterous words ever spoken. He was a comely gentleman, but his rather high and panicked voice took away from his appearance.
“My lord,” the innkeeper said, “the private dining room has already been reserved. I cannot invent a second room that does not exist. Would you, perhaps, care to dine in your bedchamber?”
“In my room?” the lord said, indicating more preposterous words had been spoken.
Mrs. Right took Winsome and Valor by the arms and steered them around the unhappy lord. He noticed them going by, and then he noticed them heading to the private dining room.
“Ladies! My good ladies!” he called after them.
Mrs. Right turned and said, “I am in charge of these girls and they will not be conversing with strangers at an inn. Good day to you.”
The lord did look crestfallen to hear it. Just then, the dining room doors opened and the duke came through them. “What is all the ruckus out here?”
“Nothing, nothing at all,” the innkeeper said, twisting his hands together.
“Nothing!” the lord said. He hurried to the duke. “My lord, this inn is only in possession of one private dining room, and this deranged innkeeper suggests I remain out here, to dine with the hoi polloi. If you can imagine such an outrage.”
“It’s Your Grace,” the duke said. “Duke of Pelham.”
The lord looked very much put on the back foot. “I see!” He looked toward the innkeeper and said accusingly, “I had not known. Nobody mentioned you were a duke, my apologies.” He bowed. “Your Grace, allow me to introduce myself. Earl of Landry, at your service.”
“Yes, yes, well as you seem to be having some sort of mental collapse over the idea of dining in view of the hoi polloi, as you term it, you’d best come in.”
“You are everything gracious, Your Grace. Your condescension will live in my thoughts forevermore!”
“No need to get hysterical over it,” the duke said drily.
They proceeded into the dining room with the previously unknown gentleman, now known as the Earl of Landry. Earl or not, Mrs. Right looked suspiciously at him and directed Winsome and Valor to the other side of the table. The Earl would be safely tucked between the duke and Mrs. Right.
The waiters brought wine around, and lemonade for Valor.
“Well, Landry, you might as well be introduced to the last of this brood of mine. That’s Lady Winsome, and my youngest, Lady Valor.
And this is Mrs. Right. There’s five of them not here, as I’ve launched them out of the house, one after the next. ”
“Ladies. An honor,” Lord Landry said, looking wide-eyed to hear of daughters launched out of a house.
Valor eyed the earl. “Are you always so nervous?” she asked. “About the hoi polloi watching you eat?”
Now the earl appeared even more startled, which did not surprise Winsome. Valor generally was startling. “Well I simply could not countenance dining in such close quarters with them,” he said. “There seemed to be some rough fellows hanging about.”
“Do you suppose any of them are murderers?” Valor asked.
Lord Landry set down his wine with a shaking hand. “I hadn’t done. Do you think any of them are murderers?”
“Possibly,” Valor said matter-of-factly. “Because you never do know, do you?”
Winsome nodded. “A murderer would not wear a sign, would he? He will do everything to make it seem as if he’s not a murderer. The more innocent he looks, the higher the chance he’s up to no good.”
Lord Landry paled just a bit. “Gad, I hadn’t thought, but that could be right. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, as it were. And then, at an inn where everybody is so transient? Would that not be the perfect place to be a murderer? Why had that never occurred to me?”
Valor nodded gravely. “I’m going to sleep next to my dog so murderers cannot get me.” She peered down at Sir Galahad on her lap. The little pug yawned in response to being named the sole member of her personal guard.
“I will be alone,” Lord Landry said softly. “Why didn’t I bring one of my dogs?”
Winsome felt as if none of them would get much sleep this night, now that murderers had been speculated on.
It really was true, there might be one just outside the dining room doors and how would they know it?
She had often thought that murderers were masters at hiding their true nature, else how would they get close enough to anybody to murder them?
As for rogues, they were even more plentiful. In all likelihood, there were several in the vicinity, mulling over their devious plans.