Chapter Six #2
Hopefully, a stern lecture would have more effect than all the stern lectures that had gone before.
He picked up a book and took it into his snug new library. He’d written to Lackington & Allen requesting they send over their most popular gothic novel. It was one of Lady Winsome’s interests and would be something in common to mention on the morrow.
Leland poured himself a brandy, threw himself onto the leather sofa he’d had brought in, and looked it over.
Mr. Lackington had sent over a book titled Gloaming at Glenford Cross.
From the description, it seemed a vicar’s daughter disappeared after walking through a dark wood at sunset.
The villagers had begun to suspect that the newly arrived inhabitant of Werely Castle might be at the bottom of it as several swore they heard screams at night coming from that direction.
He could not imagine what Lady Winsome saw in it, but he would be prepared to talk about it.
*
Mrs. Right felt pressed from all sides. Whoever was taunting them inside the house had seemed to redouble their efforts.
It was as if she were being mocked for changing the locks and imagining that would end the problem.
This morning, there was a half-empty teapot sitting on the servants’ hall table.
She had touched it and it was cold, so it had been there for some hours.
There were reports of things all over the house being moved and it had become hard to tell what was real and what was imagination.
Had the duke forgotten he’d left certain papers out?
Had Reynolds, the duke’s valet, accidently misplaced so many of the duke’s neckcloths?
What had happened to the silver salt cellar?
Who was doing it? Where were they hiding? Why were they hiding? What was the purpose of it all?
And then, Lady Marchfield was not sticking to her usual habits.
She’d not made an appearance at Almack’s the night before.
Why should she suddenly change what she did?
She always attended the opening ball of Almack’s, and yet, she did not go.
She was up to something, though Mrs. Right could not work out what it might be.
It was true that they had foiled the lady season after season, and that might put a person’s back up. But Mrs. Right had not imagined she’d ever do something about it other than hurl a few insults and storm off. Was she doing something more about it?
All this to think about on the day the duke was to host a dinner.
The footmen were jumpy and she had to keep reminding them about the details of what must go on the table.
They’d set down the everyday napkins instead of the exquisitely embroidered napkins with the duke’s crest done by Mrs. Wellform in the Dales.
Both Charlie and Thomas knew better, but they were in too much of a state to think clearly.
What might they do at the dinner itself?
Would they forget which wines went with what course?
Cook was a mere shell of a man at this point, and she dearly hoped he would gather himself together.
Breakfast had been a shambles and the duke had wished to know why his fried eggs had appeared to be fried for hours together.
The kitchen maids, ever ready to panic over London kidnappers and murderers, had taken their lead from Cook and were usually found in tears, whispering to each other.
Mrs. Right had already twice pointed out that potatoes could not peel themselves.
There was also the upstairs to think about.
She was still sleeping in Valor’s room and getting kicked and punched through the night.
The girl was a dear, but she was a veritable boxer when she was asleep.
And then there was Sir Galahad to contend with.
How such loud noises could emanate from such a little pug, she did not know. She’d barely slept last night.
Mrs. Right straightened her fichu and then she straightened her back. She must put some starch into her staff and lead them forward. Whatever was going on in this house, the duke was to host a dinner and they must all pull together. Somehow.
*
Winsome had let Valor try on everything in her jewelry case.
Years ago, the duke had allowed them all to choose what pieces of their mother’s they liked and as Valor had been very young at the time, she’d gone for the most ridiculous paste.
For ages, her favorite had been a rather terrible enameled parrot pin.
They’d have to do something about that before Valor made her debut.
Just now, Valor wore Winsome’s short string of pearls. “I like pearls,” she said. “They’re pretty and round. They almost look soft, but they’re not. And then, I like that they came from the sea and were never buried under rocks.”
That was a lot of reasons to like pearls, Winsome supposed. “You ought to keep that necklace, Val,” she said. “You did not really have a fair chance at Mama’s jewelry.”
Valor admired her reflection in the glass. “It will go splendidly with my hostessing gown.”
The hostessing clothes. Winsome had almost managed to forget about that. And some other things Valor was likely to get up to. “Val, I really do not think it is necessary to make any sort of speech to open the dinner.”
“Do not make one, then.”
“I mean you,” Winsome said. “You do not need to make a speech.”
“Yes, I do,” Valor said, showing Sir Galahad her newly acquired necklace. “I am more clever than you think. When I make a speech, I am showing Papa how great I am as his hostess. He’ll never want me to get married. Too much to lose.”
So that was the aim.
Mrs. Right bustled into the room. “We’d best get you dressed, Winsome,” she said.
Winsome nodded. She had picked out a dress specially for the dinner. It was a dark-green lightweight velvet with a subtle trim of copper-colored silk braid. It was distinctive without being showy and set off her hair in some way.
“You will come to me next, Mrs. Right?” Valor asked the housekeeper. “I have hostessing clothes now.”
“Ah yes, the hostessing clothes,” Mrs. Right said. “I’ll be along shortly, Poppet.”
Valor seemed satisfied with that and scooped up Sir Galahad. She trounced out of the room, calling over her shoulder, “Thanks for the pearls, Winny!”
“Have you seen the hostessing clothes?” Winsome asked Mrs. Right.
“I am afraid so. The poor little mite looks eighty if she looks a day. Now, you are not to worry over it. If Lord Manderbey is any sort of stalwart man, he will not fan himself over a younger sister’s…whatever it is.”
“What about the speech she’s determined to make?”
Mrs. Right laid out her dress. “He might fan himself over that, if history is anything to go by, but Thomas and Charlie fill the wine glasses rather full at that moment to smooth it over.”
Winsome nodded, though she was not certain how much wine it would take to erase the memory of one of Valor’s speeches.
“Might I ask,” Mrs. Right said, “are you settling your mind on Lord Manderbey?”
“Oh, as to that, well, it is early days…” Winsome trailed off. She’d not told anybody but Serenity that it seemed he might be a profligate gambler. Last evening, he’d indicated he had no intention of reforming.
Her father had inquired into her views as they rode in the carriage, returning from Almack’s, and she’d been noncommittal. She could not bear for anybody to turn against him.
She should turn against him, or at least turn away and wash her thoughts of him.
She could not do it, though. At least, not yet.
After all, just because a person had no intention of reforming did not mean they might not change their mind.
Certainly, that must be true. Even though it was precisely what her heroines often thought, and it was never true.
Mrs. Right helped her into her dress and did up the buttons.
Then she wrestled Winsome’s hair into order and pinned her small and restrained diamond tiara securely amidst her curls.
She was not exactly supposed to wear a tiara, at least not until she was engaged, but Lady Rose had broken with that tradition last year with no repercussions.
Her Papa said that anything she inherited from her mother could be worn at any time, even at breakfast if she wished.
In any case, she liked it, so she would wear it.
“You look a picture,” Mrs. Right said. “Lord Manderbey will be bowled over by it, I’m sure.”
“I am not certain whether I wish him to, or do not wish him to. Is that strange?”
Mrs. Right laughed. “Not according to how any of your sisters went forward. Now, I’d best see to Valor. And her hostessing clothes, the poor misguided little mite.”