Chapter Eight
Leland supposed there had never been a dinner like it.
First, Lady Marchfield turned up, unexpectedly and apparently unwelcome.
Then, a butler nobody had known was in the house had emerged from behind a pair of curtains.
Between those two unlikely events, Lady Valor made an outrageous speech about men staring at their wives while they slept, naming Stratton as being particularly implicated in the habit.
The dinner itself was odd as well. An overcooked roasted beef had come round, sliced very thin and covered in a sauce.
It really seemed as if it had been cooked well past its time and then the sauce was meant to cover that fact.
The potatoes looked as if they’d just been thrown into a dish and had not even been composed with a sprinkling of chopped parsley.
The rolls were positively black on the bottom.
There was the subtle aroma of burning that wafted over it all. The wines, at least, were good.
The footmen were at sixes and sevens. They had run out of the room, only to run back in again a half hour later and say to the duke, “He never left the house and now he’s disappeared again.”
It seemed as if Mr. Wicket had suddenly appeared in the kitchens, just as suddenly disappeared, and the cook and kitchen maids were in a collapse about it. Which would explain the state of the dinner.
The footmen did not know where Mr. Wicket had disappeared to. They’d found the door to the wine cellar ajar and had bravely gone down with candles to search it, but they’d found nothing. They could not be sure if they themselves had left it ajar when they’d gone to fetch wines for the dinner.
It was beginning to seem as if the duke’s new butler was some sort of genie disappearing into thin air. The duke remained remarkably unaffected by the information and only assured his footman that the housekeeper would rid them of the interloper.
The housekeeper? How was she to order the fellow out if the duke could not?
Despite all that, Leland was really enjoying himself.
Lady Felicity had been determined to never even glance in his direction, leaving him to speak to Lady Winsome all through the dinner.
After they’d thoroughly dissected Gloaming at Glenford Cross, and developed several improvements the author might have adopted, their conversation was more wide-ranging.
There were times he had to force himself to concentrate, as he was all but bewitched by the sprinkle of light freckles across her nose. He’d almost lost the thread of the conversation when he suddenly realized she was asking him about his house.
That was a promising sign, he thought.
“My father’s estate is in Sussex, but I live mostly at Stonewall Manor in Torquay.
There is another farming estate in Hertfordshire that I visit from time to time to keep it going, but it’s rather staid.
Stonewall is not large and there is in fact very little land.
It is just the house, some outbuildings, the stables, and some gardens.
However, it sits atop a cliff overlooking the harbor and the views are very good.
As well, there is a little tavern in town that is quiet and keeps a good fire in the cozy during the cold months.
I often go there to escape my grandmother.
” He paused, realizing he’d left out an important description.
“And, I should probably say, she does live there now, in a little cottage on the grounds. When my grandfather died, she discovered she could not bear to be in the vicinity of the family seat, overruled by her daughter-in-law, so she refused to move into the dower house in Sussex.”
“Oh, I see, yes, that must be hard for the dowager. She has ruled the roost for years and now she has to give way.”
Leland nodded. “She is not particularly adept at giving way.”
“We do not see my own grandmother—my mother’s mother.
All we know about her is that she is very stern and religious.
She sends Christmas gifts every year and they are always very dreary with a scoldy letter coming along with it.
I suppose it must be nice to have a grandmother who takes such an interest in your day-to-day life. ”
Of course, Lady Winsome supposed entirely wrong, but he did not correct her.
He would not wish to frighten the lady off with any real description of what it was like to have his grandmother on the premises.
The lady had been known to track him down in the tavern when she was bored and wished for his company.
“Well now,” the duke said loudly from the other end of the table, “we have suffered through a rather terrible dinner on account of Mr. Wicket haunting the house but I will not blame the kitchens—Lady Misery is renowned for her ability to ruin an evening. Do not despair, though, as we can only go up from here.”
Leland supposed there would be cards in the drawing room. Or perhaps there was a music room somewhere and the ladies would play.
“Has anybody warned our guests about what is to come?” the duke asked, looking jovially round the table.
Warned? Why should he be warned about it? Had they not experienced quite a lot already that they might have been warned of? What could possibly be next?
As Leland gazed round the table it was apparent that there were conflicting opinions on what was to come next. The ladies appeared in very good spirits, their husbands very much less so.
“Sorry,” Stratton said, shrugging.
“It cannot be helped,” Stanford said.
“Just get through it,” Wembly advised. “That’s what I did.”
Good God, it sounded as if he were to go through some sort of trial.
“You can drink port in the drawing room,” Thorpe said, “that can be looked at as a positive.”
“Fact or Fib!” Lady Valor shouted.
Leland glanced at Lady Winsome with the hopes that she would provide some illumination.
“It is only a drawing room game,” she said. “It is ever so much fun.”
She said it was fun, but her cheeks said there was something embarrassing about it. They were not just pink but looked positively feverish.
“I do like a game,” the dowager said.
“Now that reminds me, duchess,” the duke said, “we don’t go in for sending the ladies to their tea while the gentlemen sit here with port and cigars.
I cannot be bothered with jawing about politics or a horse somebody just bought.
We bring the port and brandy into the drawing room.
Shall you want either of those? Or perhaps sherry? ”
“You know me too well, duke,” the dowager said. “Sherry is my preferred glass.”
“Charlie, go down to the wine cellar and fetch one of the bottles of sack that just came in from Perry,” the duke said.
The footman nodded, though he appeared deeply concerned to be sent down to the cellars.
Apparently, finding the door ajar was still on his mind though the place had been searched.
It was not particularly illogical. After all, if he were a strange butler hiding out in a house, he supposed the wine cellar would be as good a place to hide as any.
One would at least be supplied with good drink to pass the clandestine hours.
The duke rose and led them through to the drawing room. Leland really had no idea what he was to face there, though he was grateful that he’d have a glass of port in his hand while he faced it.
*
Mrs. Right attempted to read the expression on Charlie’s face.
He’d just hurried down from the dining room and into the kitchens.
He found her there attempting to help Cook bring order back to his staff of two hysterical kitchen maids.
“Has the duke complained about the dinner?” she asked, knowing full well that there had never been a worse dinner sent up to him.
Charlie shook his head. “No, well, he mentioned it was dreadful but he blames it all on Lady Marchfield.”
“The duke is a man who sees what is what,” Cook said.
“He is very gracious,” Mrs. Right said, “but let us not try his goodwill by repeating the experience.”
“It would be easier to never repeat the experience if we did not have that lunatic fellow hiding somewhere,” Cook pointed out. “Who goes around appearing and disappearing?”
“Mrs. Right,” Charlie interrupted, “the duke is sending me down to the cellars to bring up a bottle of the new sack.” He stared at her meaningfully and she knew perfectly well what he meant.
The wine cellar door had been left ajar.
The footmen had searched the place and found nothing, but it was strange.
“I see,” Mrs. Right said, “I’d best go down with you. I imagine you boys have not even had the time to open those crates yet.”
“We have not. We did not think there was a hurry as he mostly only orders it for Lady Felicity and there are several older bottles still down there.”
“Bring the claw hammer so we can get the crate open. If the duke wishes for a bottle from the Perry shipment that is what he will get. We will not wish to disappoint him any further this evening.”
Charlie looked most relieved to discover he would not have to descend those dark stairs alone. Mrs. Right took the candelabra from the servants’ table, and they made their way down.
She’d not been down in the cellars in an age. Charlie and Thomas were well able to suggest wine pairings and retrieve them for the duke. It was as cold and damp as she recalled. It was as dark as she remembered, too.
She held the candelabra in front of her, descending the stone stairs into the gloom. “Where did you leave the crates?”
“All the way in the back, I’m afraid. I thought we should put the Perry bottles with the other bottles of sack and the duke does not ask for them as often as the claret and hock.”