Chapter Nine
Leland found himself rather exhausted from his evening at the duke’s house. He’d never been to a dinner so full of unexpected events. An unwelcome aunt, an outrageous younger sister, a butler hiding behind curtains, Fact or Fib…and, of course, his ridiculous grandmother capping the whole thing off.
That particular relation just now sat across from him, swaying with the movement of the carriage. She was doing her best to stare at him intently, though three glasses of sack had made the attitude harder to master than it ought to have been.
“Well? Have you seen enough? Marry the girl,” the dowager said. “I won’t mind at all finding the duke a relation of mine, he’s jolly good fun.”
“Perhaps you’ve had enough fun for one lifetime,” he said drily.
“Nonsense. Now be quick about it, I feel the life slowly draining out of me.”
Leland did not answer. If she was tired, it was more likely the sack than an infirmity.
He would deliver her to Miss Price and give the maid strict instructions to keep her mistress away from his door.
He was in no mood to listen to her spouting nonsense while his valet desperately wondered how he could get out of the room without attracting her attention.
He had far too much to think about just now.
Aside from all the bizarre happenings, he’d liked spending an extended time with Lady Winsome.
She was so interesting! She’d had so many of the same opinions on Gloaming at Glenford Cross that he did.
She’d not swallowed the narrative whole and simply accepted what the author directed her to.
She had questions. Did that not point to a rather insightful mind?
As well, she had seemed very interested to hear of Stonewall Manor and the little tavern in Torquay. He almost got the feeling that she’d like to see it.
Then there were her looks to admire, they really were spectacular.
He’d often counseled himself to avoid wedding a lady on account of her looks.
Hers would fade, and, such as they were, so would his own.
Then what would be left? Nevertheless, her beauty could not be ignored.
Not with that dusting of freckles and golden hair he wished to run his fingers through.
And then, she had claimed the first thing she’d noticed about him was his urbane manner. That was rather good, was it not? She’d not hesitated to answer the question either—did that point to her having thought about it prior?
He felt closer to considering marriage than he’d yet done in his life. Though, he would keep that idea under his coat. He would not want his grandmother to get wind of it. Who knew what outrages she might commit if she thought something was in the works.
On the morrow, he intended to leave the house early as she would still be abed, and have his valet send clothes to his club.
He would attend Lady Jellerbey’s candlelight picnic tomorrow night and he’d already confirmed Lady Winsome would attend too.
His grandmother knew nothing about it, and he would not give her the opportunity to insist she go with him.
He loved her in his own way, but he’d had quite enough of her recently.
“Here we are, home again,” his grandmother said. “Gracious, I am finding the Town invigorating. I wonder why I skipped so many seasons now that I’m here. What do we do on the morrow?”
“Nothing,” Leland said. “There is nothing on the calendar for the morrow.”
“We ought to go to the theater, then.”
“Come on, I’ll help you down,” Leland said, leaping to the pavement.
“I do not need your help.”
“Really?”
“Perhaps just an arm. I am old, after all.”
Despite needing “just an arm,” the dowager all but fell out of the carriage. He kept her on her feet and walked her inside. Though it was probably petty on his part, he hoped she had quite the pounding head on the morrow.
*
Mrs. Right had gone above stairs to help Winsome out of her dress. Though, really, she’d been determined to warn her about the letter she’d found.
“Nobody seems to know if Mr. Wicket has left the house or not,” Winsome said. “At least, nobody seems positive that he has.”
Mrs. Right glanced at the door. “He has not, he’s around here somewhere. Lock yourself in when I leave. Just as a precaution, though I do not think he’d have the nerve to stray into the family’s private quarters. It’s just that…we can never quite pin him down.”
Winsome shivered. “I cannot think Valor will sleep a wink.”
“She’s perfectly fine. One of the housemaids is sitting in her room waiting for me to take charge of her, the little mite will be fast asleep by now. Then I will go to bed and be kicked all night. And not just by Valor either—that dog seems to have his own energetic dreams.”
“You will get him out, though? Mr. Wicket, you will make him leave?”
“Oh aye, I’ll think of something. Now, I did want to give you a bit of a warning that’s nothing to do with our newly acquired butler.
I came across some information, vague information but worth passing along all the same.
It seems there may be a gentleman out there somewhere who is looking to secure a large dowry on account of gambling debts. Forewarned is forearmed, I always say.”
Winsome sank down into a chair. “Exactly what I was afraid of.”
“I know it,” Mrs. Right said. “All those novels you read have always put you on edge. But I suppose with things seeming to go so well with Lord Manderbey—”
“That’s the problem, though,” Winsome said. “It’s him. He’s the one with gambling debts.”
“Lord Manderbey? Are you certain?”
“Yes, it is almost certainly so, but Mrs. Right, how did you come upon this vague warning?”
Mrs. Right pulled out the letter and handed it over. She watched Winsome read through it intently.
Winsome handed the letter back. “It’s confirmed then,” she said.
“This is without a doubt about Lord Manderbey. He is being dunned, which I’ve heard from two people who know him—one a friend and the other a cousin.
He shrugs off any idea about debt as if it is of no consequence, and then at Fact or Fib he said he had personal experience with excessive gambling and named it commonplace. ”
“But are you certain this letter refers to him? I cannot work out what TRULOGAP means.”
“Oh, I did assume that was the name of a horse he’d bet on. You know how racing horses have all sorts of strange names. It could be a place name, perhaps where the horse was sired. I cannot think what else it could be.”
It did indeed make sense. The letter was about gambling and TRULOGAP could be a horse’s name.
Since it was specifically mentioned in the letter, it hinted that this horse had a large part to play in the gambling debts.
Perhaps in one of those stupid carriage races the gentlemen were always cooking up.
And here she’d been only thinking about cards, but there were endless ways a gentleman could gamble away their money.
“He is after your dowry, then,” Mrs. Right said, feeling the anger beginning to boil inside her.
As was always the case when one of her girls was in danger or insulted in any way, a fury came over her.
The duke said she was a regular herring gull guarding her chicks and would peck out the eyes of anyone attempting to harm them.
She preferred to think of herself as a mighty lioness protecting her cubs on the dangerous savannahs of London.
Winsome shrugged as if the situation was no matter, but Mrs. Right could see her eyes were shining.
Her girl had been hurt. She’d been hurt by a gambling rogue who had come into this house pretending to be a respectable gentleman.
He’d even brought his dowager as a cover of respectability. It was outrageous. It must be answered.
Mrs. Right, being a woman of good sense, did pause for a moment before allowing her outrage to carry her away. As she liked to face the truth head on, she could not avoid reflecting on other seasons when it had seemed that one of her girls had been done wrong.
She’d given away Mr. Stratton’s laundry, changed his household’s grocery order to exclusively cabbages, and caused a permanent rift with his wine merchant.
She’d made Lord Dashlend’s hysterical valet believe he was being dismissed, throwing that household topsy-turvy.
She’d infested Lord Stanford’s house with case moths which had taken specialized assistance to defeat.
She’d meddled with the springs on Lord Thorpe’s carriage, causing an unfortunate delay to the wedding trip.
And then last year, she’d circulated a print that depicted Lord Wembly’s pants on fire.
All very unfortunate incidents as it had turned out things had not been what they seemed. Fortunately, those moments really could be considered water under the bridge now. No harm done, as it were. Here, however, she held the proof in her hands. It was incontrovertible.
“I find myself very miserable, Mrs. Right,” Winsome said. “Though my head tells me one thing, my heart says something different.”
“There now, child,” Mrs. Right said soothingly. “Everything will look brighter in the morning, it always does.”
Mrs. Right worked to keep a neutral smile of calm on her face. Her thoughts were a different matter. Her thoughts seethed with indignation that one of her precious girls was hurt.
Lord Manderbey must pay for the insult.
*
Lord Landry felt himself exceedingly bold at this moment of his life.
He’d accepted the invitation to Lady Jellerbey’s candlelight picnic on his own, with no interference from his relations.
Wandering round in dim light seemed almost dangerous, but Lady Edith had assured him she would go and that he ought to go too.