Chapter Thirteen
It was just after dawn when Westland’s valet, Edgecombe, hurried in.
“Do I find ye well this morning, milord? And such a fine morning it is. The sun is shining. The birds are singin’.”
“Hmm,” grunted Westland as he sat up in bed, eyeing his valet suspiciously. “What’s going on, Eddie? What are you about?”
“About, milord? Why, I’m about nothing but me duties, yer lordship.”
“Pigs arse!”
“I beg your pardon, milord? Pigs arse?”
“Eddie, you surly cur, you never regale me with the finer points of the weather. Out with it, you conniving young devil.”
“Pha! I take offence at surly cur, though I may be hard-pressed to defend meself against the conniving bit.”
Westland rubbed his hands over his face. “So?”
“So… nothin. Just been preparing for our departure as you instructed. Seems several others are departing this morning, and it be bedlam below stairs. Shall I have ye hot water readied?”
“Mm,” he murmured, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “And lay out my riding attire.”
“It looks like rain, milord. Heavy rain. I took the liberty of setting out your travelling clothes. The coach is being readied as we speak.”
“Rain? You just said it was a fine morning and the sun was shining.”
“Oh, did I? Merely pleasantries, milord. It’s going to rain. Heavy.”
Westland rolled his eyes, pulling on his dressing gown as he strode over to the window.
“It looks perfectly fine to me,” he muttered, looking out for a moment before his attention was caught by an unexpected object on his dressing table.
He frowned, picking up the letter. “Eddie, where did this come from?”
“Oh, that… I near forgot. Miss Mason’s maid handed it me, to give to ye.”
“Mm.” Intrigued, he pulled at the pale green ribbon, only to look up and find his valet watching him with far too much interest. “Eddie?” he rumbled.
“Oh, yes, right, ye hot water. Right away, yer Lordship.”
Westland sat down at his dressing table and began to read. His eyebrow shot up in surprise as he choked back a laugh. “Festering pustules,” he muttered, shaking his head. He reread the note more slowly this time, then carefully folded it and retied the ribbon.
He sat for some time pondering, fingers drumming lightly atop the parchment. Obviously, it had not been meant for him to read — but he had — and now the question remained: what on earth to do with it?
* * *
“Betsy, Betsy,” called Sylvie frantically. “The note… There was a note right here. Have you moved it?”
“Moved it?”
“Yes! Moved it? Oh, where is it?”
“Don’t fret, my little lady, I had it delivered to his lordship this morning.”
“What!” squealed Sylvie. “No, no, oh no, please tell me you did not!”
Betsy blinked in confusion. “But, milady, it was addressed to his Lordship.”
“No, no! It was for my box… my thought box! Oh, Betsy, this is a disaster.”
Betsy clapped her hands to her cheeks. “Oh no, please tell me you didn’t write anything too bad.”
“Only festering pustules and pig’s arse! Oh, Betsy, whatever am I to do?”
The young maid’s eyes flew wide open as she spluttered, “Noo? You, you called his lordship a festering…?”
“Gosh, no!” cried Sylvie, groaning as she buried her face in her hands. “I said how immensely handsome he was.”
“Oh,” whispered Betsy, “oh, well then,” and burst into a fit of the giggles.
“Betsy!” snapped Sylvie. “It is not funny. He will think me even more of a flibbertigibbet, and he is going to break with our engagement.”
“Nonsense,” said Betsy between giggles. “I’ve never known of any man, lord or otherwise, who doesn’t enjoy a compliment. Now come along, let’s get you dressed. Your mama’s already been nipping at my heels.”
“I beg your pardon? Mama is already up? At this hour?”
“Mm, and awaiting you in the morning room.”
“Oh, what is she up to?” bemoaned Sylvie as she narrowed her eyes. “Betsy, you better tell me now, or I’ll, I’ll….”
“You’ll what?”
“Ahh! You’re up to something, the pair of you. I just know it.”
“Nonsense,” laughed Betsy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
* * *
Lady Mason had been haunting the entrance hall, flitting between the morning room and breakfast room, peering eagerly from every available window for near on half an hour.
To her delight, her rising at such an ungodly hour was about to pay off…
her quarry had just made an appearance. Impatient to hurry Sylvie along, lest they miss the excellent opportunity she had carefully orchestrated, she hurried across the hallway.
“Oh, thank goodness,” she sang out in relief as she spotted Sylvie descending the grand staircase. “Do hurry, my dear. Quick, quick! Betsy, come, come, Miss Sylvie’s bonnet and wrap if you please. Good, good… right come along, quick, quick!”
“Mama,” Sylvie laughed, “whatever is the rush? I am quite sure that the duke’s kitchens will not run out of pastries or hot chocolate.”
“Oh no, no, my dear, no time for breaking your fast this morning, come along,” she said, taking her daughter’s arm, half-dragging her to the entrance and out of the door.
“Mama!”
“Shush,” she hissed before singing out rather too loudly, “Oh, Lord Westland. Good morning.”
Westland, standing by his coach as his trunks were being loaded, turned in surprise and regarded the two Mason ladies for a moment before he bowed. “Lady Mason. Miss Mason.”
“Are you departing, Lord Westland? Well, isn’t this a happy coincidence? We ourselves are just awaiting our carriage to be brought around. Why, we must travel together. Yes, yes, how fortuitous indeed.”
In his peripheral vision, Westland could see Eddie grinning across at the young maid hovering behind the Masons and made a mental note to hang, draw and quarter the fiend at the next possible opportunity. Heavy rain indeed. He should have known the blackguard was up to mischief.
Finding himself firmly on the spot with no chance of escape, Westland glanced at Miss Mason.
Try as she might to hide her surprise, her momentary look of disbelief left him in no doubt that this was neither her doing nor her choice.
Yet, he suspected the letter that lay in his breast pocket might have more to do with her obvious embarrassment than her mother’s meddling.
Lady Mason, still smiling sweetly up at him, awaiting a response, and now, thanks to the distraction of the letter and his traitorous valet, he was standing in his travelling attire.
He could hardly claim he needed to make haste and ride to London.
“Fortuitous indeed, Lady Mason. I shall follow on behind.”
“Very good, very good indeed. But oh,” she squeaked, as if just coming upon an idea, “you two should ride together.” Dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, she leaned closer.
“I know I should play chaperone for propriety’s sake, but as you are already to be married, I see no harm.
It will give you the chance to get to know each other a little better…
and our carriage is rather cramped. Now, come along, my dear,” she said, turning to Sylvie, eyes twinkling with glee, and nearly manhandled Sylvie into the carriage.
“Where do you plan to overnight, Lord Westland? I know of an excellent Inn.…”