“Quite,” Mrs. Pratt replied. “As Miss Clapham and Mrs. Townsend have just come from the church, the duchess felt they might soothe the worst of Lady Pennington’s fears and answer any questions while you prepare to speak with Mr. Anderson.”
“I see,” he said, though the details remained murky.
As far as he could understand, his wife expected him to confront his father’s man, relieve Anderson of the tinderbox he’d threatened to use on St. Margaret’s, order the steward to resign his post, and then deliver the man into the safekeeping of his daughter.
How he was going to accomplish these miracles while Anderson remained in a disordered state, believing him to be an imposter, he’d no idea.
His wife, on the other hand, appeared to have a plan.
Despite his present reservation, her counsel had not led him astray yet. The least he could do was offer her the benefit of the doubt. If she had a plan, he knew her well enough to understand she would have taken everyone’s wellbeing into consideration, especially his own.
Even when upset—no,furious—with him.
So, he acceded to Cassandra’s wishes and extended her invitation to Vivianne, who warily accepted.
“Lady Pennington,” Harbury said as he ushered her into theparlor, “these two ladies,whom you were so good as to point out to me when they arrived,have come to let us know your father has been found and is currently with Miss Clapham’s father at St. Margaret’s.”
Yes—his steady gaze implied—the riff-raff you complained about came to offer their aid.
“May I introduce them?”
“We are, I believe, already acquainted.” Lady Pennington replied, with heightened color. “Mrs. Townsend.” She nodded. “Miss Clapham. Thank you for bringing such welcome tidings. I cannot tell you how relieved I am.”
“I will return shortly,” he told them all, before leaving the room.
He hastened up the stairs and then opened the door to his chamber.
“Your Grace.” Marsden inclined his head.
Harbury’s gaze moved between his wife, his valet, and the assortment of clothes and fripperies covering both his dresser—a powdered wig, a pair of silk breeches in pink, a long coat with gold trim, and an elaborate waistcoat. He then focused on his father’s pocket watch, which he usually kept in the very back of his top drawer.
“What’s all this?” he asked.
“Marsden and I have been discussing what should be done,” his wife replied.
His valet nodded in agreement.
“Mr. Anderson has been demanding to see your father,” Cassandra continued, “we both feel, given Mr. Anderson’s state, how you present yourself to him could make a great deal of difference.”
He glanced back to the clothes. The collection of not-so-subtle symbols of wealth, of authority left him slightly nauseous. They conjured vivid memories. Memories of his father, barking orders from the table’s head, scowling down at his disappointing son.
He swallowed. “You want to dress me up as my father.”
“If you appear in a manner…more familiar to Anderson,” Marsden gently suggested, “he will be more likely to calmly accept direction.”
Anderson had always enjoyed the duke’s confidence, but never his affection. He doubted his father would have put himself to this much trouble on behalf of anyone he employed.
In the same situation, his father would have been more likely to have disparaged the subservient class’s weak minds before ordering Anderson escorted off the estate without even speaking to the man at all.
And his father would have been dead wrong.
Not, he realized, for the first time.
His wife’s idea, though unusual and downright disagreeable, had merit.
In the guise of his father, he could not only persuade the steward with less effort, but also put the man’s mind at ease. If the ruse worked, Anderson would feel free to relinquish his post while maintaining his employer’s admiration and goodwill.
Moreover, Anderson—and Vivianne—would be out of their lives for good.
