Since when was a butler to entertain entreaties from footmen that they had need of a thermometer to ensure their bath was ninety-eight degrees? They only took a bath once a week and it was in the same water, with just more of the hot dumped in, for all of them. Mrs. Huffson was of the opinion that he ought to let them have one, it being a small price to pay for peace.
But what next, then? Apparently this Conbatten ended his ablutions with a glass of chilled champagne. Were they to ask for that next? What right did a footman have in attempting to live as a duke?
It was hardly less ludicrous than how the maids had been carrying on. Once Miss Mayton had delivered a detailed description of this Conbatten’s person to Fleur, they all seemed as if they had plans to marry the duke. Fleur had even had the temerity to say, “Stranger things have happened.”
No, Fleur, a stranger thing hasneverhappened!
On top of all that, Lady Beatrice’s sisters had been devastated that they must be left behind when the carriage left for the theater.
Though they had cheerfully bid Lady Beatrice farewell, that had not held up long. The lamentations when the carriage turned a corner and was out of sight had been such that one might have thought somebody died.
Lady Juliet, in particular, found offense in it. As she was to become a lauded poetess, and possibly even a lady playwright, she felt she had the God-given authority to attend any theater she liked.
To cheer everybody up, Lady Cordelia had put on her own play. It was the same play as always—Desdemona weeping about something or other. But how many times had he requested that she not require footlights for her performances?
He’d had to move a chair to cover the new burn hole in the carpet.
The young ladies had consoled themselves over the third fire this year with tea and biscuits.
“Well, Mr. Tattleton,” Mrs. Huffson said, sipping her tea with contentment, “things have settled above stairs and I think once you deliver the footmen a thermometer, peace shall reign once more.”
“I see,” he said, “and am I to deliver the Duke of Conbatten to your maids to satisfy them as well? I fear that whatever is to reign over this house in the coming days, it will not be peace!”
*
Beatrice had beendoing her best to be discreet, and yet still look everywhere. Darden had it on good authority that the mysterious gentleman who was hopelessly in love with her would attend the performance this evening.
Who was he? Where was he?
Darden said the YBC was determined to drive him out from his covey of despair and that Mr. Cahill and Lord Dunston were prepared to begin the ruse to do so.
Flowers would be sent, stares would be evident, bows would be made, and raised glasses would be held in her direction—it was all to be as obvious as the sun rising in the morning sky. The mysterious gentleman could not help but to perceive it.
The poor gentleman had vowed to never marry, but certainly when he considered her future belonging to another, he would relent.
They had passed through the crowded entrance hall, a crush of people milling about, and climbed the carpeted stairs to their box. It was heaven! They had nothing like it in the environs of Taunton. At home, they sometimes had a play put on in the assembly rooms by a traveling troupe, but there was no proper theater house.
Here, they had a quite commodious box with well-padded seating for all of them and a marvelous view of both the stage and the other theatergoers.
She’d sat herself down and glanced surreptitiously at the boxes that could be viewed.
The earl said, “I am not quite certain what it is we will see this evening. Some sort of mystery, I believe.”
“My valet tried to explain it to me,” Van Doren said, sitting just behind Beatrice, “but I could not make heads or tails of it.”
“That is because it is a melodrama mystery,” Beatrice said. “One must view it to understand it.”
“That makes sense,” Miss Mayton said, her green ostrich feather waving cheerfully as she spoke.
“Does it?” Van Doren said.
“Oh look,” Miss Mayton said, “there is Mr. Cahill in the pit. He is trying to catch your eye, dear.”
“I see him,” Beatrice said, thrilling at the notion that the ruse had well and truly begun. Even now, her tortured suitor might be viewing the goings-on.
The earl nodded genially to Mr. Cahill. “Now who is that fellow with him? Another friend of Darden’s I suppose.”
“I believe that is Lord Dunston,” Beatrice said, of course knowing that was who it must be from dear Darden. “He was pointed out to me at Almack’s.”
