“If only Madame D’Arblay was very much younger,” Makepeace said. “And unmarried. And not living in Paris.”
This was Makepeace’s usual comment, as if Madame D’Arblay, née Fanny Burney, was the only lady on the earth that had sufficient wit to grace his table. Makepeace regularly reread her novels and treasured the letters the lady sent to the society.
The Madame certainly did have wit about her, her letters were always delivered in some original fashion by an unusual person she’d conscripted to take on the task. As far as Percival could tell, the letters would pass through a number of hands on their way to someone heading to London.
“Shall you wish to ride to Almack’s, or will you take the carriage?”
“I will ride, as I always do.”
His butler had been asking him questions he already knew the answers to for above ten minutes. Now, the fellow stood ramrod straight, staring at the far wall.
“Out with it, Makepeace,” he said. “What do you wish to say?”
The butler’s shoulders slumped just the littlest bit. He said, “It was only that I wondered what your view might be regarding Lady Rawley and her party continuing to attend our literary society meetings.”
“My view? My view is it is a dashed inconvenience, and I would like to devise a polite way to get them out.” He paused, then said, “Though I have not thought how to accomplish it yet.”
Makepeace nodded gravely and Percival was certain his butler wished to acquaint him with some idea that he was not yet acquainted with.
“What?” he said.
The butler cleared his throat. “There was somewhat of an unfortunate circumstance last evening. Mr. Haventops was sadly situated close enough to Lady Rawley’s grouping and was forced to overhear several things.”
Silence hung in the room and Percival wondered if he would really be made to ask what the several things were.
“First,” Makepeace finally went on, “there was some discussion about dreadful doings in a dale somewhere. Haventops almost believed that the ladies were discussing a fellow about to be murdered—he was most alarmed. Then he surmised it was a piece of dreadful storytelling, rather than any real dreadful doings.”
“Yes, they mentioned the book,” Percival said, preferring to leave out the news that they’d wanted to introduce his members to such a thing.
“Then,” Makepeace said, “he overheard them discussing how they would shake up our society and make it more interesting and this was for your own good. There was also mention several times that there was a distinct lack of flowers in your drawing room.”
Makepeace sighed, as if he had wrested a terrible confession out of himself and felt the lighter for it.
Those ladies were so meddling! At least, the older ones were. He could not fault Lady Cordelia too very much; she was just being swept along by Miss Mayton.
In any case, he did not suppose anybody could stay angry withthatface for long. She really was very pretty. It was clear enough that she did not dabble in any particular intellectual pursuits, but she could not be blamed for it. She was, after all, only a product of her environment.
No,shewas not the problem. It was the other four of them.
“As well…” Makepeace said.
“There is more?”
Makepeace shook his head sadly. “They reviewed the schedule of debates for the coming season and pronounced it Greek and unintelligible.”
“I’ll bet they did.”
“Further, they were very afraid that all your members would quit out of boredom.”
“If onlytheywould quit out of boredom.”
“Naturally, after Haventops relayed all of this in the hottest terms possible, I acquainted him with the idea that Lady Rawley is your aunt and had just barged in, dragging her troupe in with her and there was little to be done about it.”
Haventops was a temperamental fellow, so Percival doubted he took that news with any sort of equanimity.
“Well? What did he say to it?”
Makepeace appeared grave indeed. “He said he would take steps.”
