All the sisters seemed well satisfied with this development.
“Just be careful you do not fall in love with either of those two fellows,” Winsome counseled.
“Impossible,” Felicity said. “Mr. Wiles is exceedingly strange and Mr. Stratton, well… he thinks Papa is strange!”
Mrs. Right thought Mr. Stratton probably had his head screwed on right. Anybody who didn’t perceive the duke as strange did not have their eyes open. It did not preclude one holding a vast affection for the man. It was just sensible to face facts.
“I suppose neither of your two gentlemen is particularly handsome,” Verity said. “As far as I know, gentlemen like that never are.”
“You don’t know anything about it,” Winsome said, always ready to challenge what Verity did or did not know.
“Felicity must settle the question,” Grace said, “as she is the only one of us who positively does know.”
Felicity chewed on a biscuit from the jar on her bedside. “Mr. Wiles can be dismissed immediately—he is far too nondescript.As for Mr. Stratton, well for one, his given name is Percy, which I cannot like. If I owned a goldfish, I would name it Percy.”
Verity nodded and murmured, “Very common name for a goldfish.”
“But what does he look like?” Winsome asked.
“Well, he is rather tall, I will give up that point. He has dusky colored hair, dark blond I would call it, and blue eyes. They are a very dark blue, which I do find superior to light blue in a gentleman. His clothes are really very good—I do not believe any gentleman could have bested his knot last evening. And then, I’ve noticed there is something in his expression that makes it seem as if he meets the world with good nature. I suppose there are some who might think his looks were rather suave.”
“That is quite a lot of good things, Felicity!” Serenity pointed out.
“Is it?” Felicity said, looking a little perturbed to hear it. “Of course, whatever charms he may have are mightily outweighed by other less attractive aspects of him. Mr. Stratton is the sort of gentleman best admired from afar and not spoken to directly.”
“I look forward to getting a look at him next season when it is my turn,” Grace said.
Mrs. Right noticed Felicity seemed very struck by that idea. Perhaps her dear girl was not quite as immune to Mr. Stratton’s charms as she imagined.
“Now, Mrs. Right,” Felicity said hurriedly, “what goes on below stairs with the new butler? Will you tell us?”
“We are well on our way to being rid of him,” the housekeeper said. “I hope I can count on my girls to play their part?”
As all the sisters nodded vigorously, Mrs. Right proceeded to outline what had been done so far to convince Mr. Sykes-Wycliff to pack his bags and begone. Then, she explained the girls’ role in the operation.
They were to drop hints to the butler that he’d have little chance of encountering old age if he were to travel to the duke’s seat in the Dales. In particular, they were to warn him never to agree to participate in the servants’ hunt. It mightseemamusing to have the staff running round the moors while the duke hunted them all with his fowling piece. However, the duke was a very bad shot and often hit things he did not mean to, like a footman the year before. That poor lad was back living with his mother in the village as he still had a limp. Of course, they were all thankful it was his leg hit, rather than his heart or his head.
“That is a jolly good idea, Mrs. Right,” Grace said.
Felicity nodded. “I am certain we can frighten him into leaving.”
“It’s for his own good,” Patience said. “He will feel better about himself if he goes to a house that actually needs a butler.”
They all nodded at Patience’s rather thoughtful assessment.
“Aye, it’s a kindness,” Mrs. Right said. “Now, we should not bother Valor with these ideas, as she would be up with night terrors, fretting over a servants’ hunt that never was. Never mind her inability to keep it to herself, the dear little mite.”
“She ought not know of it,” Serenity said. “She’s already terrified of Mr. Sykes-Wycliff on account of the stories we told of Mr. Herring’s final hours in the house.”
Mrs. Right pressed her lips together. There had been no ‘we’ about it. Verity had been the author of a wild tale that included Mr. Herring attempting to set the house on fire and burn it to the ground, but for it being a damp sort of day and he could not get a flame going. Poor Valor still had night terrors over the idea that he might slip back inside in the middle of the night on a drier sort of day and finish what he started.
No matter. Her plan was unfolding perfectly and Mrs. Right was certain they’d be rid of Mr. Sykes-Wycliff by the end of theweek. Then, she would begin to tie Lady Marching Orders in knots so she had no time to dig up another butler.
She had not worked out her whole strategy for that harridan yet, but she had by happenstance come upon one idea already. Lady Marchfield was in the habit of taking all the invitations from the front hall salver and examining them to decide which would be appropriate to accept. Then she would write out her responses and leave them for a footman to deliver after noting them in the duke’s calendar.
Mrs. Right had noticed she’d not got to them this morning and had a look herself. She’d gone through them and found something delightful. It was called a Cyprian’s party. The description of it was: “A genial place where a gentleman could encounter certain ladies of sophistication, wit, and passion in a private and confidential setting.”
A pile of courtesans looking for their next benefactor—of course they’d invited the duke. And of course, Lady Marchfield would throw it right in the bin.
