Felicity bit her lip. They had all been advised, at one time or another, to consider the weather a safe and reliable topic of conversation. Mrs. Right thought it was a bit of nonsense, though. Any rube might look out a window to judge the weather for themself—no reason to ask other people what they thought about it.
Mr. Stratton did not laugh at the question, but gave Valor a very thoughtful answer, even comparing this season to the last. She appeared gratified to be taken seriously and nodded gravely throughout. It was really very kindly done.
Felicity was beginning to think she’d never understood Mr. Stratton. He appeared so different to her now. As well, she couldnot help but be a little charmed that he humored Valor. And that he had a cat named Blueberry.
Coming to Town was turning out to be far more confusing than she had imagined. She hardly knew what she thought about anything anymore.
*
Percy was fascinatedby the duke’s family. Of course, everybody had heard how eccentric they lived in the Dales, but in the usual case such gossip was exaggerated. At least a little.
Not so in this case.
Everything the duke did was done with his own particular… was it flair? Personality? Eccentricity? All of those things? The duke had managed, within a short space of time, to name his daughters as disappointments and setbacks, and they seemed not at all perturbed to hear it.
Of course, any person growing up in such a household must take on its habits. That idea was on full display at the duke’s table. Why had Lady Grace thrown a roll at a footman? Why had she thrown a roll at all? As the duke had warned him about it, Percy supposed it was a regular occurrence. Nobody had seemed to pay any mind to it, and the footman who’d been struck had seemed delighted.
Lady Marchfield was the only usual person at table, and she seemed disgusted with them all.
For all that, the duke put on a very good dinner. The chicken fricassee was excellent and the savarin cake he’d just been served was first rate. Nobody would turn their nose up at his wine cellar either. And then, the conversation was a deal more interesting than most dinners he attended.
“Mr. Stratton,” Lady Verity asked, “this may seem a strange question.”
Percy braced himself. Every question coming his way had been on the strange side, so he must imagine Lady Verity was prepared to take things up a notch.
“Were you very drugged up from laudanum after the tiger tore you apart?”
“Uh, the doctor did dose me with it,” Percy answered, perplexed over why she wished to know.
“I suppose after he dosed you, you would even believe you could fly, if someone told you in a convincing manner,” Lady Grace said.
“I do not recall having the notion,” Percy said. He could not help but to notice the duke chuckling softly to himself, though he was himself completely lost on the amusement.
“But you believed Papa when he wrote to you that you had prior agreed to come to dinner!” Valor said, laughing in fits.
The duke began laughing harder too. “That’s right, you never did agree to it!”
So that was why he did not remember agreeing to it—he hadn’t.
He probably would have, though. There was something fascinating about this family. Something fascinating about Lady Felicity too—she was a very different sort of lady.
All of the sisters, but for Lady Felicity, found the joke on him hilarious. Lady Felicity looked vaguely uncomfortable. Lady Marchfield was another story altogether, she gripped her fork and Percy thought the duke would be lucky if he didn’t lose an eye to it.
“I believe the time has come to leave the gentlemen to their port,” Lady Marchfield said through gritted teeth.
Lady Valor began eating her cake as fast as possible, as she was at imminent risk of being dragged away from it. There were various protestations from some of the younger daughters. LadyPatience said. “Aunt, you know our Papa gets too drunk when he is left alone.”
Lady Marchfield countered that he would not be alone, and she would place her trust in Mr. Stratton’s good sense. Then, through sheer force of will, she marched them all out.
The butler, and Percy could not remember what his actual name was since he’d heard him called Mr. Why, poured two glasses of port and set the bottle on the table.
“Do you smoke a cigar, Stratton?” the duke asked.
“No, Your Grace, I do not care for them.”
“I care for them,” the duke said, “but I had to give them up. Set too many fires, you see. One is always laying them down somewhere and forgetting all about them. Can’t burn down the family pile of rocks, eh?”
Percy had no idea who went round losing track of lit cigars, but he nodded as if this was a very common problem.
