With prestige would come guests with deeper pockets. There was even the possibility of the prince himself coming. Their fortunes would be suddenly and gloriously on the rise.
Sadly, the sun had set rather rapidly on those happy imaginings, making way for hideously dark nights.
The inns in which the duke sought his repose were turned upside down—maids quit en masse, cooks tossed pots, waiters balled up their fists, grooms threw saddles, and innkeepers’ wives glared accusingly.
Lady Marchfield was never satisfied with the rooms, making the typical operation one of moving three times before going back to the original.
The duke appeared to despise his daughters and was forever vowing to unload them on the next passing stranger. The daughters themselves seemed to find this threat amusing. In response to it, one of those confounded offspring liked to throw rolls in the vague direction of her father, though those floury missiles never came anywhere near him and far too often broke a bottle on a shelf.
There was a diabolical housekeeper who insisted on examining the food stores and throwing out anything she considered not up to snuff. Which was most things.
The duke’s valet might be the only sensible person traveling with them, but what good was he? He said nothing and justbacked away and disappeared whenever things seemed to be going in a bad direction.
The duke’s footmen seemed to think they were young lords on a grand tour of the continent, drinking to excess and vomiting in the yard.
Ordering dinner was an excruciating process in which the duke demanded everything that was not to be had. At times, he ordered things that could never be had. Why did he find it so amusing to demand he must have roasted brocabbage pie, which was advertised as a Yorkshire staple? And why was he so amused after a ten-minute discussion on what it was, only to inform the waiter that he’d made it up?
The entire operation was so much confusion that, at three different inns, one of the party had been left behind and had to be retrieved hours later. That one was all three times the youngest who would set to wailing, though why she had been hiding in a linen closet when the carriages departed, she could not say.
One innkeeper after the next learned that they had been entirely stupid to wish for a duke resting his head anywhere near their inn. Mr. Kendall had been particularly affected. He’d gone so far as to inform Lady Marchfield that he was selling up and closing down so she would not think to ever bring her dreadful circus back to darken his doors. He privately vowed that if she did, he really would sell.
Finally, after ploughing a swath of destruction across half of England, this ill-omened caravan limped its way into Town.
Fortunately, thetoncould not know of the nervous exhaustion and broken dreams the party had left in their wake. Society was all keen interest concerning the duke’s arrival.
Though the duke was odd by anybody’s standards, he was after all a duke. Word had spread like a wave, dousing every hostess with the news that the Duke of Pelham and LadyMarchfield had brought the duke’s eldest daughter for her season.
The effects of the information on these matrons were varied. Some were delighted and determined that the duke and his daughter would attend their entertainments. Others prayed the eldest daughter was no better looking than a hound, as they had their own daughter to worry about. Others were wary, as if the duke were the last wolf in England—they’d heard him described as wildly unpredictable. Others remembered him from twenty years ago and went round looking as if they required a vinaigrette. Still others wondered if he would host a ball, and whether they would make the list.
Naturally, all this went on without the duke having the first idea of it. The result was a pile of invitations waiting at the house on Grosvenor Square for his perusal.
As the duke had not been to London in years, hardly remembered who anybody was, and never had very good judgment in selecting acquaintances to begin, Lady Marchfield confiscated them.
Since her aunt would dictate which invitations would be accepted, Felicity was certain they would only accept the driest and dreariest of occasions.
Mrs. Right took charge as soon as they entered the house, though there were dark hints from Lady Marchfield that a butler would soon be hired and it would be all up for the housekeeper.
Felicity did not see how it could be so—their last butler had never dared cross Mrs. Right. He’d mentioned her specifically when he’d had his mental unraveling and stormed out of the house.
Lady Marchfield was determined to stay the night and see them settled. On the morrow, she would return to her own house on Bedford Square, where it was presumed her lord was desperately missing his upright lady.
At least, it was hoped that somebody presumed Lord Marchfield was pining for his wife, though the duke was not to number amongst them. The last he said on the subject was: “You can tell Marchfield he can thank me in a heartfelt manner for affording him this break from his bride which was, I am certain, badly needed.”
Lady Marchfield had sniffed over the sentiment as the sisters backed out of the drawing room and raced up the stairs without so much as a by your leave. Their aunt called after them that they ought to walk like ladies and that running was unseemly, but she could not slow any of them down.
Felicity thought that was indicative of how little her aunt knew her nieces. It had been all too predictable that there would be a war over who would sleep where. There were plenty of bedchambers, and plenty to spare. But one does not have six sisters without the occasional battle for an advantage.
Felicity took the last bedroom in the east wing, as she knew her father would be in the west and he snored like thunder, talked in his sleep, and sometimes shouted in his sleep. Grace would have taken the one next to Felicity, but Serenity tripped her in the hall.
Serenity was to see the fates circle back around when Patience knocked her out of the way. Verity told everyone there were cakes in the drawing room, which there certainly was not, but that at least got Winsome out of the way.
By the time Lady Marchfield got to the top of the landing, Patience and Serenity were rolling on the floor of the corridor, Verity had locked herself in her preferred room, and Valor had given up and stood in a corner weeping.
Felicity really did not know what else her aunt had been expecting.
The rest of the night might have gone somewhat smoother, had her father not recalled that he had a fully stocked winecellar. After the duke had made his way through two bottles of claret and brought a third into the drawing room, Lady Marchfield ordered everybody to bed.
All in all, it could have been worse.
