As they all piled out of the carriages, the front doors swung open and a rather small and nondescript fellow dressed in a somber black suit of clothes appeared.
Mr. Button, no doubt.
“What ho?” the duke called to him. “Who are you and what do you do in my house?”
The man looked startled to be questioned in such a manner. As he would be, Grace supposed. He would not know of the duke’s penchant for a jest.
The man hurried forward and bowed. “Mr. Harold Button, Your Grace,” he said. “Lady Marchfield employed me to serve as your butler.”
“Did she now?” the duke said, looking Mr. Button up and down.
“Indeed, she did, Your Grace,” Mr. Button said. “She told me she had informed you?”
“Did she now?”
Mr. Button seemed highly perplexed. “Indeed, she did say so. She also left a letter here for you when you arrived.”
“Did she now?”
Mr. Button nodded. “Again, yes she did, Your Grace.”
“Well, we’ll see about that,” the duke said. “Here is Mrs. Right, she runs the place.”
Mr. Button stepped back and narrowed his eyes upon hearing Mrs. Right mentioned. Grace supposed Lady Marchfield had painted a very dark picture of their beloved housekeeper.
“Try not to get underfoot,” the duke said. “While you’re here.”
“While I am…”
The duke did not elaborate. Naturally, Mr. Button could not have been further encouraged by Mrs. Right’s grave nod.
Grace did not suppose she needed to stay for any more of the interaction. She bolted through the doors and up the stairs, determined to secure the room that Felicity had used the season before.
She got there first, slammed the door, and locked it for good measure. Then she spent the next half hour admiring the bedchamber and the dressing room as the battle for rooms raged outside the door. Verity had twice tried Grace’s lock somehow thinking to trick her into opening it. It sounded as if Serenity and Patience had rolled round the floor for a while. Winsome found the room she liked and slammed her door, occasionally shouting insults from behind it. Valor only wept, and Grace did not know why she did not just go to the room she had the year before. It was the closest to the servants’ stairs and allowed her to access Mrs. Right or to slip down to the kitchens to steal a biscuit. Nobody would fight her for it as it was also the smallest.
Nelson seemed enlivened by the whole fracas and barked with enthusiasm. Grace could hear his three paws and unusual gait click-clacking up and down the corridor.
As all battles do, the fighting eventually wound down. Not even the most determined army could fight on forever. Peace treaties were agreed to when Mrs. Right turned up and sorted everybody as to where they ought to go.
Grace peeked out and saw that the corridor was once more quiet. Even Nelson had retreated to somebody’s room. She hurried downstairs, as her second piece of business was to see what invitations had come in.
There was nothing on the side table in the great hall. She made her way to the drawing room and there she found her father with a glass of brandy and stacks of letters.
“Papa,” she said, hurrying to his side, “are those invitations?”
“So they are, except for this ridiculous missive Lady Misery has sent.”
“Oh dear, what does our aunt say?”
“The usual nonsense. She goes on and on about our disgraceful behavior last season and how it will not be long tolerated by those in society who matter. Who are they that matter so much, I wonder? She caps the whole thing off with dire warnings that you will never make a match unless we shape up.”
“That is not true, though, is it?” Grace said. “We cannot be condemned just for being ourselves? After all, what else can we do? We cannot remake ourselves in my aunt’s image.”
The duke laughed and said, “If any one of my girls began to take after Lady Misery, I would throw her to the street.”
Grace smiled, as it was another of her father’s empty threats. None of them would ever take on Lady Marchfield’s grim ways, and even if they did, her Papa would not throw them to the street.
“Now Gracie, I like to learn from mistakes, whenever I do make them. Which is not often, by the by. Last year, I allowed Lady Misery to manage my calendar. Never again—it brings her to the house far too often. You’re a sensible girl, I leave it to you to accept or decline invitations as you see fit. If there is anything in there from Lady Albright and her stupid tiger, set it alight. We will most definitely not attend her.”
