“Dead. Fell down the stairs from old age.”
This was worse than Miles had imagined it would be. “I suppose you had better take me to Lady Margaret. I presume she is not dead?”
“Her? No, she’s a tough old thing.”
Marcus began a very slow shuffle toward the drawing room. “Never mind it,” Miles said, fearing it might take a quarter hour to arrive at the rate they were going. “I will show myself in.”
Marcus very gratefully sank down into one of the numerous chairs lined along the walls. Miles supposed they were there for when Marcus could not go further.
He opened the drawing room doors. “Lady Margaret?” he said to the tiny old lady practically swallowed by her sofa. She was like a little bird sitting in a nest.
“Is that you, Dashlend? Aren’t you a dear for coming to me.”
“You did send an order that I was to come instantly.”
“Ah, so I did. Instant always gets people’s attention. They wonder if I’m taking my last breaths, you see.”
Miles looked round the room and it really was in a state. There was dust everywhere, and more incredible, a pile of dirty dishes sitting on a bookshelf. He supposed that was as far as Marcus had been able to get with them.
“Sit, sit,” Lady Margaret said. “You might as well relax, it will take Marcus an age to get here with a tea tray. Don’t expect anything interesting on it, all we get is burned toast these days.”
Miles supposed itwouldtake an age, the footman had barely made it halfway across the hall before he’d had to sit down.
“Lady Margaret, it appears you have had some reductions in staff,” he said.
“Oh yes, they die, you see. One hardly knows who will be next. The flu that went round did not do us any favors.”
Miles thought he could make a good guess at who would be next—Marcus was on his last legs.
“But, who is still here? I saw Marcus, who else?”
“Let’s see, the cook is dead, so there is just the kitchen maid down there. She’s a good sort of girl, but nobody can burn toast like she can. And then there is my lady’s maid, Gwen, though after she dresses me in the morning she needs to put her feet up all day so she can undress me again at night. Her feet swell up something terrible. Now, will you stay for dinner?”
Miles was entirely nonplussed. Dinner? What were they to have? Burned toast? Could Marcus stay on his feet long enough to serve it? This situation was intolerable.
“Lady Margaret,” he said, “you cannot continue on in this house.”
Lady Margaret held up a hand. “Do not even suggest that I go to live with my sister in Bath, we do not get on.” She paused, then said, “And I forgot, she’s dead.”
Miles really, really did not want to say what he had to say next. There was no choice though. His father would be appalled at Lady Margaret’s circumstances. “You must come home with me. I live on Chesterfield Street, you will find it very comfortable. We’ll find a place for the kitchen maid. As for Marcus and your lady’s maid, they ought to be funded a retirement for whatever time they have left.”
“Well now, I do not know about that,” Lady Margaret said. “I would not like to hinder your bachelor lifestyle.”
Miles was not certain what the lady thought went on with bachelors and their lifestyles. He said, “I insist. In any case, I’ve decided it’s high time to look for a wife, so perhaps I will not be a bachelor for long.”
“Do you? Now that is very interesting news. In my younger days, I was known as quite the matchmaker. Well, I suppose I would not mind dipping my toe in again.”
Miles had no answer to that. He’d imagined that he would install Lady Margaret to a spare bedchamber, and she’d spend her days mostly sleeping, not thinking about matchmaking.
“You know what else would be an advantage to this scheme?” Lady Margaret asked.
Miles did not know, as he had not seen any advantage to himself at all.
“That rascally cousin of yours will be very disappointed the next time he stops by and tries to wheedle money out of me.”
Miles stared at the lady as she rubbed her hands together and laughed.
“Montclave?” he asked. “Montclave comes here for money?”
