“Oh yes, he was here this afternoon. That’s what made me think of you, now that I am examining it. Mind you, I did not give him anything, but I think he made off with a silver salver. I don’t like him, I don’t know why he comes.”
There was another reason to get Lady Margaret out of the house. Montclave would not dare to come begging to Chesterfield Street.
Miles said, “I will make arrangements to get everyone out of this house and into mine. I will arrange for a couple of watchmen to keep an eye on things here, so that my cousin does not return and help himself.”
“He’ll be as mad as a bee in a bonnet, and I am glad of it. I don’t like him.”
Miles nodded. He did not like Montclave either.
The next hours were consumed with relocating Lady Margaret. Though the lady had mentioned that she was not certain Marcus wished to retire as he liked the work, when he was told he was to retire, he kissed Miles’ hand. The lady’s maid was equally delighted. The kitchen maid was more relieved than anything else. She was hired to do the chopping and peeling, not the cooking. She explained that she was as lost as a lamb on a dark night trying to make dinners.
Finally, everybody had been relocated, fed, and settled. Moreau had taken it as some sort of personal insult, though Miles had not the energy to wonder why. He sat alone in his drawing room, brooding on the idea that Montclave would go so far as to opportune an elderly lady.
Was there no low that rogue would not stoop to?
And then of course, he did spend some little amount of time brooding that he’d just installed a very elderly lady in his house who threatened to dip her toe into matchmaking. He soothed himself with the idea that it was wishful thinking on her part. After all, she could not do much from the confines of his house and he did not suppose she’d been out and about in society in quite a few years.
Chapter Seven
THE DUKE HADsomewhat relieved Grace’s mind regarding Lady Marchfield’s assessment of the Earl of Doanellen. He had a vague memory of the earl’s lady being the daughter of the Earl of Wreckham, and then another vague memory of Wreckham cheating him at cards, and then another vague memory of not liking the fellow even before he cheated at cards. The end result was that if Doanellen had left his bride behind in the countryside, there were probably good reasons for it. Any daughter of Wreckham’s was probably a harridan.
Grace did not swallow that logic whole, as her father was prone to fanciful notions, cloudy recollections, and outright fibs. However, she did come to the conclusion that if there were not good reasons why Lady Doanellen had been left behind, then surely the earl would be condemned by society over it. As he did not seem condemned, then surely there was nothing wrong.
For all anybody knew, perhaps Lady Doanellen had a wasting disease or was with child and could not travel, but she had insisted her husband make the trip. If there was one thing Grace had learned from Felicity’s experience, it was that jumping to conclusions often led to jumping to the wrong one.
They had arrived and been helped down to the pavement.
“Well, my girl, this is it—your first foray into society. Try not to fall over on anybody.”
“Papa, do not even joke about it,” Grace said. “It is a fear that keeps me awake at night.”
“Nonsense. You are a duke’s daughter. You might fall down a hundred times a day and I dare anyone to say anything about it. In any case, I would likely be nearby and you can depend upon me to blame somebody for it.”
Grace patted her father’s hand. He really was more sentimental than people realized.
They were shown in and the Earl of Doanellen was there to greet them. He seemed very respectable, the sort of middle-aged gentleman who might be gray at the temples but had retained his vitality. A certain Mrs. Featherby, whom Grace presumed was a sister, stood by his side smiling genially.
In the drawing room, they found a mix of people which of course Grace did not know. If the duke knew any of them, he’d probably forgotten.
It was, therefore, very appreciated that a young gentleman seemed to note it and hurried forward.
“Your Grace, Lady Grace, allow me to present myself. I am Baron Montclave.”
“A baron, eh?” the duke said. “Well, it could be worse—one never knows what to do with a baronet.”
The baron had the good sense to laugh at this parry, though Grace did not know if he really found it amusing or not.
Grace found the gentleman rather good looking, though not quite on par with Lord Dashlend. His hair was far lighter and he was not as well built. And then, he did not have Lord Dashlend’s distinction of that subtle hint of a Roman nose.
“Lord Doanellen has informed me that I will have the honor to escort Lady Grace into dinner, if Your Grace is not opposed to it.”
“Why should I be opposed?” the duke asked. “You’re not some sort of rogue, are you? Because I can tell you, I do not suffer rogues. As well, I’ll warn you, if you’re some kind of idiot—steer clear of me.”
Lord Montclave did look the littlest bit startled. “I cannot claim any roguish tendencies and possess a reasonable intelligence, Your Grace.”
The duke shrugged, as if he were not convinced either way. Grace was very well aware that her father was amusing himself.
To his credit, Lord Montclave quickly recovered and escorted them round the room and introduced them to the other people attending. There were those, like Lord and Lady Grimsby, who remembered the duke, though he did not remember them. His memory was often jogged by reminding him that this or that person had attended Lady Vanderwake’s rout the night he set the lady’s curtains on fire all those years ago. The duke still did not remember them, but the recollection of that memorable evening always tickled him.
