Grace pressed her lips together to stop from laughing. Valor’s stuffed rabbit served a whole host of purposes, one of which was to be blamed for any crimes Valor might have committed. And why not? Mrs. Wendover did not mind if anybody was cross with her or if she were to be punished with no dessert.
“You can tell Mrs. Wendover that idea is firmly off the table,” the duke said.
“I’ll try, Papa,” Valor said. “But we all know Mrs. Wendover is guilty of stubbornness. Even the vicar says so.”
“He saidyouwere guilty of stubbornness, Valor,” Winsome pointed out. “On account of claiming one of the ten commandments is too strict.”
Valor lifted her chin in defiance. “There are times when something must be stolen. It cannot be helped.”
Grace well knew Valor meant that biscuits must be stolen at every opportunity. The poor vicar did not knowwhatthe girl intended to steal. He was a nervous sort of person and his imagination had seemed to run wild on the subject. Grace had more than once seen the vicar surreptitiously scanning the altar to assure himself that the accoutrements of his calling were still there whenever Valor Nicolet was nearby.
“Will we stop at the same places we did last time, Papa?” Serenity asked. “Everyone knows how sensitive I am to other people’s moods, and I did feel very deeply in my heart that some of the innkeepers were rather distressed by our visit.”
“Oh yes,” Winsome said. “Remember the fellow who shouted at us as we pulled out of the yard?”
Verity snorted. “Never again! He shouted never again.”
“It was on account of Papa asking for things that did not exist,” Patience said. “Remember, Papa? You would ask for brocabbage pie and say it was a Yorkshire staple, and then they’d all run round trying to figure out what it was, and then you’d tell them you just made the whole thing up.”
They all laughed heartily at those fond memories.
“I can’t say I won’t trot out the brocabbage pie gambit on occasion, as it is amusing,” the duke said. “People will really believe anything. But this time, we take a different route. I am determined that you shall see a thing you never saw in your lives. It is something your sainted mother was very fond of and something that not every person ever gets to see.”
This stirred up a vast amount of speculation, but the duke would not give up his secret.
Grace was delighted. She had thought the real excitement would be in London. Now the adventure was to start as they made their journey there, whatever it might be. Her father was really a dear to think of it.
*
MILESDELATORE,VISCOUNTDashlend, eldest and only son to the Earl of Gravesend, very quietly breathed a sigh of relief. They’d been adrift for two days and, finally, land had been spotted. A strong current was funneling them into a bay.
He was very quiet about the sigh, as he did not wish his only crewman, known in the wider world as his valet, Moreau, to perceive that he’d ever been less than confident of their survival. Hehadbeen less than confident, though.
They’d set off on Tuesday for some deep-sea fishing on his twenty-two-foot sloop,The Marquessa. He’d designed and helped build the boat with his own two hands and he’d taken her far out of sight of land dozens of times. This time, though, his luck had run out. A sudden squall had come up and hit them hard.
It had been a terrific effort to simply hold on and avoid being thrown from the boat. That would have been the end, as nobody who’d been thrown off a boat in a squall had much hope of getting back on it again. Waves and currents were a devilish thing, and they were not things even a strong swimmer could overpower. Boat and swimmer would drift ever farther apart until the swimmer was forced to realize they were doomed.
His earl would have cursed him to hell and back if he left the world in such a stupid manner without leaving an heir behind him. It would not be so much for missing his son’s company as it would be knowing the earldom would pass to Miles’ cousin.
Rupert Burdock, Baron Montclave, was all sorts of things at once—dull, snide, untrustworthy, a schemer, a climber, and not someone who would be sorry to hear Miles was dead.
Miles had thought he might sail out of the squall or at least keep the sloop from going broadside, but the wind had shredded his sail like a razor through paper. They had been buffeted about in all directions, waves crashing over their heads, and Miles bailing the water out as fast as he could. His valet, on the other hand, had wrapped himself around the mast and shouted that God must let him live as it was not his fault that Lord Dashlend was “un idiot extraordinaire.”
HowThe Marquessadid not go over he still did not know, though he supposed it must have been a divine intervention. He was kept alive for something, though he could not think what. He led a sporting life, going from one thing to the next—sailing, boxing, fencing, hunting, jockeying his own horse at the races—he was usually in motion. It was endlessly entertaining, but he did not suppose he was a very important player in God’s grand plan.
Perhaps God had been intent on keeping his high-strung valet alive, though that seemed even less likely. Moreau’s contributions to the world were keeping Miles’ clothes immaculate and complaining about the awfulness of the English. When he complained too much about the English, Miles suggested he ought to go back to France. Then, quite suddenly, the French were awful too. Moreau’s sport of choice was complaining, and he always played at the top of his game.
Perhaps the likeliest reason God had seen fit to save them was the Lord could not countenance Baron Montclave becoming the next earl.
When the squall moved on and the water becalmed, the real recriminations from his valet had begun. Miles had spent the past two days bobbing on a windless sea and ignoring the ever-present question of why he’d not built a boat that could carry a spare sail. That question was looked at backward and forward, usually ending with a disgusted sigh. Then Moreau’s eyes would inevitably drift to the ale cask and note that Miles had brought very little food and not enough drink.
As the excursion was just meant to be a casual afternoon at sea, the only drink on board was ale, and his valet had been verging on drunk most of the time.
Just now, Moreau stood at the bow, looking longingly at the stony beach they drifted toward. There were breakers to be got through, but they had made it.
“What is it will happen when we go into those waves?” Moreau asked.
“I cannot be sure,” Miles said.
