It was clear enough that the duke favored his cousin. It was also clear enough that the duke leaned heavily to the eccentric. He’d thought to approach their carriage on the duke’s side, rather than go directly to Lady Grace, thinking that would somehow ingratiate him. It would have, had the duke been a more regular sort of man. But it had not.
He entered Doanellen’s house, only to find Mrs. Featherby lounging in the drawing room. He forced himself to be cheerful and speak of the weather, and then hightailed it up the stairs to his bedchamber before she could wax on about something she saw in a shop that Doanellen ought to buy her.
As he paced back and forth, he thought through what must happen next. He briefly considered ideas to keep Dashlend away from Lady Montague’s ball, or at least make him late so he would not be lurking in the foyer. The only thing that came to him was loosening his horse’s shoes, but that was associated with too much peril if he were caught.
He would have to depend on the flowers scheme doing the job and turning Lady Grace away from Dashlend. Then it would not matter if he were in the foyer or not. The deliveries had been arranged, as he’d finally found a florist on a side street who was happy to believe in the integrity of the credit of a well-dressed baron. This very afternoon, two arrangements would be delivered at the same time—one of yellow daisies, addressed to Lady Grace and speaking of friendship, the other of pink roses addressed to Lady Lavender and speaking of new love.
The note to Lady Grace would say, “To new friendships.”
The note allegedly for Lady Lavender would say, “To the most graceful lady at the ball. I allow the flowers to speak for themselves.”
Lady Lavender’s flowers would seem to be misaddressed, putting Lady Grace into an exceedingly uncomfortable position. Not only would she believe that she’d accidentally peeked into Dashlend’s real inclinations, but that Dashlend admired Lady Lavender’s grace. A sore spot for a lady who had been named Grace, but was lacking in it. Then, Lady Grace must return the arrangement to the florist. The florist had already been told to expect it and keep the flowers for himself for resale. The shopkeeper did not pretend to understand the thing, but was led to believe it was a typical gambit for a dandy of theton. The fact that the fellow had believed he was a dandy said all too clearly that he did not know the first thing about it.
Really, he did not see how the flowers could fail. If he were a lady and received those two arrangements from a gentleman, he would be irate.
There was a soft knock on the door. “Enter,” he said.
One of Doanellen’s footmen came in with a letter on a silver salver. “This just arrived, my lord. The messenger said it is from your dowager and must be delivered upon arrival.”
Montclave took the letter and dismissed the boy. He tore it open. His mother would not have written if there was not news. What had she found out?
Son—
I write this in haste. It is told to me that Dashlend has written his father. The earl is in such high spirits over it that he has risen from his bed and talks to all in sundry about it. Dashlend wrote him about his near-miss at sea and how it has given him perspective, and how he has come to recognize his duty to the family. Dashlend went so far as to mention a certain Lady Grace Nicolet, daughter of a duke. It seems as if a proposal is in the offing. Do not allow it to occur.
Your ever-hopeful mother.
Montclave laid the letter down. He had not expected things to move quite so fast. Dashlend had, for all intents and purposes, made a declaration to his father. How long would it be before he made a declaration to Lady Grace herself?
His cousin might propose at Lady Montague’s ball. After all, what was stopping him?
And if he did, would that not collapse any ideas he may have stirred up in Lady Grace with the flowers’ ruse? Would not the truth come out? That Dashlend had not sent either of those posies?
He wracked his mind for an idea of what else he could do, but nothing came to him. He realized he’d have to fall back on his mother’s oft communicated counsel—sometimes, one must just go into a situation and look for the opportunities.
Baron Montclave would be eyes wide, looking for an opportunity.
*
MILES HAD MADEup his mind—if Lady Grace would have him, he would wed. How could it be otherwise? She was the most charming lady alive in both looks and manner. He’d been so struck by her the moment he laid eyes on her. It was not at all sensible or careful, but it was real all the same. Her family was exceedingly odd, but he liked them very well and would be happy to be connected to them. They might go on eccentric, but Lady Margaret was right about them, they were a family of good character. For that matter, he could not very well turn his nose up regarding a little eccentricity when he had Lady Margaret on display.
It was funny that he now viewed the married state so differently than he had in the past. When he’d thought of it before, there was no particular lady associated with it. That had run his thoughts toward boredom and duty. A wedding was just something to be accomplished, like seeing that the wine cellar was in good order, or the tenants were both paying and content, or arranging to have a leaky roof repaired.
As he’d floated on his wrecked boat for two days, it was as if he’d traveled the River Styx, and then been pulled from the underworld into a new age, a new era. And then, if the fates had a hand in his survival, as surely they must have, Lady Grace was waiting for him on that beach.
He had originally, when his thoughts began to travel toward marriage, counseled himself to be cautious. To look around. To see if there was anyone else he preferred.
There was not. How could there be? There would never be, and he would be a consummate fool to let her get away. That idea really spurred him on. How many gentlemen had dithered with their thoughts until it was too late? They finally came to their conclusion to find the lady had accepted another? A lady as perfect as Lady Grace did not drift round long before somebody moved in to secure her.
“Moreau,” he said, as his valet fussed with his dressing table, “I will wear my best coat to Lady Montague’s ball on the morrow. See that it’s in good order.”
Moreau slowly laid down a brush. “See that it is in good order?” he said, his tone full of faint outrage. “What does the great Lord Dashlend think Moreau does all day, if it is not to keep his things in good order? Or perfect order, if one is to be accurate?”
“No need to get on your high horse about it.”
Moreau laughed. “Moreau is amused that anybody imagines he owns a horse, much less a high horse. No, poor Moreau does not have such luxuries.”
“I see. So if you had a horse, you would ride him regularly.”
