Moreau sniffed. “Perhaps. But we will never know, as Moreau will go in the carriage.”
Miles smiled to himself. Moreau made very free with his carriage and delighted in being seen round the town, peering out of it.
“This best coat idea,” Moreau said thoughtfully, “is there some reason for it? I do not recall you ever going to great lengths to impress Lady Montague.”
“Thereisa lady I wish to impress, though it is not Lady Montague. It is Lady Grace.”
“Impress how? How impressed is she to be?” Moreau asked suspiciously.
“Impressed enough to accept me, I hope,” Miles said.
“Mon Dieu,” Moreau said. “Lord Dashlend comes to the great city of London, full of ladies everywhere, and he goes right to the strangest family in England.”
“I do not think it is your place to provide those sorts of opinions,” Miles said sternly.
“Of course not, my lord. Poor Moreau, only a valet, cannot have opinions. But there is one opinion that shall not be wrenched from my breast! I will never stay in a house with that duke, because that duke has a valet I would like to smother in his sleep! Have I received any note of thanks for returning his oldest set of clothes looking better than they did when they were foisted upon me? No I have not!”
Miles stared at his valet. The man really was impossible. However, he was in too high spirits to be bothered about it. “You ought to go below stairs and calm yourself with a cup of tea,” he said.
Moreau shook his head sadly and did as he was bid. Cook would shortly be hearing all about the oldest set of clothes and the barbaric English failure to send a note of thanks. As the cook was French too, and they delighted in commiserating with one another over the inferior English, they should both be happily occupied for at least an hour over it.
After the door closed, Miles sat on the balcony overlooking the garden, thinking about what he would say to Lady Grace. His whole future would hang on that moment, and he had to get it right.
*
EVERYONE HAD GATHEREDin the drawing room after their ride in the park and a tea tray and rather expansive tray of cakes and biscuits had come in. Cook had gone so far as to make his famous miniature apple cakes with a generous coating of icing. Mrs. Right told them the cook was in a celebratory frame of mind on account of the departure of Mr. Button.
Very shortly after this communication, a letter arrived for the duke from Lady Marchfield. It was almost as if the very mention of Mr. Button had conjured a missive from the ether.
The duke tore it open and scanned its contents.
“Well now, it seems our Mr. Button has been satisfactorily settled in a house full of regular people, which we are not.”
“Do we wish to be regular, Papa?” Valor asked, rearranging Mrs. Wendover’s pelisse, given to her by Mr. Stratton the season before. As she did so, Nelson watched longingly, no doubt wishing to get hold of the stuffed rabbit and make off with her.
“We are a ducal family, Valor,” the duke said. “We do not need or want to become some sort of pedestrian regular people. Your aunt has that stance well in hand, to everyone’s boredom and irritation.”
Grace thought that was all perfectly true. Though she did, at times, feel sorry for Lady Marchfield. The lady did really believe all the precepts she flung round, as grim and tedious as they always were.
Grace had written her a note the day before, just a pleasant one to smooth things over. Lady Marchfield had answered, claiming it was not Grace’s fault that she had a lunatic for a father.
“What happened today in the park?” Serenity asked. “We saw Lord Dashlend and Lord Montclave at your carriage when we hung out the windows, but we could not hear what was said.”
“They were both very pleasant,” Grace said, availing herself of one of the tiny apple cakes.
“What Gracie means to say,” the duke said laughing, “is that she’s got two fish on the hook. We await her reeling in the right fish.”
“Papa!” Grace said.
“Lady Margaret wrote me back,” Valor said, “and she says she does not know of any way to keep Grace home forever. But I had an idea. Grace, if you marry Lord Dashlend, why cannot he come and live with us? We could give him one of the extra rooms. It would be tiresome, but we would put up with it to keep you at home.”
“He won’t like it,” Winsome said. “Remember? Mr. Stratton stays in the same room with Felicity all night. And probably stares at her while she’s sleeping.”
Valor sighed. “I guess Lord Dashlend could stay in Grace’s room. If that’s really necessary.”
“I wonder if Lord Dashlend has scars, like Mr. Stratton does,” Serenity said. “You could tell us, Grace, once you’ve had a look under his clothes.”
“That is quite enough nonsensical talk,” Grace said.
