Then, the first thing shecoulddo arrived in her head. It might not be the last thing, but it was a place to start. Unlike Reynolds, Mr. Moreau was of an unsteady temperament. He was the type of fellow who might be set off.
Mrs. Right well knew that all gentlemen despised having to find a new valet. A valet was like a lady’s maid, privy to everything personal, and it was a hard road to find the right one and get comfortable with the arrangement. Even though Mr. Moreau was a silly sort, it seemed he’d been with Lord Dashlend a good amount of time.
Certainly, she could cause trouble there, and it would not be hard to do. She would simply place an advertisement in the newspapers for a valet to serve Lord Dashlend. She would carefully send out the news to certain quarters that the gentleman in the advertisement was Dashlend, and where he lived. There was nothing in the world that moved faster than gossip through servants’ circles. Every other person had a relative hanging about, looking for a situation.
Not only would the letters come flying in from across England, but the more ambitious fellows who were already haunting Town would turn up at the doorstep.
Mr. Moreau would go positively mad. He would at least pack his bags and be off, causing great inconvenience. At best, he might set Lord Dashlend’s house afire on his way out. After all, who really knew what an insulted and betrayed Frenchman would get up to?
Yes, it was a good plan and trumped the burlap bags of turnips she’d sent to Mr. Stratton.
Which of course she now regretted as it seemed she’d been mistaken in that.
She was not mistaken in this, though. She would get that advertisement in the newspaper for the morning edition and start spreading the word by dropping the hint to Mr. Cray, the butler next door. He was both chatty and supercilious, and considered himself graciously condescending—he’d tell all and sundry of the opportunity. There were those people who gloried in being the bearer of helpful news and the receiver of grateful thanks that might be the result of it. Mr. Cray was the emperor of the activity.
As well, she would send a copy of the advertisement to Lord Dashlend’s house as some kind of confirmation of purchase. With any luck, Lord Dashlend’s household would devolve into chaos on the morrow before the breakfast things had been cleared.
That dastardly lord was about to discover the perils of hurting and humiliating a Nicolet girl.
*
MONTCLAVE MADE HISway through the late morning streets, irritated at having been collared by Mrs. Featherby before he left the house. That lady was forever sending him on errands that any footman could accomplish. She generally couched these requests with the idea that something must be hand delivered, or looked at carefully, or assessed with a critical eye, and could not be left to a footman. She liked to put herself forward as a woman of lofty standards and discernment for whom only the best would do, which she certainly was not.
This time, it was to be for tea. He must see Mr. Twining for a particular blend, which he’d written down as he never spent any time thinking about tea. He was a coffee man and found tea watery and insipid.
He made his way to the Strand and found the building easily enough as it was clearly marked with the Twining’s sign. He let himself into the shop, and immediately found himself face to face with Lady Margaret.
She was, as she always seemed to be, living in another time. Her skirts were far too wide and painfully embellished with all manner of silver braiding and glass baubles. Her bonnet reached for the sky, helped in that endeavor by two waving ostrich feathers. She was a veritable human chandelier.
“Oh it’s you,” she said, standing next to an elderly gentleman who Montclave believed was named Harraby.
Montclave bowed. “Lady Margaret, how charming to encounter you here. Lord Harraby, is it?”
“Yes, that’s my name. Who are you, by the by?”
It irked Montclave no end that he knew people’s names far more than anybody knew his.
“Baron Montclave,” he answered.
“Ah! The fellow who comes looking for money,” Lord Harraby said to Lady Margaret.
The lady nodded. “Do not bother today,” she said to Montclave, “I’ve not brought money, as I have a longstanding account with Mr. Twining. I stay with Lord Dashlend now, and I wished to purchase something as a treat for the staff.”
Of course, Montclave was perfectly aware that Lady Margaret was currently housed with his cousin. He pretended he was not aware, though.
“You are with Dashlend?” he said pleasantly. “That must be genial.”
Apparently, he hit the right note with that comment, as Lady Margaret waxed on about the wonders of Dashlend’s hospitality. Montclave smiled pleasantly as he was forced to hear about the superiority of that household’s fried eggs. All the while she spoke, a middle-aged and neatly dressed gentleman waited patiently for her attention.
Finally, she did give it to him. “My dear Mr. Twining, I wondered if you might fill one of your charming tins with my special blend. The usual amount, if you please.”
Mr. Twining nodded and set off on his task. Montclave pulled the note from his pocket that indicated what he was to purchase for Mrs. Featherby.
Lady Margaret glanced at it. “A rather pedestrian choice.”
Montclave did not answer, as he assumed it must be. It was for Mrs. Featherby, after all.
“We will not dally here, Lord Montclave. When I have my purchase, we must be off. There is ever so much to do to get Lord Dashlend properly settled.”
