Chapter Three
Marcus had gone on horseback to Almack’s, as both he and Radler preferred it. Cresswell always displayed no end of silent protest to the idea as his valet was convinced that his hard work would be for naught. His concerns were overblown though, as long as one stepped one’s horse carefully round mud and puddles. In any case, Cresswell used enough starch on his clothes that he supposed he might wrestle and still come out of it looking pressed.
They’d found Kendrickson coming out of a carriage that certainly was not his own. He supposed some relation or other was pitching in the means and money for the season.
The patronesses seemed especially interested in Kendrickson. Marcus could guess that his old school acquaintance had made himself a project for them. They seemed primed to help him along to the sort of dowry he’d require to keep himself afloat. It was hardly surprising—there was nothing a patroness liked so well as a project they might take credit for.
They’d since gone into the ballroom to engage in the age-old ritual of putting themselves down on ladies’ cards. Radler said, “So this trip to Town, Kendrickson, I suppose you are considering marriage?”
Kendrickson smiled. “No need to put it so delicate,” he said. “Everybody on God’s green earth knows my circumstances. Even if I could hide it, I do not think that I would. If I can convince a lady to hitch her carriage to my horses I’d just as soon she know the truth of my situation. In any case, her father will be well apprised of it.”
Radler had sighed one of his painful to live in the world sighs. “Dashed awful though. What if you are struck by a lady and she does not have the necessary funds?”
“Struck?” Kendrickson asked.
Marcus raised his hand to stop the conversation in its tracks. “Do not inquire further into it, Kendrickson. I have been up to my ears in conversation regarding Radler’s ideas of being struck.”
The Duchess of Devonshire interrupted their conversation, which Marcus was rather glad of.
“Gentlemen,” the duchess said, “I am filling the card of Lady Patience Nicolet, daughter of the Duke of Pelham. She is just across the ballroom, standing by her father.”
“Oh, I say,” Kendrickson said, reaching for it.
Radler was next. “Very interested in becoming acquainted with that lady.”
He passed the card to Marcus, who hesitated.
“Come now, man,” Radler said, “do not tell me you are frightened off of a lady on account of a gallop?”
“Of course not,” he said, writing his name down.
What had really given him pause was that the only dance open on Lady Patience’s card was the one that led to the supper, such as it was at Almack’s. He’d been avoiding writing his name down for that one as he’d been told that a certain Lady Alice Gerhard, daughter of the Earl of Kembleford, would attend. It was said that she was of a serious and thoughtful temperament, and he’d been very interested in making her acquaintance.
Marcus glanced once more in Lady Patience’s direction. Yes, that was the same lady he’d seen in the park. He’d only seen her very briefly as she’d flown by on her horse, but that was most certainly her. She was undeniably pretty. Really, he supposed she was the prettiest lady in the ballroom.
Well, he’d told himself that he would not judge a person by their father, however eccentric the duke might be. He would also not judge on the wild ride he’d witnessed, as he did not know the full circumstance. It might very well have been an aberration.
Or even it were not, it did not necessarily sum up the lady’s temperament. That really was the key to all his plans. He must find a lady similar in temperament to his own so that he did not end up in a household like the one he’d been raised in. He would insist on peace and cordiality.
He would proceed carefully, as that was his nature, but he would not proceed prejudicially. There could be no benefit to that.
Radler was busy informing Kendrickson of Lady Patience and her sisters galloping down Rotten Row on Dales ponies.
“That must have been a sight—she sounds fun,” Kendrickson said.
“Fun?” Marcus said. “Kendrickson, aside from whatever your requirements are regarding a dowry, I do hope you have formulated other considerations. Fun is not exactly a wise decision-making yardstick.”
Radler laughed. “You see how it is, Kendrickson. Stanford came into the world an eighty-year-old man and he’ll go out of it just the same.”
His two friends laughed heartily over the jest, though Marcus failed to see the hilarity in it. He was not eighty. He was simply careful. Rightfully careful. They’d see that in the end.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Mrs. Right found that on the rare occasion that she was faced with a butler, it was well to know their plans. Since these unwanted individuals would not deign to tell her outright of any strategies they’d developed, she’d taken to hiding behind doorways to find them out.
As she had suspected, Mr. Grimsby was up to something. It seemed his idea was to gain the loyalty of the footmen, thereby turning them against her. It was not a terrible plan, actually. It was doomed to fail, however, as the footmen in question wereherfootmen. For all that, it was well that she knew it.
Just now, Mr. Grimsby said, “Charlie, it would be to your benefit to understand how things are done in properly run houses. After all, what are you to do if you decide to move on? What if you wish to become a butler to some elevated person? At the moment, you do not have the first idea of how it is done. Your staff would never respect you, because you would not understand how things are properly done.”
