Just then, Marcus felt something. He surreptitiously glanced down and saw that Nelson the three-legged dog had settled himself on top of his boot. Apparently, the dog knew the soup course would bring nothing interesting and took that moment to relax until more promising items arrived to table.
The soup was cleared and the next course arrived. Marcus would admit the duke maintained a fine table. The platters covered every available surface, to be served à la Francaise, which he preferred. There was beginning to be a notion in some elevated households of taking on the habit of serving à la russe, which he did not prefer and did not even think made sense. How is one to know how much to eat of one dish if one did not know what was still coming? A menu being provided gave a hint, but Marcus would prefer to have a look at a dish before deciding. Too many times, somethingsoundedinviting, only to arrive swimming in a beige sauce of some sort. He could not abide a beige sauce.
The duke had ordered roasted beef, a large ham, Scottish salmon, quails, duckling, and every conceivable vegetable in season. There were vol-a-vents of mushrooms, a lamb pie, salad, and buttered rolls.
To Marcus deep surprise, the butler leaning against the sideboard just poured himself a glass of wine and drank it. The footmen appeared to find it very amusing.
Lady Patience cut off a piece of her slice of roasted beef and handed it under the table to the three-legged dog. The dog leapt off his boot, took it, and then began to make his way round the table to see what else might be dropped in his direction.
“I know it is not usual to have one’s dog in the dining room and feed it under the table,” Lady Patience said.
Marcus nodded, as it certainly was not. A lady had a lap dog in the drawing room and a gentleman had his hunting dogs in their kennels. This dog was neither here nor there.
“But we had to take into consideration Nelson’s unique circumstances. He had such a terrible start in life—losing a leg, going blind in one eye, and living on scraps—that we became determined that the rest of his life should be lovely and warm and full of ease. Especially regarding food, as that seems to be his primary interest.”
“I see,” Marcus said. He could not help but to be a little touched by the sentiment. He supposed most ladies would not countenance a dog that was not pleasant to look at, and this one certainly was not, never mind concern themselves with what that dog ate or what the dog felt about it.
“As you have seen,” Lady Patience went on, with a small sigh, “we are not very formal people. It’s the Dales in us. I suppose you were raised in a formal household?”
The question took him aback, as he was beginning to notice Lady Patience had a proclivity for doing. Not many ladies, or any, would pose such a personal question to a gentleman newly met.
“Relatively formal, yes,” he said.
“I know that is what society expects, but I do not think I should like it,” Lady Patience said.
“Formal is overrated,” the duke said, joining in on the discussion. “A bunch of people doing things they do not want to do, simply because some mysterious arbiter said they ought to. Just think, how would I know anything about my daughters if I had not had them all at table every night?”
“We sit with him while he drinks his port,” Lady Winsome said.
“So he does not get too drunk,” Lady Valor added.
“If he is alone with the bottle,” Lady Verity said, “he is bored and drinks it all. A very common thing.”
“Grace used to throw rolls at his head, which was very funny,” Lady Valor said, “because she never hit him!”
All of the daughters laughed heartily over the picture. Marcus did not know what to think of this information. On the one hand, it was very wrong on all counts—the dog, staying on at table, hinting that a duke would ever get drunk, all of it. It was off-putting, even.
On the other hand, there was something that struck him rather deeply about the duke wishing to know his daughters well and the care they all took of a three-legged and exceedingly unattractive dog. He did not know what to make of it. He did not know if it were right or wrong or up or down.
“Also,” Lady Winsome said, “if our father does not drink too much port or brandy alone, he can bring the bottle into the drawing room, and we can play Fact or Fib.”
Marcus could not imagine what Fact or Fib was, but perhaps that might be for the best considering the expressions on both Stratton’s and Dashlend’s faces. It was some combination of dread and resignation.
“It is a very amusing game, I assure you,” Lady Grace said.
Dashlend muttered something he did not quite hear. The duke laughed uproariously. “He says, don’t believe her for a minute! Very good.”
“The duke gave me some very good advice when I was first faced with it,” Stratton said. “He told me, ‘prepare to lose.’”
“Will we all be expected to play?” Lady Alice said in barely a whisper.
“Oh yes,” Lady Valor said, “it’s great fun. Until I get too tired and then I have to go to bed.”
“Might I inquire into the nature of the game?” Marcus asked, really preferring to know what lay ahead. “I do not believe I’ve ever heard of it.”
“They invented it,” Dashlend said. “That’s why nobody has ever heard of it.”
“Prepare to drown in blue tickets,” Stratton said.
