Was it the same person? Was there some sort of message in it? What was the point?
Cook had taken charge of the molasses and his valet had taken the cologne to his dressing room. Marcus was loathe to discard either of them lest the sender suddenly reveal themselves with some logical explanation.
There was the possibility that these things might be from his elderly great aunt. Lady Monroe was in the habit of pressing her dead husband’s things on whoever came through her doors. The last he’d visited her, he’d left with three yellowed neckcloths. Last Christmas, she’d sent him a moldy shaving brush.
However, Lady Monroe always sent a note along with her gifts. Usually a very odd note. The one that had come with the shaving brush had said, “May your face enjoy this as much as Lord Monroe’s face did while he was still breathing.”
As well, and so far at least, Lady Monroe had never given away such a thing as molasses. Perhaps she was running out of Lord Monroe’s things. Or perhaps her mental capacities were slipping more than they already had.
He supposed he should not dwell on it. Lady Jellerbey’s eccentric candlelight picnic was this evening. Her rooms would be dimly lit with only candles set on tables and none of the chandeliers lit. It was like a rout, but hard to see where one was going and not as crowded. He understood Lady Jellerbey went on with it each year because her fellow matrons of thetonappreciated the low light and felt it was flattering to their complexions.
As a habit, he went as a duty. The lady was falcon-eyed regarding who did or did not turn up, despite the dim light they were meant to stagger around in.
This night, he planned to take a step. A small and cautious step. He would not rush headlong into any matter, never mind one of such import. But step, he would. He would subtly communicate his regard to Lady Patience in some manner. He did not know precisely how, but he imagined it would come to him by way of opportunity.
Then, he would attempt to understand her own inclinations. He thought she looked upon him favorably, and the duke too—else why would that gentleman have invited him to dine?
“What? No more bizarre gifts turning up?” Radler asked, striding in and looking about the drawing room.
“I hope not. I believe they might be from an old aunt.”
Radler laughed. “Before the cologne turned up, when it was just the molasses, well I thought…”
“Thought what?” Marcus asked.
“Well I thought it might be a hint from the duke that you move about as fast as molasses. It seemed like something he would find amusing.”
Marcus stared at his friend. Could that be true? No, certainly not. The duke was eccentric, but he was not positively deranged. Because it would be deranged to do such a thing.
“After all,” Radler continued, “he covered Stratton’s doorstep in chains when that fellow was overheard to say he would not be chained in matrimony and then he sent a cartful of flowers to Dashlend, which sounds nice, but they were all things like columbine and thistle. You see? Indicating his contempt. I am not even certain what Dashlend did to deserve it.”
“Those must be rumors,” Marcus said. He remembered hearing something about Stratton finding chains on his doorstep, but not who had put them there. In general, he ignored gossip, so he was not very surprised he might have missed these ridiculous stories.
Even if they were true, the idea of the duke sending him molasses to make some comment on his pace was preposterous. Certainly, both the molasses and the half-filled cologne had come from his rapidly deteriorating great aunt.
Radler shrugged. “No way to be sure, I suppose, unless he gives himself away to you in some manner.”
Marcus found himself eager to dismiss the subject. “The carriage has been brought round, which I have promised my valet I would make use of. He says he cannot bear the state of my clothes when I ride my horse. I don’t see it, but he’s been fretting for weeks about it. Let us be off to stagger round Lady Jellerbey’s dim rooms.”
Radner sauntered out, calling over his shoulder. “Indeed, Lady Patience and her deranged father await!”
Marcus chose to ignore the salvo. He did not wish to think of the duke as being anything other than mildly eccentric. He already felt as if he might be taking a risk in pursuing Lady Patience, he did not want to contemplate that it might be an even bigger risk than he had yet imagined.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Patience had taken a tip from her two eldest sisters regarding Lady Jellerbey’s candlelight picnic and chosen to wear a crème silk dress. Both Felicity and Grace had pointed out that wearing something dark would make her fade into the woodwork because of the lack of light.
Lady Jellerbey was a stout and cheerful matron. She also seemed fond of the duke. She shook her fan at him and said, “May I count on you to avoid leaving one of your party behind this year?”
The duke had laughed uproariously. “That’s right, I nearly forgot about that. I left without Lady Marchfield and she had to run after the carriage to catch me!”
Patience laughed despite herself. Of course she knew the story. Whenever Lady Marchfield had insisted on going in the duke’s carriage he either left her behind or threatened to drop her off at the Seven Dials, or both. Lady Marchfield had seemed to have given up the habit on account of it.
They went forward into Lady Jellerbey’s rooms, Patience squinting to try to make out Lord Stanford. Though every surface seemed to hold burning candles, the overhead chandeliers that would have dispersed far more light were cold and dark.
So far, she did not see him.
Her father leaned over. “Do not fret, I am sure he will turn up. By the by, I sent him a clock to point out that time was passing—tick-tock, tick-tock.”
