Or perhaps she had been terrified when Valor darkly hinted that if they weren’t let back in for Christmas they might get attacked by the murdered women on the moors.
Patience had explained backward and forward that the duke was an inveterate liar and it was all in jest, and the murdered women were only the cries of foxes. But Madame LaFray would not be convinced. She said she preferred the relative calm of the servants’ hall.
Despite Madame LaFray’s leeriness of the duke, Patience’s wardrobe had been done in good time. She’d been packed for weeks. She’d toe-tapped for days until it was time to set off.
And they had finally set off. They’d set off almost on schedule, as Patience had pushed all the clocks back an hour and woken everyone pretending they were already behind time.
The trip itself had held its amusements, particularly when her papa ordered brocabbage pie at all the inns. He explained it was a Yorkshire staple, allowed the innkeeper to run round trying to figure out what it was for a while, appeared aghast when they did not have it, then told them he’d made the whole thing up.
Nelson had been delighted with the trip, hanging his head out the window as the carriages rolled along and sampling the various dinners they had with enthusiasm.
Five days later, they made their way through the London streets on their final leg of the trip to Grosvenor Square. Patience peered out the window as the sights went by. It all looked so different now that she was viewing it through the eyes of a lady poised to join society.
Patience rode in the carriage with Mrs. Right, Valor, and Winsome. She said, “What do you think, Mrs. Right? We are soon to encounter this Mr. Grimsby my aunt has installed in the house. Will you make quick work of him?”
Mrs. Right considered the question. “I cannot know just yet. Each situation needs to be seen for itself. This particular specimen is said to be a soldier, so I may require some new ideas.”
“You’ll think of something, though,” Winsome said.
Mrs. Right nodded. “I’ve a few notions tucked away.”
“He sounds scary,” Valor said. “His name is Grim, with just some extra letters on the end of it. For another, he was in the army. I bet he’s killed people and how can we be sure he won’t keep doing it? He might sneak around with a sword in the night when we’re all sleeping and chop us to bits!” She clutched Mrs. Wendover to her, the stuffed rabbit’s head lolling.
Mrs. Right patted Valor’s hand. “Do not you worry, poppet. You are under my care and always safe.”
“That’s true so far,” Valor admitted.
“He might be a rogue, though,” Winsome said. “You’ve warned us ten ways to Sunday about rogues.”
“Aye, he may well be. Well, here we are, so I suppose it’s time to find out.”
The carriage had rolled to a stop. They all peered out the window and watched the door open.
A tall and rail-thin man in a black suit of clothes so starched they might have walked out of their own accord stood at the door. He had a weathered complexion and a serious expression.
“He does look grim, does he not?” Winsome said.
“He looks terrifying,” Valor said, burying her head in her stuffed rabbit. “Poor Thomas! How will he survive being bossed about by Mr. Grimsby?”
“Never you mind it,” Mrs. Right said, “Thomas will be quite safe.”
Just then Thomas opened their carriage door. Valor whispered, “Have courage, Thomas,” as she climbed down to the pavement.
“Your Grace,” Mr. Grimsby said to the duke, with a formal and extended bow.
The duke looked over Mr. Grimsby and said, “You’re the third—did she tell you that? Mrs. Right runs my household, keep out of her way.”
By the look on Mr. Grimsby’s face, it seemed as if hehadheard he was the third and hehadheard of Mrs. Right. He did not look very frightened though. He looked… grim.
His eyes drifted in Mrs. Right’s direction and narrowed. She smiled at him as if there was not a thing wrong.
Patience took that moment to bolt into the house. The competition for rooms would be fierce and she was determined to secure the one that had housed Grace last season, and Felicity the season before. It was the largest, had its own sitting room, and a lovely view of the garden.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Mrs. Right thought she’d sized up Mr. Grimsby pretty well. He was exactly what she’d thought he’d be, once she’d heard he’d been a soldier, and then butler to a brigadier general.
The problem with fellows like that was that they were used to issuing orders, and having those orders followed. The army, and a brigadier general’s household for that matter, were regulated environments where rules were adhered to. Struggles for power did not occur, as everybody simply fell in line.
