Chapter Eight
Leland supposed therehad never been a dinner like it. First, Lady Marchfield turned up, unexpectedly and apparently unwelcome. Then, a butler nobody had known was in the house had emerged from behind a pair of curtains. Between those two unlikely events, Lady Valor made an outrageous speech about men staring at their wives while they slept, naming Stratton as being particularly implicated in the habit.
The dinner itself was odd as well. An overcooked roasted beef had come round, sliced very thin and covered in a sauce. It really seemed as if it had been cooked well past its time and then the sauce was meant to cover that fact. The potatoes looked as if they’d just been thrown into a dish and had not even been composed with a sprinkling of chopped parsley. The rolls were positively black on the bottom. There was the subtle aroma of burning that wafted over it all. The wines, at least, were good.
The footmen were at sixes and sevens. They had run out of the room, only to run back in again a half hour later and say to the duke, “He never left the house and now he’s disappeared again.”
It seemed as if Mr. Wicket had suddenly appeared in the kitchens, just as suddenly disappeared, and the cook and kitchen maids were in a collapse about it. Which would explain the state of the dinner.
The footmen did not know where Mr. Wicket had disappeared to. They’d found the door to the wine cellar ajar and had bravely gonedown with candles to search it, but they’d found nothing. They could not be sure if they themselves had left it ajar when they’d gone to fetch wines for the dinner.
It was beginning to seem as if the duke’s new butler was some sort of genie disappearing into thin air. The duke remained remarkably unaffected by the information and only assured his footman that the housekeeper would rid them of the interloper.
The housekeeper? How was she to order the fellow out if the duke could not?
Despite all that, Leland was really enjoying himself. Lady Felicity had been determined to never even glance in his direction, leaving him to speak to Lady Winsome all through the dinner. After they’d thoroughly dissectedGloaming at Glenford Cross, and developed several improvements the author might have adopted, their conversation was more wide-ranging.
There were times he had to force himself to concentrate, as he was all but bewitched by the sprinkle of light freckles across her nose. He’d almost lost the thread of the conversation when he suddenly realized she was asking him about his house.
That was a promising sign, he thought.
“My father’s estate is in Sussex, but I live mostly at Stonewall Manor in Torquay. There is another farming estate in Hertfordshire that I visit from time to time to keep it going, but it’s rather staid. Stonewall is not large and there is in fact very little land. It is just the house, some outbuildings, the stables, and some gardens. However, it sits atop a cliff overlooking the harbor and the views are very good. As well, there is a little tavern in town that is quiet and keeps a good fire in the cozy during the cold months. I often go there to escape my grandmother.” He paused, realizing he’d left out an important description. “And, I should probably say, she does live there now, in a little cottage on the grounds. When my grandfather died, she discovered she could not bear to be in the vicinity of the family seat,overruled by her daughter-in-law, so she refused to move into the dower house in Sussex.”
“Oh, I see, yes, that must be hard for the dowager. She has ruled the roost for years and now she has to give way.”
Leland nodded. “She is not particularly adept at giving way.”
“We do not see my own grandmother—my mother’s mother. All we know about her is that she is very stern and religious. She sends Christmas gifts every year and they are always very dreary with a scoldy letter coming along with it. I suppose it must be nice to have a grandmother who takes such an interest in your day-to-day life.”
Of course, Lady Winsome supposed entirely wrong, but he did not correct her. He would not wish to frighten the lady off with any real description of what it was like to have his grandmother on the premises. The lady had been known to track him down in the tavern when she was bored and wished for his company.
“Well now,” the duke said loudly from the other end of the table, “we have suffered through a rather terrible dinner on account of Mr. Wicket haunting the house but I will not blame the kitchens—Lady Misery is renowned for her ability to ruin an evening. Do not despair, though, as we can only go up from here.”
Leland supposed there would be cards in the drawing room. Or perhaps there was a music room somewhere and the ladies would play.
“Has anybody warned our guests about what is to come?” the duke asked, looking jovially round the table.
Warned? Why should he be warned about it? Had they not experienced quite a lot already that they might have been warned of? What could possibly be next?
As Leland gazed round the table it was apparent that there were conflicting opinions on what was to come next. The ladies appeared in very good spirits, their husbands very much less so.
“Sorry,” Stratton said, shrugging.
“It cannot be helped,” Stanford said.
“Just get through it,” Wembly advised. “That’s what I did.”
Good God, it sounded as if he were to go through some sort of trial.
“You can drink port in the drawing room,” Thorpe said, “that can be looked at as a positive.”
“Fact or Fib!” Lady Valor shouted.
Leland glanced at Lady Winsome with the hopes that she would provide some illumination.
“It is only a drawing room game,” she said. “It is ever so much fun.”
She said it was fun, but her cheeks said there was something embarrassing about it. They were not just pink but looked positively feverish.
