“Very tremendous,” Lord St. John said.
“It’s my understanding that the pug breed is known for their cleverness,” Lord Manderbey said. “Have you noticed that attribute?”
Valor, unused to anybody asking her a question in response to one of her demands that her dog be admired, looked very surprised. “He is, rather. He can tell time. He knows when it is time for dinner even when the sun is not out. He just knows—he must be looking at the clock.”
“Clever, yes,” Lord St. John said.
Lord Manderbey hooked a thumb at Lord St. John. “He’s just copying what I say.”
Valor narrowed her eyes. “So you don’t really believe it?” she said, staring at Lord St. John. “You’re just saying it?”
“No, I do believe it!” Lord St. John said, looking as if he were backed into a corner.
Lord Manderbey shrugged. “So he says.”
Felicity bit her lip and Winsome knew she was on the verge of laughter. Serenity was wide-eyed, not liking any sort of disagreement. As for Sir Galahad, he remained snoring and had as yet not bothered to display his innate cleverness.
The two gentlemen really were at odds with each other. Bad dealings with money could destroy families and it certainly had seemed to severely damage whatever relationship Lord Manderbey had once had with his cousin. Why did he not see how dangerous it all was?
“I’ve heard,” Valor said, “that when a gentleman, or two gentlemen, turn up when nobody asked them to, they’re not supposed to stay longer than fifteen minutes.” She then pointedly affixed her gaze to the ormolu clock on the mantle.
“I see,” Lord Manderbey said. “Quite right. We should both be going. St. John.”
Lord St. John grudgingly got to his feet. “Ladies, a pleasure,” he said.
The two gentlemen took their leave and Winsome went to the window while Felicity heaved with laughter and Serenity whispered, “Goodness.”
She had hoped to see Lord Manderbey mount his horse, as she imagined it would be quite compelling. Rather, both gentlemen stood with reins in hand arguing with one another. Lord Manderbey, so much taller than Lord St. John, leaned over him threateningly. He poked Lord St. John with his finger as if he’d made a final point, mounted his horse, which did turn out to be compelling, and trotted away.
Winsome sat back. They had seemed near blows. Blows could lead to duels. Lord Manderbey had to be convinced to give up his gambling. He must do, else it lead him into a disaster that could not be recovered from. She could not know precisely how far things had gone, but at least he would not have been able to mortgage his houses. His duke was still living and in control of things. But in future, he could do it and that was, according to the duke, the beginning of the end. Nobody ever recovered from it. There was nothing worse in the world than to be a landless lord.
Lord Manderbey had to give it up! If not for her, then for himself. He would be so angry and disappointed with himself if it went too far and there was no way back. And then, there were those lords who, finding that their errors could not be repaired, did a violence to themselves rather than face it. She must find a way to make him see it.
What other choice was there? Winsome had fooled herself into thinking she ought to walk away. Well, she’d not fooled herself aboutthat. She ought to. She’d fooled herself into thinking she could do it. It was becoming more and more apparent that she would not. She could not. There would not be anybody else for her. At Almack’s, at Lady Jellerbey’s candlelight picnic, everywhere she went, the gentlemen sheencountered made not the slightest impression. Most of them were faceless in her memory. She’d seen their faces but could not remember a thing about them.
It was only his face in her mind, all the time.
As she’d finally come to the conclusion that she would not walk away there was only one thing she could do—she must somehow tear Lord Manderbey away from his gambling habits.
How could she do it, though?
*
Mrs. Right hadoverpowered Mr. Wicket through sheer force of will. She’d threatened him with everything she could think of. As he was only in the house to clear his debts via Lady Marchfield’s purse, he’d given up the ghost.
Most importantly, he’d given upbeinga ghost.
He remained sleeping in his little hidey-hole in the wine cellar, which Mrs. Right had a look at. The fellow had built the wall almost to where it met the perpendicular wall, leaving only a small space to slip through. As it was deep in the shadows and narrow, one would never spot it unless one knew what was looked for.
Mr. Wicket, being of such a thin build that he looked as if he’d been starved for some months, slipped in easily. Mrs. Right, being of a more comfortable frame, could not get all the way through it. She’d got her head and shoulders through though, and had a look. It was a small compartment of a room with just a mattress and a wood box acting as a side table to hold a candle.
Mrs. Right had offered him a room in the men’s quarters but he’d claimed he liked his privacy. It gave him the quiet to think, he said. She had her doubts about that. She rather thought he liked his access to the kitchens at all hours and she would not be surprised if he had helped himself to some of the duke’s wines. That was the smallest of herproblems though.
Though he retired in the cellar of an evening, he now made his presence in the servants’ hall known. Nobody was particularly happy to see him, but they’d been informed that Mr. Wicket was to act at the direction of Mrs. Right for the foreseeable future so they put up with it.
Mrs. Right had decided to put the fellow to good use. He was a spy so he could very well act like one. He was to follow Lord Manderbey and report what he was able to find out. She needed information to know how to proceed in avenging her girl.
Mr. Wicket had just returned from one of these forays and slipped through the servants’ entrance.
