She took his measure and said, “I did think, from the tone of your letter, that we were not to be so formal. You may call me Aunt, Tramondeley.”
“Very kind,” he said. “Might I introduce Lord Ledderbey.”
Lady Marchfield nodded. “Lord Ledderbey, I suppose we owe you great thanks for watching over Tramondeley during his formative years.”
“He has been excellent company, Lady Marchfield, and so I think most of the advantage has been to myself. Do sit, a tea tray will be up shortly.”
Lady Marchfield took a chair. She said, “Might I clarify one matter before we go further. Tramondeley, did you tell the duke that you did not wish to hear from any of us, on account of the rift between the duke and your father?”
“I did not,” Weston said. “I have never said anything at all to the duke. I have never laid eyes on him, met him, or corresponded with him.”
“That devil,” Lady Marchfield said.
“Do you have any idea why he invented such a story?” Lord Ledderbey asked. “We did wonder, over the years, why he did not get in touch. At least, I wondered.”
“I do not know why he’s done it. At least, not precisely,” Lady Marchfield admitted. “But I can tell you, if there is a right way to do something, my brother will about-face and go in the opposite direction.”
“He rented this house for me,” Weston said. “I am not clear why.”
“Nor am I,” Lady Marchfield said, clearly surprised by thatinformation. “I would say perhaps his conscience catches up with him, but that seems too unlikely.”
“We are to dine there on the thirteenth,” Lord Ledderbey said. “I suppose he’s issued you the same invitation.”
“He has not,” Lady Marchfield said grimly. “But rest assured, I will attend. You will not face him alone. It will not be the first time I have been forced to invite myself. In any case, I have recently installed a butler on the premises and would like to see how he gets on.”
Weston had initially imagined that the duke had asked Lady Marchfield to hire a butler for him. But then the tea tray came in and she poured out the cups and described what happened to the other six butlers she’d sent into the duke’s house, one of which was still writing her letters from America. This new one, she claimed, would stick no matter what the duke’s deranged housekeeper tried—he was a regular barnacle on a boat.
The duke was beginning to seem even more bizarre than he’d imagined.
“Now, I’ve already sent a note to Lady Westmoreland alerting her that you are in Town,” Lady Marchfield said. “She will see to it that you are given vouchers and tickets to Almack’s. The opening ball is in a week, it is critical you show yourself there. Bring me the invitations you have received so far and let us see what we have to work with.”
Weston nodded to Malberry to fetch the stack. Though, he remained silent on the idea of a ball. He certainly would not attend Almack’s as he did not dance. Were there any other balls in those invitations, he would not attend them either.
For all that, he was rather glad he’d handed over the task of sorting through that correspondence to Lady Marchfield. With the efficiency of a general, she put the piles into yes and no, explaining to him why. Some were routs thrown by what his aunt considered to be “climbers of the worst sort.” Others were in the yes pile, such as Lady Jellerbey’s candlelight picnic, only because the attendees were rather rarified,though the event itself was absurd. Yet others were in the yes pile as being dignified evenings where he would mingle with the right sort of people. Two of those were the dreaded musical evenings. Still, she’d left him to write out the acceptances and he felt he had a much better idea of what was what in this town. He did not necessarily need to accept everything she’d given the stamp of approval.
After she had the invitations squared away, she went down to the kitchens to alert the Cook as to the most reliable grocers and explained to Malberry that he could contact her own wine merchant and use her name. Should they wish for the best tea, Mr. Twining was their man. She would send over her own butler for a consultation on anything else that was needed.
She’d glanced at Weston’s clothes and asked about the state of his wardrobe. Discovering it was much the same as what she currently viewed, it was deemed insufficient. “I will contact Mr. Rigleur myself and have him call on you. He will know what’s needed—Lord Marchfield depends upon him.”
She left with his assurance that he and Lord Ledderbey were to come to her house to dine on the morrow and that Lord Marchfield would be happy to see them.
After she departed, Lord Ledderbey said, “She is a helpful sort of lady.”
“Rather,” Weston said. “I believe we have found the captain of our London ship.”
“And from what I can gather, the duke will not like it.”
“All the better,” Weston said.
*
Mrs. Agnes Rightfound herself in an almost melancholy sort of mood. The carriages had entered the environs of London and the future she’d always dreaded marched inexorably closer. Her last girlwould marry and leave the house.
Over the years, it had been so difficult to watch them go, one by one, but she’d soothed herself with the idea that there were still some of them in the house. Then after Winsome had wed, it was just Valor left to her.
That interesting poppet had done her level best to remain at home forever. Mrs. Right had almost hoped she’d succeed in it too. She had not, and the housekeeper had seen those inevitable signs of maturity coming over her. Like all the rest, she would wish for her own family.
And now here it was. The beginning of the end. Her only hope was that it might take more than one season to settle her.
