Chapter Eight
“Lady Valor,” LordTramondeley said.
Lord Ledderbey had been trailing behind and now caught up to him.
“Lord Tramondeley, Lord Ledderbey,” Valor said. “You will know my sisters and of course my father.”
“Tramondeley,” the duke said, “how do you get on?”
“Very well, Your Grace. Lady Valor, Lady Westmoreland indicated she would put me on your card,” Lord Tramondeley said. “I did not even realize there would be a supper.”
“Oh, I am afraid Lady Westmoreland has arranged for me to go into supper with Count di Compressio.”
“The Sardinian fellow,” the duke said, in case anyone wondered about it.
“I see,” the lord said, a flash of irritation crossing his features. “I believe I may be engaged to take in Lady Letitia. But then I suppose nobody needs to strictly only talk to their assigned partner at this supper.”
“No I suppose not,” Valor said.
“You are not to be fooled by the term ‘supper,’ Lord Tramondeley,” Grace said.
“Heavens no,” Verity said.
“Dry cake, weak tea, sour lemonade, and stale bread,” Winsome said, laughing.
The look of consternation on the lord’s expression was almost amusing.
“It’s the worst sort of trickery, in my view,” the duke said. He pulled his flask from his pocket, opened it and took a swig. “Brandy,” he said, handing it to Lord Tramondeley. “Help yourself, there will be nothing better to be had.”
The lord did help himself to it. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“How about you, Ledderbey?” the duke said, laughing.
“No, I thank you all the same,” Lord Ledderbey said.
“Your Grace, Lady Valor.”
Valor turned to find Count di Compressio. As she had seen him last time, his clothes were very regular, but cut just the smallest bit different. He looked very elegant.
“It’s the Sardinian,” the duke said.
“Your Grace, I have the honor of a dance with Lady Valor and then escorting her into supper.”
The duke laughed. “Wait until you see what it is. You won’t think it much of an honor.”
The count appeared perplexed, which did not particularly surprise Valor. The duke often perplexed people until they got to know him.
Lady Marchfield approached. “Roland,” she said flatly. “Girls, you all look very well.” She paused and stared at the count.
“Aunt,” Valor said, “this is Count di Compressio. We encountered him on our trip to Town and he was kind enough to give over the only private dining room available. Count, this is my aunt, Lady Marchfield.”
The count gave Lady Marchfield a rather elegant bow. “Charmed, Lady Marchfield,” he said.
“He’s a Sardinian, but we do not hold it against him,” the duke said. For good measure, he patted the pocket that held his brandy flask in case Lady Marchfield had missed its presence.
“I presume my butler gets on very well,” Lady Marchfield said tothe duke.
“If by ‘gets on,’ you mean breaks everything in the house,” the duke said, “then your barnacle on a boat does splendidly.”
