by Amy Lake
"-and I do remember my father mentioning something of the sort. That the duke's daughter had ruined his life in London, and he thought to make a ruin of matters in return. But I had no idea that a house was involved."
Ruin Marchers in return. It was an irresponsible, illogical decision. But then, as Benjamin had learned, people didn't always make sense. People's feelings didn't always make sense.
He had left Mr. Waverly with a handshake and an apology, and a promise that the new Duke of Grentham would not take his cues from the old. He had returned to Marchers determined to restore it to proud existence as a jewel among London townhomes, a monument to his family name.
But the amount of work involved, the sheer, overwhelming back-breaking labour—
Benjamin could afford the cost of repairs, of course. Still, as he began a more detailed inspection of Marchers, he found himself greatly troubled by the consequences of his uncle's wrath. Any house, however grand, would suffer after ten years or more of neglect. And Marchers seemed to have suffered more than most. The house seemed to feel the slight thrown upon it, seemed downcast and lonely—
The old duke's anger, thought Benjamin, had bred nothing but destruction. And rats.
He remembered their first look at the place, he and Josiah. The house had been run aground, indeed.
He needed to hire a housekeeper. He and Josiah had worked like ploughmen for three weeks, side by side, to make even the smallest part of Marchers fit for habitation. The housekeeper's suite, at the rear of the ground floor, was now clean and aired out, with new rugs underfoot and its windows re-glazed and snug. Two beds had been prepared in adjacent rooms, occupied for now by Lord Torrance and Josiah, and if the duke's bed looked little better than his valet's, ‘twas the best they could manage.
Meals had been a bigger challenge. They had found the kitchen covered in rat droppings, and Benjamin had nearly given up the entire scheme at the sight of it, but Josiah had said, no, he would contrive some way to roast a piece of meat. The valet had been as good as his word, and they now dined, nightly, on lamb or pork, and a concoction of flour and water that Josiah referred to as ‘ship's biscuits.’ Hard on the teeth, Benjamin had discovered, but tasty.
Perhaps it had been a mistake to arrive in London as he had chosen, unheralded, unannounced to any of the ton. The duke could have easily rented another home nearby, residing in comfort while an army of workers scrubbed Marchers House from attic to cellar, replaced windows, repaired the brickwork and sounded for dry rot—
Ratcatchers, Benjamin reminded himself, his thoughts momentarily diverted. He had once again forgotten ratcatchers. He would send Josiah out to hire a man first thing the following morning—
Perhaps he should have hired a housekeeper from the start. But a housekeeper meant maids, and gardeners, and footmen-all the panoply of a great household-and ‘twould be the end of his nameless existence in London. All society would know of the Duke of Grentham's arrival within days, if not hours, and she would know, too.
What would she think?
But what did she think, now? The table and candlestand had not escaped Lady Pamela's notice, the duke realized. She knew that someone was living in the house.
Still, he told himself, she would have no reason to believe that someone to be Lord Torrance. Dukes did not reside in filthy houses strewn with rat droppings. A night watchman, perhaps-that's what she would think. So he still had a bit of time. Time, at least, to consider his role in London society, or whether he would choose any role at all. And what he should say, or not say, the next time he chanced to cross paths with Lady Pamela Sinclair.
Benjamin closed his eyes, remembering how she had looked as she had walked through the chaos of his home. Much the same as before, he realized. Her slim, neat form had not changed—
But you already knew that, didn't you? said a small voice.
Yes. He already knew.
* * * *
Josiah Cleghorn, valet to the Duke of Grentham, made his way down the wide second-floor hallway, muttering to himself.
"Dead in love he is,” said Josiah, thinking about the duke. “And her in love, too, mebbe. Hard to tell with those grand ladies. But coming in here like that, uninvited, just to have a look-see—"
Josiah shook his head. This idea of staying in London, not telling nobody, made no sense to him. The duke was a duke, he figured. An a-ris-to-crat. People here set all sort of store by that, didn't they?-ought to take advantage. Instead of them being down on their knees scrubbing out filth like the scabbiest sea dog.
He'd seen enough scrubbing on deck, thank ye all the same, and his knees were a fair piece older, thought Josiah, than the duke's.
He was willing to do the work. He was happy to cook for the duke, scrub floors and wash windows for the duke, do anything Benjamin asked of him. Josiah Cleghorn would follow Lord Torrance into Hades, right enough, and not look back. Only fair, the man having saved his life, pulled him out of the drink like yesterday's dead cat.
But he could see that the work here would take years for the two of them alone. The duke could see it too, he figured.
"Wants to see her,” Josiah continued, still muttering, “and don't want to see her. Scrub enough floors, mebbe put off deciding a good long while."
The valet was aware of the duke's attraction to Lady Pamela. Had seen it from the start, those months ago in Bedfordshire, and watched it grow during the few weeks they had spent at Luton Court. Lord Torrance was always popular with the ladies, right enough, and not that he hadn't paid them some attention-but this lady was different. The man hadn’ forgotten her a moment they'd spent in Wiltshire, and that was the truth.
Josiah felt the familiar pangs of guilt. He shouldn’ said nobbut ‘bout the lady, he could see that now.
Josiah turned a corner, found the room he was looking for and opened the door.
"Blast and damn!” muttered the valet, regarding the wreck that was-formerly-the old duke's bedroom suite. He'd seen this set of rooms before, on their first tour of the house, but felt a renewed indignation at the sight of the broken windows and crumbling plaster.
If he had ever owned anything like Marchers, thought Josiah, he would'a taken care of it.
He walked about the suite, sticking a penknife into the wood of the windowsills and mouldings at odd places, checking for rot, and cataloging the various other repairs that would be needed before the room was habitable.
The flooring of the bedchamber-a fine parquet of walnut, as best he could see-was in especially bad condition. Josiah rubbed his knee reflexively, and grimaced at the thought of the hours of mopping and polishing that would be required.
Perhaps it was time for him to take matters in hand, thought the valet. Him being the one who weren't in love, and more likely to have some sense. The duke had declined to advertise his presence to all those fancy London folk-the toon, they called themselves-but Josiah could think of an easy way around that obstacle. The valet had made a fair acquaintance with some of the local tradesmen during the last few weeks, and an even better acquaintance with the denizens of the local public house. He'd been close-mouthed, right you are, but it wouldn't take more than a word or two to change that.
The servant's grapevine, they called it. Josiah felt confident that Lord Torrance, who was an innocent to all matters of gossip, would never understand how the cat had gotten out of the bag.
And it were for his own good, after all.
CHAPTER FOUR
Lady Detweiler, of course, was the first to hear the news. She had arisen at a painfully early hour that day-hardly a moment's later than twelve o'clock, a scandalous time to be up and about-with the express intention of visiting Lady Marthwaite's salon.
Patience Marthwaite was the silliest of females, but always amusing, and she was a matchless source of ton gossip. Lady Detweiler had occasion to stand in awe of the woman, hen-witted as she was, for anticipating even Amanda in some choice bit of scandal.
And this day's intelligence had not bee
n a disappointment.
"Oh, my heavens,” called out Patience, upon seeing Lady Detweiler at the door, “you have no idea what I've discovered! No idea whatsoever, my dear, the town is absolutely a-twitter!"
"Good morning, Lady Marthwaite,” said Amanda, handing her wrap to the waiting footman. Patience sometimes became astonished over the most minor of contretemps; she would not raise her hopes as yet.
"Lud!” said Lady Marthwaite, unable to keep her seat in all the excitement. She rushed forward to greet Amanda, as the other ladies in the room-three or four fellow hen-wits, Lady Detweiler noticed-smiled and nodded, waiting for their hostess to take the lead.
"The duke! The duke is here!” Patience clutched Lady Detweiler's elbow, propelling her toward the sofa. “Henry! More brandy, if you please!” she added, addressing the footman.
"The duke?"
"Yes, the duke! In London, at his house, it's been deserted for years, of course-I can't imagine what old Rupert was thinking-and not a word to anyone mind you, but Agatha-my maid, you know-heard it from the viscountess's abigail, and she heard it from Lord Whatcomb's valet, and he—"
Lady Marthwaite prattled on at top speed, unhindered, with Lady Detweiler knowing better than to attempt to stop the flow. Patience became confused when she was interrupted; ‘twas better, and far quicker, to wait until she stopped of her own accord. The brandy arrived forthwith; Amanda sipped it slowly, waiting.
"-but Marchers is a ruin, they say, an absolute catastrophe, why the duke is staying there is beyond my imagination, and Lady Teasbury says—"
Marchers.
Ah, thought Amanda. So Lord Torrance has finally come to town.
This was truly Lady Marthwaite's finest hour, and Amanda was tempted to drag out every detail. But ‘twould not do to express too much interest, she decided, or to bring Lady Pamela's name into what was certain to become a frenzy of matchmaking stratagems.
"Amanda?"
She saw that Patience had wound down, and was waiting for some reply.
"My goodness,” said Lady Detweiler. “It sounds most exciting. Now, dearest, remind me, I seem to be so forgetful these days. ‘Marchers’ you say? And it belongs to which of the dukes?"
* * * *
Lord Torrance smiled reassuringly at the middle-aged lady who sat facing him across the wide oak desk of his study. Her expression was a study in restrained dismay.
"Now, your grace, I weren't expecting—"
"Mrs. Throckmorton, I understand that Marchers House is not in the condition one might hope. But if you wish some additional consideration, I would be quite happy—"
"The wages are not the problem, milord, indeed not. Most generous, I should say.
But..."
He hardly blamed her for hesitating to accept the position. She had only to look about the room to appreciate the potential scope and difficulty of her duties. Both he and Josiah had worked three long days to clean the study; still, the moth-eaten draperies could not be hidden, nor the musty smell of leather-bound books, un-dusted and un-aired for a decade. The rat droppings had been removed, of course, but the duke now saw that a questionable pile of dead leaves and grass lurked in one darkened corner. A nest of some kind, he supposed. How had that escaped their attention? Evidently, it had not escaped the notice of Mrs. Throckmorton, who had sent worried looks in that direction since entering the room.
In sum, not a propitious environment in which to interview prospective housekeepers, its only virtue being that every other room in the house was worse.
"You would have charge of hiring the scullery maids and footmen, of course. As many as you need. And the linens and such will need to be replaced, as you see."
"'Twill be dear, to do the thing right. I don't harken much to inferior stuffs. Only cost you more, in the end."
"I quite agree,” Benjamin told her. “I'll not interfere with such choices as you feel are required."
"Well..."
The study door opened and Josiah entered, holding a large silver platter in both hands. In the center of the platter was one large, vellum envelope.
"Yer graceness,” said Josiah.
Did Mrs. Throckmorton's back straighten just a fraction, her mouth twitch with disapproval? The duke's attention was drawn, however, to the envelope, which bore his name, and the Marchers address.
What was this?
After murmuring a quick “If you will excuse me a moment?” to Mrs. Throckmorton, Benjamin tore open the envelope. He found, to his astonishment, that he had received an invitation. To a ball, no less, hosted by one Lord Farley Marthwaite, and held in less than a sennight's time.
How on earth had this happened? The duke had introduced himself nowhere in London, spoken to no-one. Benjamin's thoughts turned to his unannounced visitor several days before. Was the invitation Lady Pamela's doing? No, he couldn't believe that. Lord Torrance's presence at Marchers was hardly confirmed on the basis of one polished brass candlestand, and besides, who was this Lord Marthwaite, anyway?
The valet, after a perfunctory bow, had begun inching toward the door.
"Josiah,” said the duke.
"Eh?” replied his valet. He continued inching.
Mrs. Throckmorton's back was now rigidly straight.
"Do you know anything about this ... this letter?” The duke's suspicions had been raised; Josiah was looking unusually pleased with himself. But how-?
"Don't know nobbut.” Josiah spat, in the general direction of the brass urn to the side of the fireplace. His aim was off, and a bit of tobacco juice dripped onto the floor.
With a poorly stifled gasp, Mrs. Throckmorton rose to her feet. “Lord Torrance,” she said, “if I might inquire, who is this individual?"
The valet sputtered; Benjamin hid a smile.
"Mrs. Throckmorton, allow me to introduce you to Josiah Cleghorn,” he replied. “Josiah is my valet."
"Your valet!"
"Indeed,” said Benjamin. “He is a trifle rough at the edges, perhaps, but I assure you that Josiah is someone in whom I place complete confidence—"
"He's entirely unsuitable."
"Me lord!” began Josiah, looking from the duke to Mrs. Throckmorton in indignation.
"-and you may as well,” finished Benjamin.
"I see,” said Mrs. Throckmorton, and then, addressing herself to Josiah—"Well, Mr. Cleghorn, you will not spit inside this house while I am the housekeeper. Is that quite clear? ‘Tis a vile habit. Now if you will be so good as to show me to my rooms...?"
She marched out of the study without a backward glance, the valet still sputtering, and Benjamin was hard put not to laugh. He had acquired a housekeeper, indeed.
* * * *
Lady Pamela perused the day's stack of invitations, discarding several, nodding to a few, and keeping others for further deliberation.
Amanda yawned. “Anything of interest?” she asked Pam, then-"I suppose not. Dreadfully boring time of year. Why is everyone so enamored of sopranos, d’ you think? ‘Tis nothing but one musicale after another. Even a tenor would be a welcome change."
"The duchess is holding a salon. And Lady Wilberforce wishes to form another Improving Society..."
"Lawks."
"She sends her appreciation for my support in the past.” Pamela frowned thoughtfully. “I don't recall ever attending one of Samantha's groups. What can she mean?"
"A trap, no doubt,” replied Lady Detweiler. “Meant to snare forgetful young ladies of the ton."
"Surely not."
"Not a single, benighted ball in the lot?” asked Amanda.
"Well...” Pam looked through the invitations again. “Here you are. Lord Marthwaite begs my attendance et cetera."
"Hallelujah."
Lady Pamela looked at her and laughed. “Since when have you become such an afficionado of balls? Or are you pining for another waltz with Lord Burgess?"
Amanda sniffed. “After that most recent episode? And painful, I might add. I think not."
"If he co
ntinues to step on your poor toes, why do you continue to waltz with him?"
"Pah,” said Lady Detweiler. “Dearest, I'm sure you have nothing respectable to wear to the Marthwaite's. I believe we should organize a new gown."
* * * *
They spent the remainder of the afternoon visiting les grands magasins of Regent's Street, with their first object being no less than an hour in the shop of Pamela's modiste. Madame Gaultier would attend Lady Pamela in her own home, of course-and had done so on numerous occasions-but there were times, thought Lady Detweiler, when one simply needed to brave the crowd. New fashions came and went by the week in London, and how else was one to stay au courant des affairs?
With Amanda's active encouragement, Madame Gaultier was currently outfitting Lady Pamela in a splendid ball gown of ivory lace and watered silk. Lady Pam had demurred, had protested, had argued without pause that something less remarkable would do very well, but she was ignored.
The gown was to be cut en grecque, and showed Pamela's neat figure to advantage, without overwhelming her with tassels, ruching, or rouleaux. The small cap sleeves were trimmed with tippets of the lace, but the skirt lacked ornament, which best displayed-to Amanda's eyes-the fineness of the fabric.
Madame agreed.
"Trez been, trez been,” she told Pamela. “All eyes should turn, vouz sayz, to the bodice."
The bodice was fitted, high-waisted, and embroidered with tiny seed pearls and beads of crystal. These sparkled with Pam's slightest movement and would be enchanting, suggested madame, in the waltz.
The neckline of the bodice had been the occasion of more argument and, eventually, a compromise. It showed a pleasing degree of decolletage, somewhat less than Amanda had suggested, but more than Lady Pamela had of late preferred.
"I'm well past twenty,” she told Lady Detweiler. “'Tis no longer any need to show my wares."
Amanda heard the hint of bitterness in that melancholy proclamation. “Nearly on the shelf, to be sure,” she rejoined, and turning to Madame Gaultier—"What of it, madame? Shall we dress her in crimson velvet to the chin?"