by Ava Stone
“Good heavens, what did I drink last night?”
He asked this while knowing full well there was no one to answer. Well, no one save his horse Beelzebub, who patiently cropped grass nearby while waiting for his master to regain his senses.
Was Beelzebub truly his horse? Not so long ago the black beast had been his brother’s, as had these fine clothes and the bloody title Viscount of Rothering. Then Horace had the rather bad taste to die without issue, leaving his younger brother to pick up all the pieces. Much like this suit of clothes, it all appeared to fit him very well, but he was not Horace. He’d not been born with an innate sense of tradition and love of hearth and home. He craved adventure. His stint in the navy had suited him, followed by traveling abroad. But now, at the tender age of four and twenty, his wings had been clipped.
Even with all his travel and carousing, he’d never before imbibed to such a state. Gathering the horse’s reins he was glad the beast had stayed with him, and could only hope the creature knew its way home to the grain that awaited it. Laurence was a great deal less enthusiastic about what awaited him. The three homes, forty servants, fourteen yeomen, and three thousand pounds of investments that his brother’s steward had reviewed with him yesterday. His steward. He had a steward. He had homes. The unbearable weight of it all had driven him out of the house and to a pub in town.
He knew that many men would be overjoyed with such a change in fortunes. In his darkest moments he toyed with the idea of giving it to some man who would want it, but that wasn’t the honorable thing to do. If he had loved the navy for the travel and adventure it afforded, he had done well because of his natural honor and sense of duty.
Chapter 2
"There's a carriage outside."
Hearing Georgette's dry, creaking rasp, Agatha's head popped out from behind the chest of drawers she'd been dusting. "What?"
The maid was holding a curtain back in one gnarled hand and gazing down on the front lawn. Not everything Georgette said made perfect sense these days, and it was certainly unlikely that anyone having the wherewithal to afford a carriage would be outside the poor and increasingly dilapidated Selby House. But something was holding the old woman's attention, so Agatha set her cloth aside and went to the window to investigate. Pulling the other curtain panel aside, she expected to see nothing but unkempt lawn and a drive that was becoming overgrown enough to be nearly called lawn itself. To her shock, she instead saw a carriage and four rolling to a stop. Had their drive more stone, she might have heard the clop of the horse's hooves, or the crunch of the wheels sooner, but those sounds on the soft earth were only barely to be heard through the window. The carriage was a magnificent monstrosity of shiny black wood and polished brass. The horses were a matched set of gleaming bays. She stared out the window with a numb sense of wonder. It was something so apart from her world that she didn't even think of how it had anything to do with her until she was jolted to her senses by the sound of one of the coachmen jumping to the ground. The man placed a step outside the carriage door. The door opened, and she saw one highly polished boot emerge before her breathing stopped. She backed away from the window. Good Lord. Who was it? What did they want? That one boot alone was worth more than their larder. Georgette continued to stare down, a small smile on her lips. The same smile she would get when reminiscing about the past. A past when such a carriage might have been unusual, but not unheard of. A past when her parents entertained friends that included nearby nobility.
Agatha felt like she was strangling. Looking down, she saw that her dark day dress was dusty and stained. And of course years out of fashion, as it had been her mother's. She frantically swiped at the dirt. Why hadn't she worn an apron? She had no time to change. Heavens, if she didn't run downstairs now then one of the twins might answer the door. Georgette was their sole remaining servant, and was truly more of an aged family member than anything else.
She flew down the steps, reaching the landing at the first knock on the door. Racing down the final flight, she was winded and flushed by the time she reached the door. Holding her hand on it to assure herself that Trouble couldn't open it before she was ready, she took a moment to catch her breath. A series of knocks sounded again, making her jump back.
Taking one final deep breath, smoothing her hair, and steeling her spine, she opened the door. The man who owned the boots bowed to her. Every aspect of him was resplendent, from his highly polished boots to his gold threaded jacket.
"Miss Agatha Chase?" he asked. His voice was smooth, his attitude polite and deferential. He was simply clean in a manner she'd not seen in some time, making her feel ever so much like a dowdy hedgehog dressed in rags. He certainly must have tremendous class and breeding to not look at her and burst out laughing.
"Yes?" Her voice sounded faint and breathless.
He held out an envelope with a flourish. "It is my great pleasure to give you this invitation from His Grace, the Duke of Danby."
Agatha heard an odd tone, as though Trouble had found a way to make the pianoforte produce a note many octaves above its range. Which was foolishness, because they'd had to sell the pianoforte some time ago. And it felt like the floor was pitching to the side, and that was also foolish. But it was possible that she should sit down.
"Are you all right, miss?" The man at her door stepped forward, putting a hand at her elbow. That was when she realized her knees had decided she would sit right here.
"Take your hands off my sister, sir!"
That was Fox. Was it already past noon? Her brother never arose before noon. The clean, soft-spoken man stepped back from her and bowed again.
"Mr. Chase, I am only delivering an invitation from His Grace, the Duke of Danby. Your sister seems to feel faint."
She saw Fox's considerably dirtier boots next to her. She was sitting on the floor? She closed her eyes for a moment. It didn't do, being a ninny. She was made of sterner stuff. The two men continued to talk, but she was no longer listening to their words. Opening her eyes, she looked out at the carriage and could see a crest. The Duke of Danby, her great-aunt's husband. It was just a close enough connection for others to recognize it, but distant enough that she had never thought to hear from him. Now here was someone bearing an invitation. She looked at their guest more critically. Clean, with clothing that cost more than their household spent in a year, but clearly a servant. Why was the duke sending her an invitation when she couldn't even compare to his servants?
She put her hand out to Fox and her brother casually pulled her to her feet while still speaking to their guest. She snatched the envelope from the dandy servant's hand, and turned away to open and read it.
Dear Great-Niece,
In honor of my beloved wife, I invite you to spend this Season in London.
Danby
She turned back and thrust the papers at the servant. "No. Tell him no. Thank you, but no."
The dandy servant caught the papers before they fell to the ground. "You don't tell a duke no, miss. It's not done."
She shook her head vigorously. "No."
Fox plucked the invitation from the servant's hand. A smile curved into one cheek. "Oh, this is brilliant."
"No."
He waved the invitation at the servant. "You heard him. You don't say no to a duke."
She felt her mulish determination crowding out more rational thoughts. "Someone should," she muttered.
Fox wrapped an arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. "Imagine all the fun we'll have in London."
"Absolutely not! I'd no more take Trouble to London than I'd ride naked through the streets."
"Fine, Lady Godiva," he said. "But you'll take me."
"No, because you need to stay here to keep an eye on Trouble and Tim."
"Oh, so you're going?"
She hated it when she forgot how clever Fox could be. He'd dodged under her stubbornness to make her consider the trip. "Why would I go? A Season in London is for young ladies with hopes to marry. I'm an old maid wi
th no dowry." She made a face at her brother. "And dubious relations."
He chuckled and tapped her under the chin. "You're lovely and any man would be lucky to marry you. Dubious relations aside."
She glanced at the servant in his impeccable clothing, then back to her brother with his unkempt red hair and threadbare clothing made over from their father's wardrobe. "Mr...?" She paused and looked at the servant expectantly.
"Purcell," he supplied readily.
"Mr. Purcell, what precisely does this invitation signify?"
"That His Grace will sponsor you for the season, miss."
"And that means?"
"If you are willing to accompany me, I am to deliver you to Lady Grace Hopewell. She will see to your wardrobe and introduction to Society."
Agatha had no idea who Lady Grace Hopewell was, but she sounded far less intimidating than a duke. Perhaps, only perhaps, Agatha could tolerate a Season. If she were able to bring the dresses home, they alone would fetch a pretty penny. Who knew what else she might be able to do?
Her brother spoke up again. "You don't think I'll let you hie off with my sister with aught else than your pretty words and a piece of paper?"
Agatha interrupted. "I'll take Georgette as my chaperone."
Fox turned to her with incredulous eyes. "And what, precisely, can she do?"
"Make me appear respectable."
"No," he said flatly. "I'll accompany you to ensure this Lady Hopewell is reputable."
"You can say no and I can't?"
Her brother's usual sly smile returned. "Your mistake was in trying to say it to a duke. The boys will be all right here for a few days on their own."
Agatha raised her eyebrows and Fox frowned.
"Perhaps they could stay a few days with the Hintons?" he suggested.
"After what Trouble did to Mrs. Hinton's garden last summer?"
They stood in the front hall, staring each other down while Mr. Purcell looked back and forth between them. At this rate, Agatha thought, she wasn't getting to London anytime soon.
“We’ll play hazards for it,” she offered.
Chapter 3
Among the things that Laurence had inherited from his brother, his least favorite was probably the Old Dragon. To most she was known by the moniker Miss Edna Gribble, but in private he and Horace had always called Great-Aunt Edna the Old Dragon. She was their mother's aunt, and had been ancient his whole life, it seemed. Ancient and vicious. Now each morning and eve he had the pleasure of hearing her cane thumping down the hallway when she joined him for a meal. It was enough to convince him to quit the country estate and escape to the London townhouse. Or perhaps the sea.
"The eggs are cold," the Old Dragon said in her imperious, growly voice.
"Are they, Aunt Edna?" Laurence asked pleasantly. The only revenge he had was being pleasant in the face of her horridness. There was a temptation to invite her to live in another home that would have hotter eggs. Perhaps Horace had done himself in to escape the Old Dragon. It didn't seem beyond comprehension.
"If you had half your father's gumption you'd not have such a lackluster staff."
Laurence raised a brow. Firstly, he remembered quite well how Aunt Edna had treated to their father. She'd never had a kind thing to say to the man. Not a surprise, really, as she never had a kind thing to say to anyone. Secondly, he'd not been in residence so much as a fortnight, and could hardly be the credit or blame for the household staff. Thirdly, the staff was wonderfully proficient, and surprisingly indulgent of this horrid beast. He assumed that Horace had continued their mother's tradition of coddling the biddy. Well, he wasn't Horace.
"You may say what you please to or about me, aunt, but the staff are not to be abused by your caustic tongue. They are excellent in performing their duties."
His statement had predictable responses. The footman standing by to serve straightened even more in pride, while his aunt drew an offended breath. Before long she sounded like a belabored bellows.
"I never!" she finally exclaimed.
"Undoubtedly," he said mildly.
She struggled to her feet and Laurence respectfully stood as she gathered her things and stomped away. It was undoubtedly a short-lived victory and she would heap ever more creative vitriol on him, but listening to her cane thump determinedly away from him was sweeter than the opening notes of Schubert's Mass. His simple pleasure in being left in peace to finish his breakfast was shortly broken by the butler Kirkland.
"A gentleman to see you, sir."
It would be unseemly to throw his napkin in disgust and curse, but he considered it. Quite possibly everything about this life he was trapped in was designed to irritate him. He would rather be under the thumb of the admiralty than dancing attendance on miscellaneous family members and the local gentry. Suffice to say, his attitude was less than stellar when he entered the drawing room.
"Bloody hell!" he called out, upon seeing his visitor. He recognized the set of the shoulders, the color of the hair. "Thomas!"
His old school friend turned from the bookcase he'd been perusing, smiling. "Bloody hell, indeed! How are you Laurie?"
"It's been what, Tom, four years at the very least?"
Thomas Hopkins shook his hand warmly. "At the very least. Sorry to hear about your brother, old man."
Laurence nodded. "Since Horace claimed the adventurous death of curricle racing, I'll assume it's my lot to die peacefully in my old age."
"Wrapped in a shawl your wife knitted for you," Tom added with a grin.
Laurence snorted. "Lord help me. To what do I owe your visit?"
"An old friend can't stop by without a reason?"
"Of course you can, but I can tell by your tone that it's not true."
"Sadly, not true," Tom agreed. "You wouldn't happen to have a drink, would you?"
Laurence raised his eyebrows slightly due to the hour, but willingly turned to the sideboard. "Still a claret man?"
"Or whatever you have at hand."
In school Tom had been terribly elegant, to the point of foppishness. Only the best, the most of-the-minute styles for everything: clothes, foods, entertainment. Something was clearly bothering the man if he didn't care what drink he was served. Laurence poured claret for both of them and invited his friend to sit on one of the comfortable sofas.
"Last I heard you were in Vienna," Tom said companionably as they sat.
"You've kept up with my whereabouts?" Laurence asked with some surprise.
"Oh, in Town you can be sure that everyone is talking about everyone. The only way to shift attention from yourself is to talk about someone even more interesting." After taking a sip, Tom tipped his glass at Laurence. "Bringing you up extracted me from many an annoying inquiry."
"Glad I could be of use," Laurence murmured, intrigued by this new information. "Let us get the business that is bothering you out of the way so that we can enjoy ourselves. Certainly you'll stay with us for a time?"
Rather than respond to the invitation, Tom smiled down into his wine glass. "Business? I wouldn't call it business. Just a favor."
Laurence suspected he knew what was coming next. A plea for funds, because Tom's father had cut him off, or there were debts, or perhaps a babe with an actress that he couldn't tell his family about. "What are friends for?"
"Oh, not a favor for you or for me. But when a duke asks you for a favor you do not refuse him."
That was indeed surprising. "A duke?"
"Yes, the Duke of Danby. He cornered me at a dinner party two days ago and asked that I bring you to London for the Season."
Laurence frowned. "To what end?"
"He requires an escort for his grand-niece."
"Why not you?"
Tom's lips quirked slightly. "I should think that quite obvious. I'm neither a viscount nor a war hero."
Laurence frowned even more fiercely. "I'm not a war hero."
"Don't tell that to all the actresses that I patriotically bedded in your name. It turns out t
hat even connection to a war hero has it's benefits."
"When are you supposed to bring me to London?"
"By week's end."
"He envisioned that you would have to cajole me for some time before I agreed?"
"Undoubtedly. But now that nasty business is out of the way and we have days of entertainment ahead of us. Aren't we clever?"
"You're so confident that I'll go to London with you?"
"Of course you will," Tom said, with a dose of his old joie de vivre. "You'd never leave your friend in a lurch. Now, what is there to do in Loughborough?"
Tom had the right of it that Laurence wouldn't leave a friend in a lurch. And having both a duke and an old friend owing him favors couldn't go amiss, even if he had to dance attendance on some spoiled chit for an evening or two. "In Loughborough?" he mused. "Unless you fancy marketing or discussing the finer points of who was to blame for burning Heathcoat's mill, I reckon you'd be better off here at the house."
Chapter 4
Agatha spent three long days in the carriage, and two nights sleeping next to loudly snoring Georgette, before they finally arrived. She had been gawking out the window at the city for almost an hour before the carriage finally stopped, and now Mr. Purcell handed her down to stand in some awe before a truly imposing home of carved stone that soared at least three stories above her. It put a crick in her neck just trying to see the top windows. Purcell helped Georgette from the carriage as well and now motioned for Agatha to proceed him to the door. She gritted her teeth, looking down at the wrinkled brown traveling dress, hardly better than the day dress she had been in when he found her. There was nothing for it but to proceed. As the saying went, nothing ventured meant nothing gained. As she had so very little to lose now, any sort of gain seemed beneficial.
The door opened before she reached it, and a dour-faced man looked out at her. The terror of entering the house was quickly quelled by being passed from one servant to another in order to be shown her room, bathed, and fussed over. It was intimidating and awkward, taking all of her strength to keep from snatching the brush from her new maids, and that was maids plural, and ordering them out of the room. She wasn't quite sure how many maids she had attending to her, as their gray uniforms made them all look quite a bit alike, much like sisters in a convent. It was more than three, she was sure of that since she had four in her room at once. They had produced a gown of palest green silk and busily set to pinning Agatha into it. The girls clucked and muttered under their breaths about how they would set to sewing it right when she returned. All in all, Agatha was beginning to doubt the existence of Lady Grace. Perhaps there was just a mad pack of servants who sought out wayward ladies to serve. Finally, the maid she had identified as their leader stepped back with an approving nod. Marie, she thought.
