Lady Pamela (10 page)

The accomplishments were many, Mrs. Throckmorton knowing her job, but the second list never seemed to diminish. With every room the housekeeper entered, some new catastrophe presented itself. Cracked glass in the windows that weren’t broken outright, worm in the boards of the back staircase, dry rot in the ceiling beams of the duchess’s bedchamber–

’Twas lucky there were no duchess as yet, seeing as no lady would be willing to take her lie-down in
that
room.

And the kitchen was an entire, unpleasant subject unto itself. Mrs. Throckmorton had hired a cook straightaway, but the first pair of ratcatchers had been incompetent hacks, and Cook had threatened to leave if something were not done, forthwith, about the vermin.

Not to say that matters weren’t vastly improved from the day she had arrived. The new gardener had already pruned away the worst of the honeysuckle and was soon to brave the yews. Three additional maids had been hired and set to scrubbing, polishing, and dusting any room that the duke might chance to frequent, in good repair or not. As for the footmen–four of them, now, the brawniest she could find–Mrs. Throckmorton had assigned them the heavier tasks, including the washing of whatever windows remained intact. Cabinetmakers had been employed to build new cabinetry, glaziers employed for the windows, and plasterers for the walls. In short, Marchers was filled morning to eve with an expanding troop of servants and hirelings, all marching quick-step to the housekeeper’s tune.

Mrs. Throckmorton would have sacked anyone who grumbled, sure enough. But the duke’s wages were more than fair–a generous employer, he were–and she’d only to say that his grace wished this, or his grace wished that, and ’twas done. All in all, considering the difficulties of the situation–a grand house let run to the rats and mould–matters were progressing as well as could be expected.

Josiah Cleghorn, now rested, began hauling the armoire toward the back hallway, leaving a trail of dust. Mrs. Throckmorton sighed. Moments later she heard the sounds of a ladder scraping against the outside of the house, and saw the head and shoulders of a footman appear in one of the entrance hall windows. He doffed his cap at the housekeeper and set carefully to work with an iron claw, removing lengths of the frame for repair.

Or for the dustbin, more like. Looked to be more rot–

“William,” she said sharply. “Mind the broken glass.”

But her warning was too late. Another piece of the window, loosened from its sash, fell inwards and shattered on the marble underfoot.

The housekeeper sighed again. ’Twould have been better, perhaps, to have waited to polish the floor until renovations were complete. But his grace would be having visitors soon, she had thought, and the entrance hall to Marchers House would be the first thing they saw. Mrs. Throckmorton was particular about her floors.

* * * *

“Damn.”

The previous night had seen rain, and Lord Benjamin Torrance stepped from bed unawares and into a puddle of water. The odor of mildew was stronger this morning as well, with the damp in the air, and the duke thought with longing of the immaculate chambers at Corsham Manor.

Even the housekeeper’s rooms, downstairs, had been preferable, but–occupied as they now were by Mrs. Throckmorton–Lord Torrance had been forced to move into the duke’s suite, with Josiah taking the valet’s bedroom next door.

This was the outside of enough, thought Benjamin, grabbing a towel. The duke’s rooms were designed to be the finest in the house, but the roof–otherwise intact, thank the heavens–had its one weak spot overhead, and this was not the first morning he had awoken to water on his bedchamber floor. If the
ton
could see him now, the Duke of Grentham, on his hands and knees mopping up water with one benighted, moth-eaten towel.

Benjamin threw down the cloth in disgust. Why had someone not been sent to purchase more linens?

Oh, yes, he remembered. Mrs. Throckmorton
had
purchased new linens–of course she had–but there was no place in the duke’s bedchambers to store such items. Not a single set of drawers, or a clean hook anywhere.

If the
ton
could see him now, indeed.

“Blast and damn,” the duke added, his mood worsening as thoughts of London society begat memories of the previous evening’s ball. The waltz, Lady Pamela, and that unfortunate conversation...What had he said to her?
And I asked you to marry me, did I not?
The duke groaned. She had taken it as a reproach, although he had not intended it so.

Or had he? Benjamin told himself that he had no cause to reproach Pamela Sinclair. What she had done with her life was entirely her own business. Lady Pam was a woman past her twenty-fifth year, and ’twas not to be expected that she was a milk-and-water miss, fresh from the schoolroom. Her maturity, her intelligence, and her calm outlook on life were each aspects of her personality that had attracted him, after all.

But other thoughts surfaced, less pleasant. He had expected to marry someday. A duke must marry. But his duchess– the kind of woman she would be–

He had never anticipated there would be any questions on the matter.

Devil take it. Benjamin shook his head and dressed quickly, intending another early start on the day. ’Twas fortunate that Marchers presented so much work and left him so little time for rumination.

* * * *

“I wonder if I might trouble you for your assistance in a small matter...”

Lord Jeremy Burgess had spent much of the day disentangling his mother from another undesirable suitor–her fortune brought them out in droves–and so it was evening before he was able to make inquiries on Lady Detweiler’s behalf. Although nothing involving Amanda surprised him anymore, the ‘small matter’ of which she had spoken came close.

She had insisted on waiting until the waltz ended before she said any more, to his frustration. And then, after they had made their way out to the Marthwaites’ terrace, Amanda explained to Lord Burgess what she wished him to do.

“You want me to send a message to Lord Torrance’s
valet
?”

“That I would like to meet with him, yes.”

This was a dubious endeavor, in Lord Burgess’s opinion, but Lady Detweiler had been adamant.

“It is a matter,” she told him, “involving Lady Pamela.”

“Ah.” Lord Burgess still hesitated. “I suppose...”

“Josiah Cleghorn seems to have unusual ideas concerning his role as the duke’s manservant, but I believe he still holds Lord Torrance in high esteem. I’d wager he has some notion of the duke’s feelings for Pamela Sinclair.”

“Is that what the fuss is about? Lady Pamela and the duke?” Lord Burgess risked a small chuckle. Lady Detweiler’s propensity for matchmaking was familiar to him, despite her protestations concerning the subject of love.

Amanda shrugged. “Pah. She’s been moping about for months, you know. ’Tis dreary beyond words. And Lord Torrance– I don’t suppose dukes are allowed to mope, but he looks none too happy tonight.”

“Indeed,” said Lord Burgess. He was wondering, ruefully, how it happened that he had again been caught up in one of Lady Detweiler’s schemes. Although, he would have to admit, her machinations had proved successful more often than not.

“At his convenience, I suppose,” Amanda was saying, and Lord Burgess realized she was still discussing plans to meet with the duke’s valet. “Although sooner would be better than later. I’ll wait for him outside Marchers in the cabriolet.”

“Amanda, there’s no need for you to meet this man. I’ll speak to him myself.”

“Very kind of you I’m sure, but valets,” Lady Detweiler pointed out, “are close-mouthed when it comes to their employers. ’Twill be fortunate if he even agrees to talk to me.”

So that evening found Lord Jeremy Burgess visiting every tavern within walking distance of Marchers House. With any luck, thought Jeremy, the Duke of Grentham’s man would not be a teetotaler.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Lord Torrance sat at his library desk and wondered, dispiritedly, how one went about removing the mildew from an entire collection of books. Of all the problems that Marchers presented, the situation in the library troubled him the most. The odor had been only moderately unpleasant on first inspection of the room, but as soon as the maids had begun removing each volume for dusting it became strong and unmistakably mouldy. Airing the room day and night had been scant help. Poor Bess and Mary had never complained.

He felt, for the first time, a surge of anger against the old duke. What had the man been thinking, to be careless with something so valuable and unique? The volumes were bound beautifully in leather and gilt, neatly organized by subject and author–and had been left here to rot, it seemed. Even the atlases, as fine a set of maps as he had seen, had not escaped damage.

His uncle had not even bothered to send them to a bookseller, thought Benjamin. Where they might have found an appreciative buyer, someone who would have given them the attention they deserved. The duke felt strongly about books, and remembered his years in Virginia when they were not as readily available to him as they were here in London. Books were a means of escape from the everyday world, when the everyday world grew difficult. He wouldn’t mind sitting down right now, as it happened, a volume of Shakespeare or Donne in hand.

Benjamin looked up as the door opened, and one of the young footmen entered.

“Milord,” said the footman, extending a silver dish piled high with letters.

Benjamin thanked him, and looked curiously down at the stack of envelopes. They were of various sizes, addressed in different, ornate hands.

Letters? During the weeks they had been in London Benjamin had received an occasional missive from James Pharr–his steward–at Corsham Manor, but most days there had been nothing at all.

“Eh?” Josiah had followed the footman into library. He eyed the duke, and the stack of letters. For a moment, Lord Torrance thought the valet was about to grin.

“I don’t understand,” said Benjamin, slitting open the first envelope.

“Invitations, most like,” said Josiah. He looked smug.

“Invitations?” said Lord Torrance. “Surely not.” He’d received the one from Lord Marthwaite, of course, but that was days ago.

The valet, to his astonishment, was correct.

Benjamin frowned. “How can this be? I attended a single ball! And there were no invitations before–”

“Waiting to see if y’d attend the one,” said Josiah.

“I have no time for this! Of all the ridiculous ways to waste a person’s time, and with the house about to fall down around our ears!”

The valet did not attempt to argue. “Be for dinner, some of ’em,” he commented.

Dinner... Lord Torrance had a sudden, almost painfully vivid memory of his last meal at the manor. A pie of mixed game in short crust, a fine roast pork accompanied by figs in cream, and followed by a blancmange. They ate simply in the country, of course, but the food at Corsham was always abundant and well-prepared.

The work at Marchers had been so taxing that Benjamin had spent little time worrying over what he did or did not have to eat. He trusted that Mrs. Throckmorton had matters generally in hand, but Cook was as stubborn and fastidious as the housekeeper, and the kitchen was being scrubbed, aired, and sanded with a vengeance. Cook insisted that cleanliness was a necessary prerequisite for meals.

“No food comes out of my kitchen,” she told him, “until the rats are gone.”

Even a duke could hardly argue with this. So they had been making do with meat roasted on a spit in the garden, and pastries purchased by the score from a nearby shop, and it would still be some time before the regular habits of a ducal household could be observed.

Benjamin found his mouth watering. Dinner parties were a normal part of London society. He would need to reciprocate eventually, of course, but in the meantime...

But if he was to accept even the occasional dinner, thought Benjamin, the stack of invitations would grow ever higher until he found himself as much a part of the
ton
as if he had entered London in a carriage and four with
His Grace, The Duke of Grentham
emblazoned on its side. His intention had never been to spend a great deal of time in society, or even in London for that matter. The Wiltshire plain was a far better place to avoid Pamela Sinclair.

To avoid Lady Pamela? said the little voice. ’Twill be difficult to avoid the lady, if you continue to waltz with her.

No more balls, then, thought Benjamin. At least, he could refuse to attend any balls.

* * * *

Lord Burgess had stopped into several of the local establishments before finding Josiah Cleghorn at the Rose and Crown on Curzon Street. The valet was nearly finished with his pint of ale and amiable enough, especially after Jeremy had stood him to a second pint. He was also stubborn as the day was long, and as horrified at the prospect of talking to a lady of the
‘
toon
’
as Lord Burgess was to be conveying the request.

“Eh,” said Josiah, shaking his head, and at first it was all the answer he would give.

But Lord Burgess had purchased ale at each of the public houses he had visited that night, and a drunken Lord Burgess could out-stare a mule. Several more pints disappeared between the two of them, and at last a meeting with Lady Detweiler was arranged.

“Crazy as a shoe-horned loon, the lot of ’em,” said the valet, referring generally–as Jeremy believed–to the female sex.

Lord Burgess was inclined to agree.

* * * *

So Amanda arrived in front of Marchers House the following day at the agreed upon time–half past nine–and waited impatiently in the hooded cabriolet until Josiah Cleghorn made his appearance.

She pulled back the curtain and bade him enter. The valet hesitated.

“Wha d’ ye want, then?”

“Don’t stand there in the street for the gawkers,” she hissed.

“Don’ like it,” Josiah said. “Don’ like sneaking around behind his lordship’s back.”

“Yes, yes, it’s horrible. Do get in.”

“Eh,” said the valet, and spat a stream of tobacco juice onto the pavement.