Lord Haversham Takes Command (13 page)

He was startled from his reverie by a knock on the door followed by the entrance of the butler with a tray. Harry hadn’t expected anything more than a cold collation of cheese, meat, and bread but he was surprised by the small stack of vellum next to the plate.

“Thank you … Randall, is it?” Harry asked. “Have I letters then?”

“Yes on both counts, m’lord,” the butler replied and handed them to Harry. “The one with the seal arrived yesterday by special delivery, but the other arrived just moments ago.”

With a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach that had naught to do with hunger, Harry suspected the sealed letter to be his new orders and was relieved to know that George had been nowhere close to Dover when they arrived. He put that aside and opened the other, a plain piece of vellum folded in half, the outside bearing only his name and the inside merely the words:
I know
.

“Who left this?” Harry demanded.

“I couldn’t say, m’lord. There was a knock at the door. When I opened it, there was only that — no one on the steps or the street or anywhere that I could see.”

“Thank you, Randall,” Harry said shortly. He waited until the butler shut the door behind him to break the seal on the second letter. It, like the first, was a study in brevity and contained only the words:
wait for further instructions
. Harry supposed he was meant to wait close to the coast in anticipation of a ship to which he must deliver the letter in his care. He hoped his instructions didn’t indicate that a speedy flight from the country was warranted so that he would have a chance to do more in service to his Queen and country.

And what of his other letter? George certainly could have arrived in Dover in time to leave such a note. He had surely read the stolen orders and knew they would send Harry to Dover without delay. George might have been prepared to follow Harry to the coast even before he was himself aware he would be making the journey. The Duke might have even feigned his fit of drunkenness to allow Harry to find his orders; George could hardly follow Harry in the execution of his orders if he had no knowledge of what they contained.

What a fool Harry had been! His first order of business come morning would be to ascertain how long the Duke had been in town. His appetite fled, Harry removed his boots, threw himself on the bed, and emptied his mind of all thoughts but those of Mira.

Within moments he was fully engaged in a slow waltz with his beloved, her lips tantalizingly close to his own and yet impossible to claim on the dance floor. Just as he waltzed the two of them across the imaginary ballroom and through a door to the velvet shadows of the terrace, an ugly thought broke through waves of fatigue and brought him fully awake; what if the note hadn’t been left by George? The Duke was weak and easily handled, however, if the missive had been penned by another, there was no way to know to what the author referred — no way to know in which direction danger lurked. It was then that an equally chilling thought occurred to him; Bertie must certainly return.

With a heavy sigh, he rolled out of bed and sat at the table bearing the tray of food. If sleep were to elude him, he would be wise to eat as he pondered his latest predicament. It would be best to reconsider his plans and start anew; only, he had no plans — none at all.

He ate the food and drained the large tankard dry. He pulled out paper and pen and tried to think. He paced the floor, opened the window for fresh air, and paced some more. He opened the door to his bedroom to pace the hall only to come face-to-face with his startled housekeeper in her nightdress and robe who screeched and dropped her candle in the passageway.

“I thought I would collect your tray, m’lord,” she murmured and bent to retrieve her candle at the exact moment he did the same. Their heads collided with a loud thunk, and when the stars sprayed across his vision dimmed, he saw that Mrs. Lambson was passed out cold on the passage floor, and there seemed to be a small fire burning in the carpet.

Within seconds, Randall appeared on the landing to see what was amiss. The sight of Mrs. Lambson prostrate on the ground prodded him into action, whereupon he ran to fetch the tankard from Harry’s dinner tray and threw the contents onto the promising-looking fire. When no obliging splash of liquid ensued, he turned to give Harry a speaking look.

“I was thirsty,” Harry said, feeling unaccountably defensive, then realized the butler meant for him to find another source of water. He ran into his room for the pitcher that sat in the bedside basin; however, the room had not been occupied in years, and the pitcher was dry as the tankard had been.

The taciturn Randall took Mrs. Lambson by the ankles and dragged her away from the growing fire whilst Harry ran up the stairs, calling to the footmen for water, wondering all the while how such a disaster had occurred. If he did not put an end to it, he would be his mother’s son indeed.

His anxiety rose until he thought his heart would pound out of his chest, then realized the throbbing in his ears was caused by the footman running down the stairs from their quarters in the attics. Quickly, they set to work: the fire was put out before the smoke became intolerable, and a revived Mrs. Lambson was taken to her room and put to bed with an ice pack for her head. Randall removed the tray from the room and suggested Harry take another down the hall, one not so overcome with fumes.

Harry meekly did as he was told and spent a fitful night. Matters did not improve with the rising of the sun. Everything he set his hand to went awry, and his servants were required to step in time and time again. He grew more and more occupied with the thought that he had inherited his mother’s propensity for disaster, most especially when his housekeeper made the sign of the cross every time she removed herself from his presence, a gesture he thought more than a little out of place as Catholic families hardly littered the coastal town of Dover.

Just when he thought he could not abide one more spat between the sisters hired to clean house or another request to change a menu item for a foodstuff Mrs. Lambson found ‘more suitable’ or report from the butler that a piece of crockery or furniture had been broken yet again, there came the crunch of wheels on gravel that presaged the arrival of a carriage.

Harry assessed the conveyance through the safety of an upstairs window. If it were anyone but the Crenshaws, he would await his guests in the drawing room, as was proper. However, he quickly ascertained that the carriage bore the Crenshaw crest and he headed down the stairs to greet them at the door. He yearned to see Mira but at the moment yearned for her mother, perhaps even more. Lady Crenshaw would certainly put matters to rights in a snap of her fingers, and Harry would be allowed to relax and enjoy his time with his beloved.

Since he first conceived the idea of a party, he had pictured this moment a hundred times: Mira’s face alight with a smile as the door opened to reveal her family standing on the step, the softening of her eyes as her gaze fell on Harry just as they had at Haversham House in London, the gentle sway of whatever frippery adorned her hat as she made her way to him, her hands outstretched, her face aglow.

Instead, just as he gained the front hall, the door opened to reveal a distraught and wide-eyed Mira, a flustered Lady Crenshaw, and a rather grim and disheveled Sir Anthony who bore in his arms Harry’s supine mother.

He rushed to the door but hardly knew where to look; every pair of eyes, including the closed lids of his mother, registered disaster. He knew, however, that he dared waste no time in recovering his wits; the matter of his mother must be put to rights without delay.

“Mother,” he began but was denied the opportunity to say more when Lady Avery’s eyes snapped open, and she lifted her head from her faint long enough to say, “I have come at great speed and expense to my health, Herbert, with naught but the clothes on my back, for you must know that one day is not sufficient time to acquire an appropriate wardrobe for such an illustrious event.”

The utterance of these simple sentences proved to be too much for she once again fainted dead away and remained lifeless through the transference of her person from Sir Anthony to Harry’s waiting arms.

Chapter Thirteen

Mira could hardly believe what had happened. She had passed nearly two days ensconced in the carriage with her mama and papa and Lady Avery who served only to remind all present that she was sure to be the ruin of any caught in her unfortunate orbit. How was Mira to impress upon her parents that Harry’s mother was harmless when she behaved as she did? She had arrived at Prospero Park, unannounced, forced herself into their carriage, insisted that her hosts give up the forward facing seat in favor of herself and Mira, and
would
put her feet,
sans
shoes, in Sir Anthony’s lap so he could rub them “as Eustace is wont to do on long journeys.” And that was just the outset of their time together.

Mira had fretted the entire way to Dover with regards to what Lady Avery might do next and why Mira’s usual calming influence had little effect. She suspected the house party would end in disaster, and that would be the end of her parent’s obliging attitude with regards to Harry. At least she knew she was no longer expected to marry George, who thankfully rode to Dover in the Crenshaw crested carriage along with his mother, the Duchess, and Mira’s brothers. She did not envy her father the task of disabusing George of the notion their betrothal was nothing more than that.

She absolutely refused to entertain a single thought on the subject of Harry’s reaction to his mother’s traveling costume, an incredibly voluminous, wide-skirted confection in a garish green that made Mira’s head ache. The worst piece of news, however, was Lady Avery’s utter lack of luggage whatsoever. What she was to wear throughout her stay at Cedars was a mystery, one which did not bear contemplating.

So adamantly did Lady Avery execute one badly behaved scene after another, Mira might have suspected Harry’s mother of purposefully misbehaving in order to put paid to any pretensions of a wedding between her son and Mira, but she knew better; Lady Avery simply
was
. A full two days of hand-clapping, fainting, foot-stamping, pouting, and nonsensical remarks was enough to prove this to Mira in full. By the time they arrived at Cedars and Lady Avery had feigned a faint whilst being helped out of the carriage by Sir Anthony, forcing him to swoop her into his arms or allow her to split her head open on the carriage steps, Mira saw all her hopes and dreams reduced to ash.

“Ginny, darling,” Sir Anthony said as he hefted Lady Avery into his arms, “do take her feet; she is hardly the lithe creature she once was.”

Before Mira had a chance to fully examine such a tantalizing remark, Lady Avery rallied. “I will have you know that I am every bit as lithe as ever. Did I not don a gown from my debutante Season for my recent ball?” she asked in bright tones that belied her indisposition nearly as much as the way she kicked at Lady Crenshaw every time she attempted to draw near.

Suddenly, Mira realized everything depended on Harry and his reaction to the scene he was about to witness. She prayed that he would have a few moments to collect himself once he learned of his mother’s most recent ailment — that Harry, rather than Bertie, would stride in upon their little tableau and take matters into his capable hands. She imagined an agitated butler and harried housekeeper running hither and yon as they attempted to set matters to rights and how impressed her mama and papa would be once Harry took command of the situation.

With a mingled sense of hope and doom, she took the lead and tripped up the steps to the front door, drew a deep breath, and knocked. It was opened by the butler, who, by rights, should have anticipated their arrival and made himself available for whatever was needed, from the collecting of luggage to the transportation of a swooned Lady Avery, but he did not. Instead, he merely looked at them, his expression one of abject horror the moment his gaze fell upon Harry’s mother.

And then Mira saw Harry —
her
Harry — the one she needed right this very moment. She wanted nothing more than to throw herself into his arms and pour out her tale of woe, however, by the time his mother had made the deficiencies in her wardrobe known, Mira could see that Harry guessed all. Without a moment’s hesitation, he took Lady Avery from Sir Anthony’s arms and stood her on her own two feet. She crumpled a bit, and Mira thought she must go down, but the volume of what could not be less than three petticoats under her horrid green skirt kept her aloft.

“Now, Mother, this must stop. You are a grown woman, and that is what is needed in my hostess. I cannot depend on you if you are to faint dead away at every breath of wind.”

“Of course, Herbert,” she replied with what Mira felt to be genuine gumption. “It’s only that I am so very warm. I believe I must have donned one too many petticoats.”

Over Lady Avery’s head, Mira’s and Harry’s gazes met in a moment of pure accord. Very carefully, Mira angled a foot to quickly lift the green skirt without calling attention to her actions, one which revealed nearly half a dozen wide-hooped petticoats, as well as several day dresses, a pair of ball gowns, both blue, a night rail, and a riding habit. How Lady Avery had kept this superfluity of fabric from the notice of her fellow travelers was astonishing to say the least.

“Lady Avery,” Mira suggested as mildly as her sudden panic allowed, “the color in your cheeks is quite high. Perhaps you should lie down. Let us find your room while the housekeeper sends up a maid to make you more comfortable.”

“Thank you,” Harry replied, “I think that an excellent notion. Mother, I suggest you demonstrate your appreciation for Miss Crenshaw’s kindness by indulging her every wish.”

“I shall inform Mrs. Lambson that a maid is required,” the butler intoned and he hurried off just as Mira led Lady Avery up the stairs. Mira, glad of a reason to draw her parents’ attention away from Harry’s mother in favor of her son, hoped he was doing his utmost to ensure her mother’s and father’s comfort after their ordeal. It meant so much to Mira to know that she might rightly rely on Harry to see her parents settled which left her free to see to Lady Avery. Once Mira donned the peevish Lady Avery in something light and airy, Mira felt confident that Harry’s mother would be a new woman.

However, once they obtained a satisfactory bedchamber, Mira could not resist satisfying her curiosity. “Lady Avery, why don so much clothing at once?” she asked with a gesture that took in Lady Avery from head to toe. “Why forsake luggage in favor of making yourself a literal clotheshorse?”

“Oh, you clever girl, you have caught on to my little deception! Still, you have so much to learn,” Lady Avery said with a knowing look. “If you can’t acquire the trick of making a proper entrance, you shall never be deemed a lady.”

“I’m afraid I still cannot fathom … ” Mira demurred as she helped Lady Avery step out of her skirt. “I am persuaded a true lady makes a regal entrance with much attention paid to decorum and self-restraint.”

“That is what the haughty duchesses and their husbands’ snide mistresses would have you think. The truth is, a
soupcon
of drama goes a long way!”

“I am persuaded you are correct upon that score,” Mira assured her whilst she privately mused on what terrible misfortune had caused Lady Avery’s definition of ‘a bit’ to wander so far from that of the dictionary.

“Of course you do, darling girl! So you must perceive how delicious it was to enter Cedars swooned in the arms of a man who was not my husband and fully prepared to make such a speaking remark!”

“By ‘speaking remark,’ I imagine you refer to the one you made with regards to hastening to join your son without stopping to pack your things,” Mira suggested as she peeled away several layers of those things from Lady Avery’s increasingly thinner form.

“I knew you would understand! And when Herbert marries you, I hope you shall take a page from my book and make your wedding one none shall ever forget. I know I intend to,” she said with an arch smile so full of perverse promise that Mira felt her knees turn to water and was forced to sit on the edge of the bed.

“But … why?” Mira asked, her hopes turned once more to ashes.

“Why what?” Lady Avery replied, bright as a summer afternoon and happily occupied with the task of clothing removal.

“Why would you wish to draw so much attention to yourself at your own son’s wedding?”

“Because it shall be such a spectacular day! The more important the event, the more drama is required, that is what I always say, for you see, I never had a wedding; Eustace and I eloped,” she added with a sad, little moue. “As such, I have been plotting and planning every detail of Herbert’s nuptials since the day he was born. I have even done up a dozen sketches of his bride’s gown. It is the dearest thing positively groaning under the weight of hundreds of satin roses attached hither and yon! However,” she added with a decidedly downcast air, “I must admit, I am at a loss as to this house party. I’ve barely had time to breathe, let alone think. Perhaps you might help me plan something perfect for tonight!” she asked with a flurry of claps.

“I imagine you shall do well enough on your own,” Mira said faintly.

“I suppose you are right. A penchant for drama is one of my God-given gifts; I defy anyone to deny it,” she said with a sigh that denoted a resignation towards her deific burden.

Mira could think of no reply that suited such a statement and longed for escape. What had become of the maid whose arrival would release Mira from her duty? How long before she was able to quit the room without giving offense? Was there time to gather her parents and flee the premises before Lady Avery unveiled her preposterousness, her next plot, or, heaven prevent, any part of her person?

Finally, Lady Avery was down to her corset and pantaloons, the high color in her cheeks had receded, and Mira felt she could, in good conscience, leave Lady Avery to her own devices. Since it was clear to Mira that Lady Avery, happily occupied at the dressing table, would hardly notice anything beyond her own reflection in the looking-glass, Mira departed without even a by-your-leave.

As she walked down the stairs to the front hall, her head splitting with unpleasant possibilities, the front door opened to reveal Stephen and Adrian, loaded down with an astonishing amount of baggage.

“Oh!” Mira cried, delighted to have additional reminders of home to bolster her in what had proved to be trying circumstances. She flew down the stairs to greet them but was startled by the sight of Her Grace, George’s mother, still styled as the Duchess of Marcross until such time her son should take a wife. Mira, painfully aware that she was, in George’s and his mother’s eyes, the girl poised for such a position, did not wonder at the frown on Her Grace’s face when she looked up to see her intended successor. The Duchess was a beautiful woman and still somewhat young; doubtless she did not look forward to a journey through life as the dowager duchess.

The butler and several footman were soon on hand to divest Mira’s brothers from what proved to be mostly Her Grace’s bags, and it was not long before Harry appeared to greet the newcomers.

“But I do not see His Grace!” Harry said in tones more than a little reminiscent of Bertie. “Is he not with you?”

The Duchess responded with naught but a roll of her eyes.

“Miss Crenshaw,” Harry said, turning to address her, “I’m afraid you must enlighten me. Does the roll of the eyes indicate that her son
is
with her but out, perhaps seeing to the rubbing down of the horses, or that he is presently a resident of the lunatic asylum?” he asked with a giddy giggle. “For, you must know, I have long thought it the best option for a case such as his.”

Mira was more than a little impressed at the Duchess’s utter lack of response, but Stephen’s and Adrian’s arrested expressions clearly revealed their discomfort at Harry’s lack of decorum. At the same time, she suspected this was a breach of manners of which even Stephen could approve.

“His Grace set out with us in the carriage,” Adrian explained, “but shortly thereafter took the journey alone on his mount.”

“An unnatural son,” announced his mother, who was engaged with the removal of her hat and gloves precisely as if the front hall were her personal dressing room. “I have never understood him,” she added with a sharp look for Mira.

“I am persuaded he is cognizant of his duty to his position,” Mira began but soon faltered. There was no response to the Duchess’s remark that seemed other than impertinent.

“Your Grace,” Harry intoned with an exaggerated bow. “I have been remiss in my duties and must tender my apologies. Miss Crenshaw,” he said as he took her elbow and steered her towards the double doors leading into the parlor, “allow me to find you a seat by the fire in the faultless company of your esteemed parents.”

Mira, her back now turned to the Duchess, could only wonder as to the effect of Harry’s neglect upon George’s mother, however, her response was far from what she could have expected.

“Ah, so that is where you have hidden him,” the Duchess purred, whereupon she pushed her way past Mira and opened the double doors without the aid of so much as a single footman. “Tony!” she cried and took herself on winged feet across the room where Mira’s father and mother recovered from their journey.

Mira turned to Harry to decipher his reaction and was shocked to learn he was not in the least surprised. “You knew of this warm relationship between my father and his aunt?”

“I should hardly call it warm,” Harry said with a look for her father who leaped to his feet and ran through the door to the gardens for all the world like Joseph from Potiphar’s wife. With far more grace, Lady Crenshaw also rose, a determined smile fixed to her face, and held out her hand to the Duchess in greeting. The Duchess had no choice but to greet Lady Crenshaw in return, and the two of them were soon seated across from one another on the sofa, prepared to do battle.

“Someone ought to rescue her,” Stephen suggested.

“If only Her Grace weren’t a woman,” Adrian carped as he pounded a fist into his hand.

“I am astounded!” Mira said. “I hadn’t the slightest idea there was anything between them and yet you two have known all along?”