The Courtship - Catherine Coulter [18]
“She will give me excellent sport,” he said, blew a kiss to Helen in and among the shadows overhead, blew out the candle, and smiled as he watched the dash of candle smoke explode into the air.
Lord Beecham knew women. He knew strategy. He was a master hunter.
He made no effort to see Miss Helen Mayberry for three days.
On Thursday afternoon the small park across from Lord Beecham’s town house on Grosvenor Square was rioting with spring flowers—sunny daffodils, pale lavender lilacs, creamy red azaleas. There were other richly bloomed flowers peeking out here and there, but he didn’t know what they were called. It was a beautiful day, and he decided he had worked enough on the estate accounts. He informed his secretary, Pliny Blunder (an unfortunate appellation that the man did his best to overcome by working harder than any three secretaries in London), to leave him alone, that he was pale from being locked up in this damned estate room for so long and that he was going riding.
Pliny didn’t want him to quit working, however, having produced a thick pile of accounts and correspondence that would surely prove his worth, if only his lordship would put off—for just another hour, maybe two—his quite unnecessary ride in the park.
“My lord, you are not at all pale. Look yon at the accounts for Paledowns. Well, not really that many accounts from tradesmen and that sort of thing, but I have many recommendations, my lord, that have added excellent bulk to the pile.”
“Recommendations, Blunder?”
“Yes, my lord. Your aunt Mabel is so very frugal that now she is refusing to buy new sheets even after Lord Hilton put his foot through one when he was visiting just last month.”
“Prepare a very civil letter to my aunt Mabel telling her that you are ordering new linen and it will be delivered to her.”
“But my lord, I know nothing about linen.”
“That is why God created housekeepers, Blunder. Speak to Mrs. Glass. Now you will leave me alone. You may torture me tomorrow morning, but not before ten o’clock, do you understand me?”
“I understand, my lord, but I cannot be happy about it.”
“Get Burney to saddle up Luther now, Blunder. Run to the stables—you are on the pale side yourself—to inform him. I am leaving right now. My eyes are crossing, my fingers are numb, my brain is an ascending balloon—all hot air. Leave me alone.”
Pliny Blunder sighed deeply and, taking his master at his word, ran out of the estate room. For the first time, Lord Beecham noticed that his secretary was on the short side. So short that he would fall in love on the spot with Miss Helen Mayberry, as it seemed all short men who saw her did?
Lord Beecham threw up his hands, snagged his riding crop and jacket from his acting butler, Claude the footman, because Mr. Crittaker, the butler at Heatherington House since before Lord Beecham had come into this world, had finally died peacefully in his lovely room on the third floor with Mrs. Glass on his left side and Lord Beecham on his right side. All the other servants were ranged in a line according to rank, from right to left at the foot of his bed. Mr. Crittaker’s last words had been: “The upstairs maid should not be standing next to the tweeny, my lord. Claude, you must do better than this.”
“Er, have a nice ride, my lord.”
“Thank you, Claude. How are you doing with the polishing of the silverware?”
Claude’s narrow shoulders rounded themselves. “My fingers are rubbed raw, my lord. It is beyond me how Old Crit ever got those spoons so shiny you could see your own dear ma’s heavenly soul shining back up at you.”
“Keep trying, Claude. Speak to Mrs. Glass.”
“Old Crit always said that a housekeeper, being a female and all, had no notion of how to provide a good polish, my lord.”
“Old Crit was from the last century, Claude. Bring yourself up to modern times.”
“Mrs. Glass doesn’t like me, my lord. She will not tell me the proper silver procedure.”
“She simply misses Crittaker. She will adjust, if you are properly deferential.”
“But Old Crit said—”
I am surely in Bedlam,