*
In Effington’s opinion, last night’s ball had ended well. Lady Della had been tongue-tied and unforthcoming during their waltz, such as a lady might become when growing uncertain of a suitor’s affections. That notion cheered him considerably, but not enough for him to overlook a serious lapse on his housekeeper’s part.
“What do you mean, we’ve not a single headache powder in the house?” Effington asked pleasantly. The menials knew to be terrified when he scolded in mild tones. Yorick crouched beside Effington’s slipper, the poor fellow nearly shivering with dread.
Wentworth did not so much as twitch at her skirt. “When we ran out of chocolate on Thursday, your lordship, your mother decided she’d pay a visit to Lady Mannering, and her ladyship has been there since. She took the last two headache powders, and the only bottle of Godfrey’s Cordial.”
Wentworth’s tone suggested Mama might also have made off with the silver. Mama would do it too. The viscountess was a right bitch when she was in a taking, which generally lasted until her allowance ran out.
“Then I suggest you either retrieve that bottle of Godfrey’s Cordial from her, or procure more,” Effington said, picking up Yorick. “A household without remedies is a household with a lax housekeeper.”
He stroked the top of Yorick’s head and met Wentworth’s gaze. She was desperate to retort that the marketing money wouldn’t cover an excursion to the apothecary, desperate to suggest that her employer retrieve the medicinals from his wayward mother. Too bad for Wentworth, a lax housekeeper was one step away from being turned off without a character and without the wages due her.
“I’ll send a note to Lady Mannering’s housekeeper, your lordship, and let the viscountess know you’re asking for the return of a few small items.”
Cleverness was tedious in the help. “You’re excused, Wentworth. Send Bolton to me, for it’s time I tended to my social obligations.”
Wentworth was a tall, thin woman, all bustling energy and nervous disposition. She looked like she was about to wet herself in her desire to quit the room.
“Mr. Bolton is apparently under the weather, your lordship.”
Bolton was an indestructible terrier of a valet, and if his skill with a needle and his knowledge of fashion weren’t faultless, Effington would have tossed him out on his presuming ear long ago.
“What sort of under the weather, Wentworth?”
“He went to visit his mama this morning, sir, it being his half day. He didn’t come back at midday, which is his usual habit. We’ve sent a note inquiring after his health.”
Yorick whined, for which Effington smacked him on the snout, and that passing gesture of reproof caused the housekeeper to flinch.
None of which would soothe a suffering man’s pounding head.
“Send another note, and tell Bolton his services will no longer be necessary. That will be all.”
She curtsied and scurried out, while Effington poured himself a tot of brandy. “Hair of the dog that bit me,” he muttered. “The most useful of the canine allusions.”
Yorick didn’t so much as wiggle to be let down, but hung motionless on Effington’s arm. He set the dog on the carpet, which needed a good beating, much like his mother and half the help.
“You’re for the badger pits,” Effington informed his dog. “You’re losing your lucky touch, my boy, for I lost last night.”
Before Effington had settled in at his club, he’d made arrangements to call on Lady Della, which had been prudent of him. He’d lost every penny due him from Mannering, drat the luck.
The time had come to plight his troth. Mama’s defection was inconvenient, but if word got out that Viscount Effington was managing without a valet, or reneging on debts of honor…
“Not to be borne,” Effington said, downing his brandy and pouring another. “At least Lady Della assured me she’d be home this afternoon, should I care to call.” Assured him emphatically, almost as if she were desperate to have a private moment with him.
Which she ought to be. The time had come to sample Lady Della’s charms. One didn’t buy a horse without trying its paces.
The second brandy was the last available, some incompetent having forgotten to refill the decanters.
“Just as well,” Effington said. “Something I ate last night disagreed with me, or something I drank.”
He’d drunk rather a lot, otherwise that Tresham fellow with the cold gaze wouldn’t have won so much from him. Ash Dorning had won a fair bit too. Bothersome vermin, younger sons, and the Dornings had those odd, overly blue eyes.