A shudder rippled down her spine at the image of Sir Reginald from the morning before.
Charlotte and Grace looked at each other; then Charlotte smiled almost deviously at Edith. “Then, we have our mission.”
“Do you?” Edith queried, more wary than worried.
Charlotte nodded once. “We have to find you some gowns. Mine are upstairs, and I feel sure the others have some they will donate to the cause, as well. We’ll make a tour of our homes for the afternoon. Come with me now, and we’ll get them fixed up so you may come to the theatre tomorrow and outshine us all.”
Chapter Four
Proper attire is important in making the intended impression. It should be taken most seriously.
-The Spinster Chronicles, 24 September 1817
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“That’s a terrible answer.”
“It’s the truth.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I’m your valet, my lord, not your chambermaid. I do believe I know what I am doing.”
Graham scowled at the almost painfully thin man currently tying his cravat.
Morgan had been with him for years, and apart from the fact that it involved the death of Graham’s brother, having this master inherit the title had been the greatest day of his valet’s life. Ages of trying to get his master to dress with more style and finery rather than the country simplicity he doted upon, and now, finally, he could have his way.
He had not stopped being superior yet, and it was getting rather tiresome.
If he didn’t trust Morgan to keep him from embarrassing himself in matters that Graham was completely ignorant of, he’d probably have thrown him out by now. His valet was also one of the few people in the world who hadn’t shifted his treatment of Graham because of the change in his position. One could always count on Morgan to be steady, honest, and resoundingly himself.
“Fair enough,” Graham grunted. “Just don’t make me into a peacock, I beg you.”
Morgan gave him a harsh look. “When have I ever done that to you, my lord?”
Graham tugged at the green waistcoat he was currently wearing. “It is entirely possible this will be the first time.”
There was a quick flick of linen as the last fold in the cravat was made, then Morgan pinned it safely together. “A waistcoat of a distinct color beyond that of a neutral palette is not a feather in the cap of a dandy, my lord. The higher circles of Society have all manner of finery in their attire, and in varying shades, I might add. The cut of waistcoats most fashionable at present is far more daring and closely fitted. I am even told, my lord, that brocade and silks have started to become more prominent. I have no doubt you will barely be noticed.”
“Where in the world did you hear all that?” Graham asked, craning his neck in discomfort against the noose of linen he now wore. “I don’t take you out and about to various events, and I can’t imagine you attending in disguise.”
One corner of Morgan’s mouth quirked as he brushed the coat Graham had worn earlier. “I read it in the Spinster Chronicles, sir. They wrote about it just last week.”
Graham groaned and ran a hand through his once carefully combed hair. “You aren’t serious.”
“As the day is long, my lord.” Morgan shrugged and returned the coat to the bureau.
“You dress me according to the opinions of spinsters?” He scoffed and moved to examine his appearance in the looking glass, grunting softly at the practical dandy he saw. “Who are they to have made their mark on the fashionable decisions of Society?”
Morgan barked a laugh. “You still haven’t read them, have you, sir?”
No, he hadn’t, and to be perfectly frank with himself, he really didn’t see a need to. From what he understood, it was nothing more than a commentary on what was occurring in Society, and opinions on several topics by individuals who would otherwise have no bearing on anything of significance. He’d heard the articles were well written, even articulate, and that there was wit aplenty, which spoke well of the writers themselves. He had no reason to doubt they were ladies of the highest quality, but why should that render the reading of their column a requirement?
“My lord, you move in the same circles as the writers, and not all of them are spinsters now, you know.”
“How fortunate,” Graham commented blandly, trying to adjust his cravat just enough so he didn’t feel so constricted by it. “This damned thing…”
“Don’t touch it, my lord.”
“It’s fine. See?” He patted the fabric once and turned for his valet to see.
Morgan frowned with a sigh. “Yes, my lord, it appears you have not done too much damage.”
“More’s the pity,” Graham grumbled. “What I wouldn’t give for Merrifield and no schedule.”
A knock at the door prevented whatever answer Morgan was going to give.
“Come,” Graham called, turning in anticipation.
His tall and stately butler appeared, somber expression fixed on his thin face. “My lord, you have a guest in the drawing room. Mr. Tyrone Demaris. He has agreed to wait upon your convenience.”
Graham nodded once. “Excellent.” He turned to Morgan. “Have you trussed me up sufficiently?”
Morgan grinned unreservedly and shrugged. “Well enough, my lord. You shall not be found wanting.”
“Oh, good.” He tugged at his ridiculously colored waistcoat and nodded at himself in the looking glass one more time. “Thank you, Wilson, I will see him directly.”
Wilson nodded and turned from the room without waiting for Graham to follow, despite the fact that he did so. Graham smiled to himself at that. Wilson had served a proud line of Lord Radcliffes in his time, and Graham was never supposed to become one of them. Oh, he would serve Graham well, there was no question there, but he made no secret of the fact that Graham was not, and likely would never be, his favorite, or even his preferred Lord Radcliffe.
Graham didn’t particularly care about such things, so it made no difference.
Most of the time.
Silently, they made their way down the corridor of family rooms, then down the moderately grand staircase, which was, thankfully, nearly adjacent to the drawing room in which Tyrone had been installed.
Wilson left them as soon as he’d announced Graham.
Graham shook his head and stepped forward to shake hands with his friend. “Sorry about that.”
Tyrone Demaris, tall, dark, and tanned, only raised a brow. “Something off with your butler’s supper, or does he always look so pleased to see you?”
“That is, unfortunately, his usual expression.” Graham sighed and shook his head. “I’m not the Lord Radcliffe he wants.”
“Ah.” Tyrone clasped his hands behind his back with a wince. “None too pleased with the spare on the throne, is he?”
Graham smirked at his friend, raising a sardonic brow. “I’m none too pleased to be here, myself. I rather enjoyed being the second son. The relatively unfortunate one. But there is nothing for it, is there? No matter how much any of us wishes Matthew alive and well and fully in possession of the title, it cannot be.”