Seeking Philbert Woodbead ( A Madcap Regency Romance ) (The Fairweather Sisters) (5 page)

George
waved his hand in front of her glassy eyes. “A penny for your thoughts,” he
said and then chuckled at his own joke when he noticed Penelope waddling
towards them.

“I was
wondering what dog … err … Did you sleep well?”

“I did. The
mattress was stuffed with a sufficient amount of goose feathers.”

Celine
didn’t know what to say in reply to that, so she quickly moved on to the reason
she had accosted him. Thrusting a silver tray with a selection of moustaches
towards him, she said, “Here, Lord Elmer, choose a moustache.”

George
promptly picked up a full, bushy red moustache. He patted it into place and
asked, “How do I look?”

“Moustached.”

He smiled
and waggled his eyebrows, “Come, admit you have never seen a more handsome
specimen.”

“I have,”
Celine said smiling back, “Your third cousin, Lord Adair.”

“Dashed
cousin! Your words wound me, my dear. Couldn’t you cushion your darts?”

“We will be
late for dinner.” She handed the silver tray to a passing maid and made her way
towards the Grand Stairs.

“Ah, you
are one of those,” he said softly.

She halted,
her brow rising in query.

He took
hold of her elbow and gently tugged her forward.

“What do
you mean?” she asked, refusing to budge until she had an answer.

“You are a
rational creature. A sensible creature,” he expanded.

Her mouth
tightened.

“Or you
pretend to be. I will have to find out which it is.”

“You have
an entire evening, Lord Elmer, to dissect my personality, but it would be
better if you spent your time appreciating the food. We have a wonderful chef
who has gone to great pains to impress you with his culinary skills.”

“Celine?”
he said, pausing outside the dining room.

“You may
call me Miss Fairweather.”

“I shall
call you what I like. After all, I am here for just one evening. Now, Celine,
be a good hostess and tell me why am I wearing a fake moustache to dinner?”

“Sir Henry is
the duke’s maternal grandfather and he does not like men who do not wear
moustaches. He does not think men without moustaches are … well, mannish. He is
very old, so rather than distress him, the duke presents a moustache to all the
bare faced guests and asks them to stick it on in Sir Henry’s presence.”

George
nodded unimpressed.

Celine
hurried on, “Also Sir Henry may keel over and die any moment, so please be
prepared for that. He may cough, choke and wheeze during the dinner as well.
Ignore it unless the duke clearly indicates that this time he has definitely
set sail for heaven because you may think he is dead and bewail the occurrence
only to find out that he has only fallen asleep while eating his soup. It can
be embarrassing. I speak from experience,” she finished and breathlessly waited
for his response. He was sure to have questions. Everyone did.

“I hope we
have peas. I am fond of peas,” George said and walked into the dining room.

***

Penelope
and the duke were already seated at the dinner table when Celine and George
joined them.

Sir Henry
arrived a moment later carried on a red velvet chair by four muscular footmen.
He barely nodded at George. His hungry eyes were on his pocket watch. At eight
sharp his hand slammed the tabletop signalling that the first course be served.

The soup
arrived and everyone picked up the right spoon, dipped it into beautiful bowls,
and expertly avoiding chins sipped correctly and noiselessly. The servers too
were like shadows, flitting in an out, removing, filling and replacing food and
drinks at regular intervals. It was a perfect aristocratic meal that was
conducted in ear splitting silence.

The second
course arrived when all of a sudden George flung down his napkin declaring that
he couldn’t help it, he had to break the silence and speak.

Spoons
halted in mid-air. Disapproving heads turned his way.

George kept
his eyes fixed on Sir Henry, bravely ignoring the icy atmosphere. He had to
speak, he said, for he could no longer hold back his admiration for Sir Henry’s
remarkable, envious, a thing of legends moustache. He had to ooze and
compliment and positively kiss the hands that kept such a moustache well
groomed and shining.

Sir Henry’s
valet in charge of the grooming was quickly called forth and his flattered
hands dutifully kissed.

The
moustache, George declared, turning his attention back to Sir Henry’s hairy
upper lip, was even more beautiful in the flickering candle light.

It
sparkled, it glowed. It was, he roared, a masterpiece.

Sir Henry simpered,
thawed and finally melted into a warm puddle of pleasure. No one had dared to
be so bold, so daring and so rebellious in his presence for a long, long time.
George had behaved like a man. In fact, he was almost heroic in the way he had
declared his admiration for the moustache. George was paying homage to Sir
Henry’s most prized asset, and every one of those hairs on Sir Henry’s white
moustache was charmed beyond words. In fact, they were so thrilled that they
almost blushed pink.

The
aristocratic silence had been broken, and with Sir Henry’s happy mood, the room
turned warm and informal. Spoons scraped plates, glasses clinked and voices
rose and fell.

Conversation
was now part of the meal.

“I had a
letter from old Gomfrey,” Sir Henry excitedly wheezed across the table.

“He is as
old as you, Grandfather,” the duke replied.

“He is a
month older. His cook has disappeared. You are the duke, find him,” Sir Henry
rasped.

“Find who?”

“The cook,
you blasted boy.”

“That’s
odd, I had a letter from Lady Marianne, and she told me that just last week her
cook disappeared. He came back within four days, but he seemed traumatised, and
he now squeals every time anyone mentions pigeons or if he even sees one,”
Penelope added.

“I heard
about that, “the duke said wiping his mouth, “Cooks are disappearing and
appearing all over England. No one knows why. Apparently some masked men keep
the cooks and ask them for recipes for treacle bread. Then they are tickled
using pigeon feathers to ensure that they have nothing more to spill. They are
then sent back home. It is all very strange.”

“Two of our
chefs are embroiled in a complicated love rectangle. We have one chef left who
ensures that we get our meals on time, and I hope he is not the one kidnapped.
He is a sensitive sort of fellow. Suffers from nerves,” Penelope said
worriedly.

Celine
snuck a few green leaves onto Penelope’s plate when she wasn’t looking. George
winked at her from across the table.

“I saw
that,” Penelope said catching the wink. “Lord Elmer, our Celine won’t fall for
your flirtations. She is too—”

“Sensible?”
George asked smiling.

Penelope
smiled back, “yes, but there are two silly things about her. Firstly when she
was fifteen years old she read a novel and the heroine of that novel was called
Celine. Since then she has insisted that everyone call her Celine. She wouldn’t
answer to anything else.”

“Her name
is not Celine?” the duke asked in surprise.

“No, it
is—”

“Pass the
salt, Penny,” Celine interrupted, her foot stamping Penelope’s under the table.

“What is
her name?” George probed.

“Well, the
other silly thing about her is the fact that she only sneezes during spring,
and all through spring she sneezes a lot. And when she does sneeze, it is five
little achoos in rapid succession and no more or no less. ”

“What is
her name?” George persisted.

“It is—”

Celine
sneezed, drowning out Penelope’s answer. She sneezed four more times.
Thereafter, George didn’t get to ask any more questions because after Celine
stopped sneezing … Sir Henry set his beard on fire.

It all
happened because of a particular variety of fish called Perch. Now, Perch was
in season again, and Perch made into a dish called water-soochy happened to be
Sir Henry’s favourite dish.

When
Perkins brought this dish in, Sir Henry’s nose caught the scent and he
brightened. Once the plate was placed near Sir Henry, he promptly pulled the
candle closer to inspect the contents of the dish.

Sir Henry
was a little bit blind. Hence, he needed to put the candle right up to the bowl
and bend his head forward a good bit to see properly.

Sir Henry,
apart from being blind, was also forgetful, which was why he had forgotten that
he happened to have a long white beard made up of lots of ignitable hairs which
naturally burst into orange and yellow flames when they came into contact with
the fat beeswax candle.

Penelope
saw the flaming beard and screamed.

In a trice
the water from three jugs was flung at Sir Henry’s flaming beard. George threw
the stewed calf’s ears and the pork in Robert sauce, since that was all he had
close at hand.

One thing
led to another and the smell of burning hair permeated the entire meal ruining
it for everyone. It was all very traumatic, but the positive thing, as George
cheerfully pointed out after the flames had been doused, was the fact that the
beard was gone but the moustache with only a few singed hairs remained almost
unscathed.

It was, he
announced, an immortal moustache.

A beard had
been set on fire and a moustache saved, Celine sighed, as she got up from the
dinner table. Surely nothing more would go wrong this day?

As per the
midwife’s instructions, the duchess had to retire right after dinner. She was
predictably reluctant and not at all sleepy. Hence, the duke, as had become a
ritual of sorts, went along to keep her company in the bedroom.

Sir Henry,
who was rumoured to be over a hundred years old, only ventured to the dining
room every day for dinner and thereafter spent his time in his room dictating
letters to his old friends, most of whom were dead but no one had the heart to
tell him so. Which meant that Celine and George were left staring at each other
over cups of fragrant coffee.

“We don’t
have a chaperone,” Celine commented.

“We don’t
want one,” George responded.

“Speak for
yourself,” Celine muttered, her eyes darting to the door.

“Are you
expecting company?”

Celine’s
cup rattled in the saucer, “No, why would you think so?”

“You are
impatiently eyeing the clock.”

“I think I
shall retire for the night.”

“Retire? Are
you feeling alright?” a young feminine voice asked from the doorway. “I was
hoping to find you in library. I wanted to know all about the handsome–”

“Guest,”
George finished for her. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

“That is my
sister Dorothy who should be in bed at this hour,” Celine said, “Dorothy, this
is Lord Elmer.”

“I can’t
sleep,” Dorothy said, scrutinising George.

“You have a
lot of sisters. A lot of beautiful sisters,” George commented, standing up and
bowing to Dorothy.

“Six
sisters in all,” Dorothy replied, her lashes fluttering expertly. She dipped in
an elegant curtsey, skirts flared, knees bent almost to the point where she was
sitting in mid-air. She thus remained suspended for a few seconds before rising
and offering George a practised smile, just the right amount of teeth gleaming
through, lips stretched but not too wide, and eyes crinkled at the corners.

“Dorothy,”
Celine warned.

Dorothy
ignored her, her eyes on George. “How long are you staying here?”

“I am not sure,
but after meeting you, I hope I can stay for at least a few days.”

Dorothy
giggled, “Are you flirting with me?”

“Yes, do
you mind?”

“I like
you,”

“And I,” he
said soulfully, “like you too.”

“Let’s get
married,” Dorothy suggested shrewdly.

George
straightened and eyed her with respect,” How old did you say you were?”

“I didn’t.
I just turned thirteen”

A tiny sigh
of relief escaped him, “Yes, well that is what I thought, but one can never be
too careful.”

“Does that
mean you don’t want to marry me?”

George
smiled, a dimple flashing in his right cheek. “I do but—”

“Enough,”
Celine snapped. “My lord, you should not be putting ideas into her silly head.
And you, Dorothy, go back to bed.”

Dorothy
pouted.

George
stuck a pencil up his nose.

Celine
spluttered.

Dorothy
laughed.

Celine
narrowed her eyes, and Dorothy eyed her back through narrowed lids.