Read Online The Tenacious Miss Tamerlane by Kasey Michaels - Free Book Online Page B

none too
fond of Mrs. Green, and they’ve already taken to talking of you as
their savior. And, Miss Tansy, if I may be so bold,” he added
softly, “the family all call me Dunny. I would be honored if you
would deign to so honor me.”

Chapter Seven
    B y tea-time of that
same day, the remaining females had been apprised of the morning’s
upheaval, and the dowager was clucking over the obvious inequities
between the housekeeper’s books and the actual expenditures for the
household.
    “You were too easy on her, Tansy, my pet. Too
easy by half. The wretch belongs in Newgate. And Ashley, that
blockhead, should be locked up for stupidity, for however he could
have overlooked such gross mismanagement I cannot fathom. Having a
charming wastrel for a father may not have been a pleasure for you,
Tansy, but since his laxity pitchforked you into handling the
running of his estate, he has indirectly done us a great
service.”
    This praise was all well and good, but Tansy
was wise to enjoy it while she could—for even at that moment
Farnley was upstairs bending his master’s ear with his own version
of the story while his grace dressed for dinner.
    “If you will but recall, your grace,” Farnley
pointed out smugly, easing his master into his evening coat once
his tale was through, “I did try to warn you about the young lady.
I knew she was bad luck for us the minute I clapped eyes on her.
All the signs were wrong that day. If you but tie this hag-stone on
your door key, it will go a long way toward heading off any more
disasters. When you retire for the evening, I can hang it from your
bed-head and nothing evil can harm you at night either. Please,
sir.”
    “I’ll hang you on the bed-head if you don’t
shut up, Farnley. You’re as nervy as an old spinster who thinks
there’s murderers lurking under her bed.” The Duke walked over to
his dressing table and, picking up a small knife, began to pare his
nails.
    Farnley, who had been momentarily diverted
while retrieving the Duke’s riding jacket from the chair upon which
its wearer had carelessly tossed it, suddenly realized what his
master was about and cried out in alarm—nearly causing Avanoll to
give himself a nasty cut.
    “What the blazes?” the Duke barked.
    His valet scurried over to the dressing
table, carefully picked up all the nail-parings, and cradled them
in his hand. “You must not trim your nails on a Friday, your grace,
as I have told you so many times,” Farnley admonished. “You will
have ill-luck for certain. I’ll save these pieces up until Monday
and then scatter them over the back garden.”
    “Yes, you do that. Damned untidy, if you ask
me, and damned silly. Farnley, you must stop all this superstitious
nonsense, as it would grieve me deeply to have to let you go. But
you are a bit queer, you know, and sometimes most unsettling. Now
excuse me while I make my way downstairs to discover for myself
just what exactly transpired this morning to send Mrs. Green
bolting from this house without so much as asking for her last
quarter’s wages.”
    To say that dinner that evening was not a
resounding success would be dressing up in fine linen a domestic
disaster too discouraging to recount step by depressing step. A
crushing set-down from his grandparent, touching on the
responsibilities of the head of any household in monitoring the
goings-on under his own roof—delivered before Avanoll had so much
as had recourse to a single glass of port—was compounded by his
sister’s undisguised glee in his discomfort and the rendering of a
vague warning from his aunt that went: “‘Anyone can hold the helm
when the sea is calm.’ Syrus.”
    The Duke could not dispute his Grandmama’s
words, and dismissed his sister and his aunt as unworthy of his
sarcasm. The only target left to him, besides himself, was his
cousin—that infuriating termagant who was just then sitting with a
deceptively demure expression hiding what he knew could only be