Page 68 of The Curious Story of the Missing Lady
“M’Lady?” said the maid, once more stirred from sleep. “Oh my!” She went to the nightstand, took a cloth out of a bowl of water, and placed it gently on Madeline’s head. “There, there.”
“My darling,” Oliver said with a smile, “you cannot go on frightening me like that.”
“I’m sorry,” she cooed. “So sorry, my love, my heart ...”
Lisbelle recoiled slightly, blushing. “M’Lord, with all due respect, perhaps you ought to give her her room.”
“Yes, of course,” he said, his voice growing distant in Madeline’s ears. “Be well, Madeline.”
“I will, My Lord ...”
Chapter 50
The Goose & Hen bustled with patrons, this being a busy hour at the end of the workday. Lord Peter sat with his friend, Mr George Kelley of Shireford, who raised his flagon of ale in mock toast.
“To His Holiest of Rulers, the Regent! Long may he sag.”
Lord Peter laughed and touched George’s flagon with his own.
George wiped his lip with the back of his hand. “What news have you brought me, old friend?”
“I’m afraid I have been so overwrought with tending to Father’s business that I’ve had no time for my own pleasure.”
George sat back in his chair. “I do believe I am sitting with an imposter.”
Lord Peter smiled.
“Or has the ale gone to your head?” said George. “Merely our first of the evening. Could it be that my dear friend Peter Lytton is becoming a hoister of teacups in his waning years?”
Peter responded to this by lifting his flagon and draining it in one go. He dropped the mug on the table with a thud. “That’s what I say to your teacups, old horse. Buy me another, or I’ll have you thrown out of the country.”
They drank some more, and Lord Peter’s head began to swim. Along with the lowering of his inhibitions, he felt as though he could take on the world.
“Alright, old horse,” he said, “I shall tell you of my woes. There is a girl.”
George’s eyes went wide. “I am shocked to my core! What shall you reveal to me next? That you’re some sort of heir to a Duke or something?”
“Very droll.”
George leaned in. “Before you continue with your story, My Lord, allow me to predict its end.”
“This I must have at all costs.”
His friend’s eyes became lost in some imaginary scene. “I see you infatuated with a certain girl. Hmmm, a maiden. And true. A bluestocking. No, no ... a kitchen maid!”
Lord Peter chuckled.
“It was at some affair, oh, say, welcoming His Lordship Sir Picklebottom of Hendon upon his return from the war, wherein he lost an eye peeping in at a certain Mary Louise of Austria.”
Lord Peter fell back in his chair, a raucous laugh escaping from his chest.
“Enter our hero, Lord Peter Lytton, entirely bored with the ceremony. His eyes dart left, then right. He sees nothing but old sots in dusty uniforms and their dreary wives—or rather, he sees the tongues and teeth of these dreary wives for all their yawning. And so, our hero descends the stairs—”
“You are chief among cads,” said Peter, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye.
“He descends and there she is, a pretty little thing coated in flour from head to toe.”
“Your story is terribly accurate, with the sole exception of being entirely in error.”
