“But, Mr. Sherbrooke, his lordship took himself off to bed nearly an hour ago.”
Grayson nodded. “You will return to your bed, Suggs,” he said over his shoulder as he and Miranda hurried up the stairs, “we will see if his lordship is asleep.”
There was no answer to their knock. The door handle didn’t turn. The Great had locked his bedchamber door and wouldn’t come out. He yelled out, “I know it’s you, Mr. Sherbrooke. I don’t want you here. I told you I will deal with this.” A pause, then, “Miranda, when you and Palonia Chiara leave in the morning, do you mind leaving Musgrave Jr. here? No harm will come to him.”
Miranda rolled her eyes. “He adores that wretched cat. Musgrave Jr. sleeps with him, you know. Warms his ancient bones, he says.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Miranda showed him to the guest room next to her mama-in-law’s, a good-sized room, but filled with a great deal of pink—wallpaper, counterpane, even the bed was canopied with frothy pink silk. A single big window overlooked the side gardens, framed with pink draperies. Grayson could make out the home woods that stretched out beyond, pines and oaks and larches pressed together in the night. It was a lovely prospect. At least the bed was firm, the way he liked it. Still, Grayson didn’t sleep well, probably because the Great wouldn’t speak to him, he thought when he was coming downstairs the next morning, not because of the pink. He wondered if the Great was still locked in his bedchamber.
Suggs stood in the entrance hall, dressed immaculately, his bald head shining, staring up at him. He cleared his throat. “I did not tell his lordship that you remained, that you made yourself quite at home in the Pink Room, usually reserved for the fairer sex with questionable taste.”
“Have you seen Mrs. Wolffe, Suggs?”
“Which one, sir?”
“Miranda Wolffe.” Of course Suggs knew well which Mrs. Wolffe Grayson was asking about. He was trying to protect the Great, but the time for that was over.
“I have not yet had that pleasure, sir. But doubtless she will come to breakfast. Follow me, sir.”
Grayson stepped into the small dining room to see the Great sipping a cup of strong India tea, reading the London Gazette. The day was overcast, on the cool side, but the windows were open, a stiff breeze sending the light draperies blowing into the room. The Great looked up. He didn’t look at all surprised. He waved toward a chair. “Do you know at my age, my boy, if you wake up and discover you are able to take two steps without falling over, you know it will be a good day.
“I suppose Miranda is with you? And you had the brains to leave Palonia Chiara at Belhaven?”
Grayson nodded.
The Great sighed. “Well, sit down, sit down. The two of you shouldn’t have come back. You two should leave immediately after breakfast. Really, sir, this is none of your affair.”
Grayson pulled out a dining chair, turned it to face the Great, and straddled it. He said, “The Battle of Waterloo will go down in history as a pivotal battle that changed the course of history. It removed Napoleon once and for all, and finally brought peace. The medals are historic as well, Colonel. What makes them extraordinary is that every man who fought at the Battle of Waterloo received one.
“For the remainder of the man’s life he’d be known as a Waterloo Man, and he would wear his medal with pride and distinction, since his name is impressed around the edge. They are silver, not all that valuable, but if a family were in need, they would pawn it, and so many have.”
“You know a lot for a man who was a boy in short coats at the time of the Great Battle.”
“I did a great deal of reading and thinking yesterday, sir.”
The Great started to eat some kippers, then set down his fork. “Our duke was responsible, of course, for getting the Prince Regent to agree to the expenditure. Wellington wanted to recognize and thank every single man who fought not only at Waterloo, but in all three bloody battles—Quatre Bras, Ligny, and of course Waterloo on the third day, June 18, 1815.”
“Did you find the medal the spirit demanded you find, sir?”
The Great gave him a look of acute dislike. “I see the women in my household can’t keep their mouths shut.” He sighed. “Yes, as luck would have it, yes I did. Last week a dozen or so medals arrived from Norwich.
“Listen, young gentleman, I have decided this is my problem and mine alone. Miranda and Palonia Chiara are leaving this morning.”
“What about your daughter-in-law, Mrs. Elaine?”
“What about her? She didn’t dream anything.”
“No, but she saw the black funnel come into your study and hurl all the Waterloo medals around and go through you. Did it communicate with you, sir? Or couldn’t you understand what it was saying, any more than Miranda and P.C.?”
The Great leaned back and laced his gnarled hands over his belly. “I will say this again. I will deal with this, sir, not you, an outsider, a man who is too young to know anything.”
“The funnel—the spirit—it gave you a name, didn’t it?”
The Great started shaking his head, then stopped. Finally, “Yes, at first it felt it to me, I suppose you could say, as unbelievable as it sounds. But I couldn’t understand what it said. Then, to my astonishment, the funnel, or whatever was in it, screamed right in my face, ‘Find Major Houston.’”
So that was the whooss.