In Which Plans for Both the Costume Ball and Evil Deeds Are Made …
The next day, much to Old Crotty's surprise, M'Lady again asked for her corset to be "not so tight."
Thus the Loosening continued and everyone knew it. They didn't know the reason for it, but they sensed it and they liked it.
Except for Luther. He decided to do something about it. He decided to Whine.
Alas, Luther's Whining was not an Unprecedented Marvel. It was an everyday occurrence.
You see, Luther was not just Evil, he was also Annoying. You may blame M'Lady for both.
From the day of his birth, M'Lady had spoiled her son with excess, encouraged him when punishment was needed and, worst of all, taught him by example.
With such a mother, it is no wonder that Luther was a beastly baby, then a beastly boy, and now a beastly young gentleman.
"Motherrrrrr," he whined, "about this ball …"
"Oh, isn't it exciting?" cooed M'Lady Luggertuck. Yes, she cooed. "It will be the grand event of the season. We'll be the envy of all society and I shall wear my newest Fashionable Wig!"
Luther was revolted by his mother's near-cheerfulness. He had been suckled on bitterness and bile and was quite disturbed to see her behaving in such a sunshiny fashion. He realized it was not to his advantage and did his best to call back the familiar storm clouds.
"What a stupid idea, Mother. What a waste of perfectly good money, feeding a lot of old ninnies and gassers, so they can stumble around our ballroom scuffing the floors and listening to an overpaid band of string pluckers."
"Oh, Luther, they won't all be old," said M'Lady Luggertuck, pawing at her son's starched collar. "Why, there are so many young ladies and gentlemen to invite that I've decided to make it a costume ball."
"Young ladies and gentlemen, Mother? Bah! Who? There is no one worth noticing within fifty leagues. Surely not the Reverend Apoplexy's dog-faced daughters? Not the Frimperton brothers?"
"Well, yes, of course they will be invited, but, just think, your cousin Montgomery will be there, as he is to spend the summer with us."
"Ugh!" groaned Luther.
"Ah, yes, dear Montgomery," M'Lady continued. "The poor young thing's in love. His mother has specifically asked us to invite the young lady he fancies, a Miss Sylvan-Smythe who is summering with the Shortleys. True love may blossom right here in fashionably decorated Smugwick Manor."
Longtime readers of M'Lady Luggertuck's adventures are no doubt surprised by just how mushy she can get without that corset tightening her heart (and, more important, her stomach). Here was a woman who married for money and hadn't spoken a kind word to her husband in years, and yet here she was babbling about romance. "True love! Just think of it, Luther!"
Luther thought, but not of true love. He thought of money.
The Luggertuck fortune was, as faithful readers well know, dwindling. Squandered. Frittered away. Spent on fashion and fad that fled the land long ago. (See "M'Lady Luggertuck's Parisian Shopping Spree.")
Oh, there was money enough for any decent family to live upon for generations. But the Luggertuck family had lost any slight claim it might have had to decency when M'Lady married into it.
Luther wanted more. Much more. And he certainly didn't plan to work for it. He planned, eventually, to marry for it.
He made it his business to know where money hung about, and a lot of it loitered in the Sylvan-Smythes' bank accounts.
Now he calculated the total wealth of the Sylvan-Smythes based on his knowledge of their land holdings, stock purchases, and investments in automated steam looms.
They were as rich as the Luggertucks had once been.
Luther hated to stop in the middle of a good Whine, but suddenly a ball sounded like quite a good idea. It would offer a chance to get close to the young lady. He would find a way to win Miss Sylvan-Smythe and, more important, the enormous dowry that came with her.
But wait, you ask, how could Luther—intolerable, obnoxious, odious, odoriferous, and generally unbearable—win the hand of the most sought-after young lady in England? Why, with an Evil Plan, of course.
And, like a fungus of the foot, just such a plan began to fester and grow in the damp recesses of Luther's brain—sporing from synapse to synapse until his whole head itched with it.
He now stood very much in favor of the ball, but felt he might still put his whine to good use. "Very well, Mother, but I shall need my allowance doubled to costume myself properly."
