16th January, 1893 — London

Howell generally had better things to do than make deliveries from the Glen, but once in a while something went awry with the usual lad, and he was called in to clear up the mess.

Not that the near tonne of dragon dung that was now heaped up on this person’s property was his mess to be cleaning up. It had been packed and transported and delivered here in sealed, smell-proof and magically-enlarged sacks as promised, which had been all well and good until one had been haphazardly opened by the recipient – and the manure had overflowed out, all lava-like.

And they “hadn’t ordered it” in the first place.

(So they said.)

“Howell, from the Glen,” Howell said, already less-than-enthused from the journey here. “Apparently there’s a problem?”

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"Yes." Lucy's drawled annoyed. She hadn't believed her butler when he'd informed her of what had been delivered , but there it was sitting on the grass by her front steps. Thankfully someone had shown up quickly, but her butler had rather invonviently fallen sick after the discovery and her housekeeper was off visiting her ailing sister.

"I was quite surprised when Mr. Anshome informed me we had received a shipment of," Her noise wrinkled as she gestured at the smelly mess and tried to say the word, "This." She gestured at the bags. "I have been assured no such order had been placed." What would they need dragon dung for anyway? Even the stables had assured her it wasn't needed.

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   Howell Howell

He had been expecting the butler his delivery boy had told him about, but this was... not the butler. No, he’d stake his life on this being the mistress of the house. Stake Barry’s life on it, too. While London made him grumpy, socialites scared him a little – they were like an alien species, and incomprehensible: you never knew what they might do next.

And yet, while there was suddenly an uncomfortable itch at the back of his neck and a certain aversion to holding her gaze – he angled his eyeline to somewhere about her nose, and focused closely on her left nostril – Howell was not shaken from his purpose here.

He knew he was in the right, so she’d see no sheepishness from him. “And your name, ma’am?” Howell asked loudly, to clarify.

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"Mrs. Lucille Hutton." Lucy gave a huff of annoyance at this comment, afterall the man was standing on her property he ought to know full well precisely whose property he was standing on. "Mistress of this house." She added in case he were dim enough to think she was a housekeeper despite everything in her apperance to say such a thing was utterly ludicrous. Where did he live where he might think housekeepers wore silks? Likely some uncultured back water, Lucy thought with a great deal of annoyance.

"And your's, sir?" She asked, allowing the annoyance to seep into her words as she stared him in the eye. The man didn't even have the courage to meet her gaze!

  

Howell knew how to act around testy dragons, knew when to back off and run like hell and when to hold his ground. She didn’t even breathe fire. So he could bloody well do this.

And he could, because he unfolded the piece of parchment like it was his trump card, and handed her the order form with a raised eyebrow. “Mrs. Lucille Hutton,” he echoed, tapping the name of the delivery recipient – her – and the next column along wherein this address was inked. “Deposit’s already been paid, too,” he explained slowly, in case this, too, was news to her. Well, he didn’t know what fancy households like these did with their money.

Chin a fraction higher, he tapped another line of the form with the due payment. “We’re owed the other half on delivery. Ma’am.” The mix-up had not been on his end, thank you.

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With a skeptical glance at the man Lucy took the proffered paper. A frown furrowed her brow as she looked at her name inked in to the form. What in Merlin's beard? Was Anthony or Reg pulling a prank on her? If they were she was certainly going to let them have a piece of her mind.

The door opened behind her and she could hear the excited call of her middle son, "Come on, it's here!" The sound of footsteps racing stilled as they almost ran in to her back. She didn't need to turn to know the culprit had stilled upon seeing her on the step, but turn her did to the sight of Tony looking as if he'd eaten a lemon whole and Charlie almost colliding into his younger brother. "Anthony. Charlie." She greeted them dryly with a nod. "Would you happen to know anything about a shipment of dragon dung?" Oh she knew that look, the guilty one that slid over the boys faces. Well at least that mystery was solved. They were working out what to say, she could see it on their faces. Charlie stepped in front of his younger brother, "Yes mother." At act of sibling sacrifice Lucy knew too well from her own childhood. "Very well. I will speak with you later. Go wait for me in the nursery."

She turned back to the man in front of her lips pursed tersely. "It seems we did order this." Distaste was evident in her tone. Boys. Now what did she do about getting rid of the stuff. With a small sigh she realized that it was going to take more than talking to the man on the stairs to make this problem come in. "You may as well come inside so we can get this matter sorted."

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   Howell Howell

He didn’t crack a visible smile, but there was an internal twist of triumph at her furrowed brow, and then at the little scamps who appeared. Howell eyed the boys from behind their mother with a look of scrutiny, making no choice between being amused or scathing about their antics. These boys weren’t his problem.

If he were them, he might fancy being worried about what came next though – Mrs. Hutton’s pursed lips didn’t bode well for the pair. If Howell was entertained by that, the feeling was soon sucked right out of the situation by her next suggestion. Or was it a command?

“If that’s necessary,” Howell said, but reluctantly trudged over the threshold after her in boots caked with seasons’ worth of mud. He took off his cap out of uncomfortable politeness – but that would be the only concession he would be making here, if she thought she was going to intimidate him into returning a whole shipment just because her children were hellions. She seemed imposing enough to try it, but Howell was well practised at butting heads.

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Dutifully the man followed her inside. She could almost sense her butler's disapproval but she nodded her head at him so he'd know to alert Mrs. Bilton to make the man something to eat. Mr. Anshome's lips were pursing enough that Lucy turned to look at the man and spotted the dirt. Well she certainly couldn't take him into the drawing room the staff would be in a tither. The study was better suited for this in any case, she decided.

She sailed into Charles's office only feeling a slight pang of longing for her deceased husband. He would have known exactly how to handle this. She turned back to face the man as she rounded the desk. "Is there a way we might find to return this..." She could not make herself say the word.

  

The study. The study made sense, because this was business – of sorts – but it still felt, as she met his gaze over the desk, uncomfortably like he was a schoolboy in trouble.

Madoc Yarwood would not take it well if Howell sank the whole reputation of his Avalon Glen enterprise today. On the other hand... Yarwood could surely smooth over any misunderstandings with society sorts if he wanted to.

Howell was – just a man doing his job, so he let out a breath and answered her stolidly. “We don’t do refunds or returns, and can’t sell it on now it’s been opened. It’s top quality manure. It’ll be contaminated now, see. There’ll be impurities. Ma’am.” Dragon dung had a great deal of nutrients, but was expensive – which, if she didn’t realise already, she would soon find out.

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"I see." Lucy had expected as much but one never did know until one made the additional inquiries. But what in Dante's seventh circle was she going to do with the stuff? She certainly wasn't going to let her little miscreants have it. Who did she know who'd need dragon fertilizer? Fertilizer. An idea came to her.

"Would you be able to deliver it to another address?"

  

Howell raised a bushy eyebrow, a little dubious. The woman was quick-thinking, at least: clearly she had a plan up her sleeve. He was a little concerned to ask what it was.

“If you’re willing to pay for the shipment,” he replied.

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Lucy nodded thoughtfully as if she were considering this. But she'd already made up her mind. "Of course." She'd much rather pay to have the shipment of stuff removed then deal with gossiping neighbors or whatever her boys had decided they would do with it as an end goal. "And how much is your delivery fee?" When he told her she nodded, "In that case I'll pay for shipping to here." She wrote down Anthony's address on an embossed sheet of paper and handed it over to the man. She smiled at him before he could object to the address being a French vineyard.

  

Howell’s eyes widened as she agreed – but money was never any object to these sorts – and as she handed him an address in France. A vineyard – that made sense, he supposed, for fertiliser – but that she had just conjured up a suitable vineyard from the top of her head might have had him gaping if he were less in control of his facial musculature.

“Of course,” he said feebly, nodding down at the place name. “Yours, ma’am, or...?” Or was she just continuing the prank her boys had played? Who knew.

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Did it matter whose it was? Lucy's eyebrow raised ever so slightly. She didn't owe this man an explaination, but he had agreed without complaint. "My brother's." She replied shortly. And the sooner this conversation was done the sooner the dung was off her yard and safely away where noone would gossip about it.

  

“Ah,” Howell echoed, just as shortly. Of course her brother just owned a vineyard in France.

“It’s the best quality fertiliser you’ll find in the British Isles,” he blurted out, in defence of his dragon dung. She could tell her brother that. Really, her sons might as well have been doing the family a service. But Howell cleared his throat instead, and said, “Well. We’ll get it out of your hair.”

Not literally. Hopefully none of the dung had actually gotten in her hair.

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Given the price of the stuff she rather hoped it was the best quality in England, Lucy thought as she made a noncommittal noise.

She arched an eyebrow at him. Who was the we he meant? Surely she couldn't be talking about the ...stuff as part of it, could he?

"Thank you for you assistance." Afterall it was het boys' fault and the man was getting rid of it for her. She ought to be polite and send him to the servant's hall for refreshments but she wanted the... well the dung, off her lawn. "I'll see you out."