by Olivia Drake
Kitchener nodded solemnly and mimicked her action by placing his forefinger over his own mouth. Then he smiled abashedly at the people in front of them, who then returned their attention to the stage.
Relieved that he seemed to have fathomed the error of his ways, Blythe settled back to enjoy the music. The light, vibrant tune helped to soothe her sense of annoyance. She would not permit anyone to ruin the evening.
Her gaze wandered over the aristocrats in the drawing room. She spied white-haired Lady Grantham leaning forward, cupping her half-deaf ear to better hear the music. A few rows ahead sat blond, vacuous Miss Frances Beardsley with her betrothed, Lord Wrayford. Candlelight glinted on the bald spot at the back of his head.
Blythe studied Wrayford with interest. He was the scoundrel who had tried to abduct Lindsey the previous year, although the scandal had been averted when Mansfield had ridden to her rescue. Portia had had a similar adventure two years ago when Ratcliffe had kidnapped her in order to stop her from wedding the wrong man.
What dashing heroes her sisters had married, Blythe thought wistfully. Somehow, she couldn’t imagine the Duke of Savoy bestirring himself to perform such daring exploits on her behalf.
But James would. Blythe knew that with instinctive certainty.
She pressed her fingers into the arms of her chair. Why did thoughts of a footman continue to plague her? She knew nothing of him beyond the boldness of manner that set him apart from the other servants. They might reside in the same household, but they were worlds apart in all that mattered.
She didn’t crave romantic escapades, anyway. Such childish dreams had been left behind when she had entered the world of high society on a mission to find a husband.
Blythe glanced over at her mother and father, who were absorbed in the music. They looked so elegant, Mama in steel-blue silk that offset her stylish russet hair, and Papa in his tailored gray coat. It wasn’t fair that their common blood should make them any less important than the aristocrats gathered here.
It would make them so happy if she became the Duchess of Savoy. And she would be happy to elevate their position in society. Once she bore the duke a son, Mama and Papa would be honored as the grandparents of the heir to a dukedom.
The hopeful vision faded abruptly when Viscount Kitchener shifted in his chair beside hers and began to mutter.
“The notes dance upon the sky so airy / for ye are lovely as a fairy / and in your arms methinks to tarry / for ’tis safe from the … from the unwary.” He leaned closer to Blythe and said in a stage whisper, “What else rhymes with airy?”
For the first time, she noticed that he exuded a sweetish smoky scent that smelled vaguely familiar. It brought to mind the men in India who would crouch around the hookah, passing the pipe to one another until they all sank into a stupor.
The truth jolted her. The viscount’s inebriated state wasn’t due to an excess of wine or brandy. Rather, he must have smoked opium shortly before his arrival here. She had heard rumors that such behavior was practiced among the scoundrels and riff-raff on the fringes of society. Opium-eaters, they were called.
“I need more rhymes,” he complained, raising his voice so that people turned to glower at them again. Not that Kitchener noticed. “Airy, fairy, tarry. Do help me out, Miss Crompton.”
Mrs. Crompton placed a warning hand on Blythe’s arm and frowned at her as if the situation was all her doing.
Aggravated, Blythe whispered to him under her breath, “Hairy, scary, dairy.” She certainly wasn’t going to give him any ideas by saying marry. In his present state he might fall to his knees and beg for her hand in front of the entire assemblage. “Now, pray be silent.”
“But you adore poetry,” Viscount Kitchener whined. “Davy said you did.”
Her lips tightened. Blast Lady Davina, what other lies had she told him? “She is sadly mistaken. I’ll not hear another word from you.”
Blythe gave him a stern look that must have penetrated his cloudy senses. His voice fell to a barely audible muttering about maids of dairy and lads so hairy. Thankfully, the orchestra had launched into a lively melody and no one else paid them any heed.
Then a blessed reprieve happened. The viscount’s chin sagged to his cravat and he dozed off. Other than an occasional light snore, he remained silent for the remainder of the concert. Blythe sat unmoving for fear of awakening him and causing another disturbance.
At last the music drew to an end and the guests applauded politely. People arose from their chairs, the hum of conversation growing as everyone discussed the performance on their way to the supper room where refreshments would be served.
“Hurry,” Mrs. Crompton whispered to Blythe. “We must make haste to seek out the duke.”
“Yes, Mama.”
But when Blythe attempted to get up, she realized to her dismay that Lord Kitchener’s shoe was firmly planted on her hem. As she tried to tug herself free, it became clear that the fine gauze of her gown would rip if she pulled any harder.
She discreetly poked the viscount in the arm. “Wake up, my lord.”
He made no response, his eyes never opening, his chest rising and falling in slumber, his head still tilted askew in a ridiculous pose. What was worse, a few people had noticed the pair of them, the ladies laughing behind their fans—as if her companionship had put him to sleep.
“Savoy is coming down the aisle,” her mother prodded. “Do stand up at once or we’ll miss our chance!”
Blythe glimpsed the duke advancing through the throng with Lady Davina on his arm. A bevy of debutantes trailed him. Blast! There was no time to waste.
With renewed effort, Blythe bent down to shove Kitchener’s foot aside. The awkward task was like moving a leaden weight. While her mother hovered and fretted, at last Blythe was able to slide the hem free, albeit with a black scuff mark marring the pale yellow fabric.
Unfortunately, the duke already had moved past the last row. While proceeding through the open doorway, Lady Davina glanced back over her shoulder and sent Blythe a triumphant look.
“You should not have dallied,” Mrs. Crompton scolded. “Come now, we can still catch up to them.”
“No, it’s too late,” Blythe stated. “They’re departing for another engagement, remember?”
She had no wish to humiliate herself by pushing and shoving. At least she could be thankful that Kitchener had not embroiled her in an even more horrid scene by falling off his chair or attempting to kiss her in front of everyone, as Lady Davina must have intended.
That hateful voice resounded in her memory. I would never permit my father to marry so vastly far beneath him.
Lady Davina had declared war. She had done so in words and by her actions tonight. She may have won the first skirmish by catching Blythe unawares, but Blythe would not make the mistake of underestimating the girl again.
Rather than slink away in defeat, Blythe felt more determined than ever. She would win in the end. After all, the best possible outcome would be for her to win the love of the Duke of Savoy.
Chapter 7
Since dawn, James had been cleaning silver utensils in the butler’s pantry near the cellar kitchen. It was late morning now, and the heap of dirty rags beside him had grown into a mountain. So had the pile of gleaming knives and forks. God only knew what ingredients were in the pasty concoction he was using, but it stunk to high heaven. The stench blocked out even the aromas of baking bread and roasting meat wafting from the kitchen.
He rubbed at a stubborn bit of tarnish on a soup spoon. A family dinner party was scheduled for this evening, and of course the table couldn’t possibly be set with the same silver service that had been used at the ball a few nights ago. That would have been far too convenient.
But at least he’d been assigned to serve tonight. After three days on staff, he finally would have the chance to take a close look at George Crompton.
Was the man his cousin—or not?
James cooled his simmering impatience. As the newest
man on staff, he had been assigned every dirty task disliked by the other footmen. His temper was further eroded by the fact that he was isolated down here in the cellar, where the only natural light trickled through a window slit located high in the wall. Having spent most of his adult life in the West Indies, he was accustomed to being out in the sunshine and fresh air, not buried away like a mole in a dank burrow.
He itched to join the other servants working above stairs. At least then he might finagle a way to search for evidence to prove that George and Edith Crompton were imposters.
Hearing voices, he stepped to the doorway and peered into the dimly lit corridor. Outside the laundry room, a stout maid was handing a pile of folded linens to the Hindu servant, Kasi.
The sight galvanized James. He had wanted to interrogate the old woman ever since his arrival here. She was the only one who had lived in India with the Cromptons. But Kasi had been forever upstairs, tending to the needs of the family. She didn’t even take her meals with the staff.
Blast the silverware. He could not waste this prime opportunity.
Tossing down the spoon, he seized a clean rag and scrubbed the black tarnish from his hands. He snatched up the obligatory white gloves and tugged them on as he rushed out into the corridor.
The laundry maid had vanished. So had Kasi.
But luck saved him. He caught a glimpse of her orange sari as she rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.
In hot pursuit, James strode swiftly down the passageway. The scents of starch and dampness hung heavy in the cool air. He spied the Indian woman as she started up the narrow wooden staircase that led to the upper floors.
“Wait, please!” he called.
Holding the pile of folded undergarments, she stopped on the second step and turned to gaze impassively at him. A tiny red dot glinted on her forehead in between her eyes.
Was that the Evil Eye he’d heard whispered about by the other servants? They all seemed in awe of the woman.
“Pardon me,” he said, giving her a respectful bow. “I hope you’ll permit me a moment of your time. I wanted to inquire as to how long you’ve worked for the Crompton family.”
“I am ayah to sahib’s little girls.”
“Ayah … is that a nursemaid or a governess?”
Her plump brown features took on a placid look. In her musical voice, she said, “Ayah feed babies, play games, sing to sleep.”
Questions gripped James. If Kasi had been with the Crompton girls since they were born, then she must be privy to the truth. She must know if the master of the house was the real George Crompton—or a swindler who had cheated James out of his inheritance.
Of course, Crompton would have paid this woman handsomely to keep his secrets. He would not have taken the risk of bringing her to London with the family without being absolutely certain of her loyalty.
James needed to win her trust. So he formulated a lie that would explain his interest in the family’s background. “You’ve known them for quite a long time, then. I was wondering what manner of man is Mr. Crompton? You see, I would like to move to India someday, and I’m curious if you think he might write me a reference.”
Kasi shrugged. “You ask sahib. I do not know.”
“Don’t go yet.” James mounted the steps in an effort to stop her from leaving. “Please, I would merely like to know your assessment of him. Is he a kind master? Is he honest and obliging? Or is he perhaps cold and ruthless in matters of business?”
The Indian woman stared at him. Under the scrutiny of those dark currant eyes, a prickling ran over his skin, and he had the sudden illogical sense that she could read his mind and see his true purpose.
Nonsense. He couldn’t have given himself away with a few questions. No one here knew that James was really George Crompton’s cousin and heir.
The scuff of approaching footsteps broke the silence. A maidservant in mobcap and gray gown trudged around the corner. She was toting a large breakfast tray. Upon seeing them on the stairway, she halted so fast that the dishes clattered.
It was Meg, the saucy maid who had given up on flirting with James. Her startled attention was focused on Kasi.
The Indian woman scowled, her eyes narrowing to slits. Meg sucked in an audible breath, stepped swiftly backward, and bumped hard into the wall.
The breakfast tray tilted. James leaped down the few steps and grabbed it from her. But he wasn’t fast enough to stop one of the covered dishes from flying off. Toast and china scattered all over floor. Miraculously, the plate didn’t break.
Halfway down the long corridor, a man stepped out of the kitchen. James silently cursed the bad timing. Godwin, the head footman, was a nitpicking taskmaster who’d kept a close watch on James.
“What’s the matter there?” Godwin snapped.
“It was merely a slight mishap,” James called. “No harm done.”
“See to it that the mess is cleaned up,” Godwin ordered before vanishing back into the kitchen.
Meg was still staring at the staircase. “’Tis the Evil Eye,” she whispered.
James would have laughed out loud had she not looked so genuinely terrified. And if he wasn’t so frustrated from being thwarted in his interrogation of Kasi.
The Hindu woman had vanished up the stairs. Blast it, he would have to delay any further questioning until another time.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he told Meg. “Kasi is harmless. Now, you’ll need to replenish this tray. Where were you taking it?”
“To-to Miss Crompton.”
All of his senses snapped to alertness. Luck had handed him an opportunity on a silver platter—quite literally. “You’re too shaken to carry something so heavy. I’ll deliver it myself.”
Chapter 8
After donning a foam-green morning gown, Blythe dismissed the maid and finished her toilette herself. She had no engagements until the requisite calls in the early afternoon and for the moment, she preferred to be alone with her own thoughts.
Lifting her skirt slightly, she stepped into a pair of soft leather slippers. She really ought to have gone downstairs to join her parents for breakfast. But no doubt Mama would have launched into a litany of schemes designed to ingratiate them with Lady Davina and her father.
Still stung by the dirty trick Davina had played, Blythe pursed her lips. In the carriage going home the previous evening, Mama had shrugged off Blythe’s assertion that Davina had purposefully set up a situation whereby Viscount Kitchener would embroil Blythe in a scene. They must be forgiving of Davina, Mama had argued, if Blythe ever hoped to become the Duchess of Savoy.
Blythe did want to achieve the stellar marriage. Not so much to satisfy her mother’s ambitions, but to please Papa. It was clear he wished to see her well settled. Wedding the duke certainly would be the crowning glory of her London season.
But she drew the line at groveling before Lady Davina.
In regard to Savoy, the duke’s daughter might as well be a fire-breathing dragon barring entry to a castle. It would take cleverness to figure out a way to defeat the girl at her own game.
Pondering the problem, Blythe left the dressing room and went into her sunlit bedchamber. Perhaps her sisters would have some advice on the matter. During their own seasons, they too must have encountered such snobbery.
Her spirits lightened at the notion of seeing them again. Portia and Ratcliffe were due to arrive from Kent in the late afternoon along with their young son. They were staying with Lindsey and Mansfield, but they would be coming over for dinner this evening.
It would be just like old times. The whole family would be gathered together, laughing and talking, exchanging news about their lives.
The happy prospect made Blythe smile as she sat down at the dressing table to arrange her hair. This would be the first evening in a fortnight that she wouldn’t attend any social events, but she didn’t mind in the least. Strange, she had spent her adolescent years impatient to grow up and join the ton. She had never quite appreciated th
e blessing of having sisters. Now, Portia and Lindsey mattered more to her than an entire ballroom filled with glittering nobility.
Blythe was adding a few final pins to her hair when a firm knock sounded on the door. Leaning closer to the mirror to check for any loose strands, she called, “Come in.”
The door opened and her fingers froze in place. In the looking glass, she saw the tall reflection of James entering the bedchamber. His unexpected arrival caused her heart to lurch.
He was carrying her breakfast tray. “Good morning, Miss Crompton,” he said, appearing remarkably handsome in blue.
Unable to resist, she turned her head to watch as he crossed the room to place the tray on the round table by the window. A keen awareness of him hummed over her skin. “Where is the maid?”
“She had a minor mishap below stairs, so I took it upon myself to deliver this.” He fixed his gaze on Blythe. “I do hope you don’t mind my presumption.”
That direct stare unnerved her. It was so very unlike the other servants. Intrigued, she found herself wanting to unravel the mystery of him. What in his background had made him so bold?
Realizing she still had her hands raised to her head, Blythe returned her gaze to the mirror and pretended an interest in adjusting a few stray copper strands. “It’s perfectly fine.”
She refrained from adding that she might have been undressed and therefore didn’t appreciate his intrusion into her sanctum. But it wouldn’t do to put a picture of herself in a state of dishabille into his mind.
Continuing to primp, she observed him from the corner of her eye. James didn’t immediately depart. Instead, he was lifting the silver covers off the plates. He picked up something and walked to the hearth, then crouched down in front of the grate.
Curiosity overwhelmed common sense, and she swiveled on the stool to see what occupied him. He had a slice of bread on a long fork and he was toasting it over the flames, turning it to brown both sides.