Scandal of the Year

by Olivia Drake

  Now, as her sisters continued to chatter, she glanced across the room and looked right at him. Her cheerful expression sobered somewhat, though in surprise or alarm he couldn’t tell. Their gazes held for the space of a pulse beat. Then, she broke the contact and resumed talking to her sisters.

  As if he didn’t exist.

  Jaw clenched, James marched after the other footmen to the sideboard. He felt unaccountably annoyed as if she had delivered the cut direct to him in a ballroom. What the devil had he expected, that she would beckon him closer and make introductions? A lady was supposed to ignore the servants. He had no true interest in Miss Blythe Crompton, anyway, except as an unwitting informant.

  Earlier in the day, he’d deliberately fostered a sense of trust between them. The task had been simple enough. He had played upon her goodwill by asking questions about India, and she had fallen into his trap with all the naiveté of a green girl. Now, it was a matter of biding his time and awaiting another opportunity to continue his interrogation of her in private. Somehow, he had to lead her into revealing what she knew about her parents.

  He noticed Godwin frowning in his direction. The head footman was a stickler for rules. If the fussbudget had caught James looking at the family, he’d be in deep trouble.

  James busied himself at the sideboard by removing the domed cover from the dish of green peas in cream sauce. He selected a silver serving utensil, one of the spoons he’d spent hours polishing. The need for vigilance burned in him. He mustn’t forget, not even for an instant, that he was playing a role here. One false move and he’d be tossed out of the house on his ear, his ruse in ruins.

  Thankfully, Godwin had turned his attention elsewhere. With as much pomp as one would afford the crown jewels, the head footman carried a platter of sliced roast beef to Mrs. Edith Crompton. Once she had served herself a portion, he moved on to the other ladies and the next footman took his place, this one offering a dish of potatoes au gratin to the mistress. Having been instructed in the strict order in which the dishes were to be served, James held back and awaited his turn.

  He turned his gaze to George Crompton. Unfortunately, James stood a short distance behind the man, which made identification impossible. He summoned forth the image of his cousin from the mists of memory. The most distinguishing characteristic—at least to a boy of ten—had been George’s thick mane of dark, wavy hair.

  From this vantage point, however, James could see only a thinning cap of graying brown hair. Of course, such a difference could be attributed to age. A man could change a lot in twenty years, especially when he’d been exposed to the harsh elements of India.

  Impatience gnawed at James. In a matter of moments, he would have a better look. The footman ahead of him was carrying a dish of butter-glazed endives toward the table.

  It was nearly James’s turn.

  While he waited, he was struck by how much Portia and Lindsey resembled each other, both dark and willowy. Blythe was petite like her mother, with coppery hair and a pert nose. Odd, how little she resembled her sisters. He would never have taken them for siblings.…

  “Ella is so fretful in the evenings,” one of the sisters was saying as she served herself a spoonful of potatoes. “I cannot fathom what it is I’m doing wrong. It takes her ever so long to settle down to sleep.”

  The speaker must be Lindsey, who recently had given birth to her first child.

  “Give her over to one of the nursemaids,” Edith Crompton advised. “That is what servants are for.”

  “Oh, Mama, I could never do that,” Lindsey said. “I can’t bear to think of Ella being comforted by anyone else.”

  “Arthur was fussy like that, too,” Portia assured her. “I like to say that I carried him for another three months after birth. Wouldn’t you concur, Colin?”

  Viscount Ratcliffe gave his wife an indulgent smile across the table. “Of course, darling. He’s always been quite a handful.” He glanced over at his brother-in-law and added in a stage whisper, “One must always agree with one’s wife. It makes life far more enjoyable.”

  Fingering the long scar on his cheek, Lord Mansfield chuckled. “How well I know.”

  Then it was time for James to join the procession of footmen around the table. Carrying the white porcelain dish by its handles, he concentrated on verifying the identity of the elder Cromptons. He approached Edith from the left and lowered the dish for her access.

  With nary a glance at him, she picked up the silver spoon and ladled a dainty portion of peas onto her plate. He might have been a statue for all she noticed.

  So much the better.

  He had already seen her from a close vantage point on that one occasion in Blythe’s chamber. Now, he once again noted the lack of wrinkles that seemed unusual for a woman nearing her fiftieth year. Either she had discovered the Fountain of Youth in India, or she was younger than his cousin’s wife ought to be.

  But how could he prove that?

  “I’m looking forward to visiting the little dears on the morrow,” she told her daughters. “In the meantime, the both of you need a rest from all this talk of feedings and naptimes.”

  “I quite agree,” Blythe said. “Mama, I’ve been meaning to ask you something. Why do we never go to Lancashire?”

  James nearly dropped the dish. He cut a sharp glance toward her, but her gaze was trained on her mother.

  Good God, did the minx intend to reveal their conversation after she’d sworn not to do so? He should never have mentioned that he hailed from Lancashire. To know that she had the power to draw undue attention to him made his blood run cold.

  Edith clutched the silver serving spoon, her knuckles white. “Lancashire! Why on earth would you bring up that place?”

  Blythe shrugged. “No particular reason. I was just thinking today that you and Papa lived there a long time ago. Yet I’ve never laid eyes on the estate and I wondered if we might visit there sometime. Perhaps in the summer, after the Season is over.”

  Edith took an inordinate interest in tapping off a few stubborn peas that stuck to the spoon. “The house is in ruins; I’ve told you so before. It’s uninhabitable. Besides, your father cannot be away from the docks for so long and we wouldn’t wish to leave him behind.”

  “Your mother is right,” George said from his end of the table. “I’m not one for idling in the country as the nobs are wont to do. It’s best we remain in London.”

  In spite of his tension, James felt the burn of interest. It made sense that George and Edith wouldn’t wish to travel to Lancashire. There was too much danger that one of the locals might question their identities and expose them as charlatans.

  Edith returned the spoon to the dish. “Enough about Lancashire. There are far more important things to discuss. Portia and Lindsey, you may be interested to know that the Duke of Savoy has shown a marked interest in your sister.”

  James was relieved when Blythe didn’t attempt to say more about Lancashire. Perhaps she wouldn’t betray him, after all.

  Noting how swiftly Edith had changed the topic, he carried the dish to Portia. The eldest Crompton daughter paid no heed to him, either, for she was frowning at her mother.

  “Oh, Mama. Pray don’t tell me you’re still trying to snag a duke as a son-in-law.”

  “I am, indeed,” Mrs. Crompton said, her chin high. “It would be a feather in Blythe’s cap to be chosen by Savoy. I will do all that I can to arrange matters in her favor.”

  “Your arrangements nearly proved to be a disaster for me last year,” Lindsey said darkly. “Have you forgotten so quickly how Lord Wrayford tried to abduct me?”

  “I still regret not thrashing that villain to within an inch of his life,” Lord Mansfield growled. “However, one cannot deny the matter turned out quite well regardless.”

  He and his wife shared a secretive smile across the table.

  “Let’s hope Wrayford has finally learned his lesson,” Portia said, taking a spoonful of peas, then waving James away. “As I recall,
he had a nasty habit of staring at all the ladies’ bosoms.”

  As James approached Blythe with the serving dish, he had a clear view of her bosom. He was hard-pressed to keep from gawking at her decidedly feminine curves. From so close a stance, he could detect her scent, something light and flowery, yet with a hint of mystery. He wanted to bury his face in her breasts and see if she tasted as delectable as she looked.

  Blythe took no notice of him as she picked up the spoon to serve herself. Did she even know who was standing beside her? Or was he a mere plaything for her to practice her flirting?

  “Speaking of Wrayford,” she said, “I saw him last evening at Lady Wargrave’s house. You’ll never guess who he’s engaged to wed. Frances Beardsley.”

  Portia and Lindsey glanced at each other and broke into giggles.

  “Now there’s a well-suited couple,” Portia said drolly. “A busybody and a lecher. They deserve each other.”

  “A match made in Hades,” Lindsey said, her eyes gleaming. “Frances in particular would have everyone believe she’s a pillar of society. Yet I seem to recall she was once caught kissing a footman.”

  The spoon clinked as Blythe dropped it into the dish. Her gaze flicked up to James, and for one heated moment their eyes locked before she looked away again.

  So she had known it was him.

  At least no one else appeared to have noticed the brief fiery awareness between them. The other footmen were engaged in serving the family members, and the banter between the sisters continued unabated as they discussed the scoundrel named Wrayford.

  James walked around Blythe’s chair and went to Lindsey. What had that ardent glance meant? Had Blythe herself thought about kissing a footman—him? He could have sworn it was so this morning in her bedchamber when she’d touched his arm and gazed soulfully into his eyes.

  A primal heat gripped him. He wanted to do more than kiss her. He wanted to find the nearest bed and explore every inch of her luscious body. The fantasy smoldered like an ever-present fire in his gut.

  Irked with himself, James kept his gaze lowered while he served her middle sister. He’d be a fool to overstep his bounds. He was here for a clandestine purpose, nothing more. If he found proof of foul deeds, it would be a rude awakening for George and Edith Crompton—and for Blythe.

  “Now, girls, such gossip is beneath you,” Mrs. Crompton chided. She looked down the table at her husband. “Do stop chattering about those dreary ships, George, and scold your daughters.”

  George had been conversing with his sons-in-law. A twinkle now entered his eyes as he regarded the women. “Why would I ruin their entertainment, dear? Scandals are to be enjoyed so long as they don’t happen within our own family!”

  James was struck by the man’s cheerful smile and relaxed disposition. No knell of recognition sounded within his own mind. The cousin he recalled had been a rather dour, humorless sort who was absorbed in his own pursuits.

  Could siring three daughters have changed him so drastically?

  His mind alive with questions, James walked forward. He stopped directly beside George and presented the dish while cataloguing the man’s physical characteristics.

  Stout and balding, George looked every inch the prosperous businessman. His maroon coat was well tailored, as had been the garb of James’s cousin, but that was only to be expected for a wealthy man. He had a straight nose, slightly ruddy features, and deep lines around his eyes and mouth.

  Although he was sitting, he didn’t appear to be as tall as James remembered. Yet perhaps all adults looked towering to a boy of ten.

  Damn! He had a stronger sense than ever that the man was an impostor, yet he could not make a positive identification. The mists of memory obscured more than he’d anticipated. He had thought to take one close look and know for certain that this man had stolen the identity of his cousin.

  He couldn’t win a court case on the basis of intuition. So how the devil was he supposed to proceed with the investigation?

  Then the moment of scrutiny was over. It was time to move to the opposite side of the table. As he served the other two gentlemen, James set aside his frustration and returned his attention to the conversation.

  “I’d like to know more about the Duke of Savoy,” Portia was saying to Blythe. “Isn’t he a bit ancient for you?”

  Blythe cast a pensive glance down at her plate, then flashed a determined smile at her sister. “Two people can fall in love no matter what their age. Besides, His Grace is very kind and thoughtful, and he’s sent me many gifts.”

  James would have relished the chance to challenge her on that point. It annoyed him that she was so willing to sell herself to a man who was old enough to be her sire. It seemed her sisters agreed, for they both cast worried looks at her.

  “Gifts!” Lindsey scoffed. “You should be far more concerned about the man’s character.”

  “Indeed,” her husband said blandly, “it’s good to know that I needn’t bother giving you any more gifts. My character should be sufficient to please you.”

  Lindsey made a mock scowl at him while the others laughed. “You know what I mean,” she said. “The most important consideration in choosing a husband is to have shared interests, for how else can one fall in love?”

  Blythe looked unperturbed as she cut her beef. “I’ve no wish to solve crimes as you and Thane are wont to do, nor to dig in the garden like Portia and Colin. I shall be very happy as Savoy’s wife, for we both enjoy going out in society. Besides, I have always wanted to become a great hostess.”

  James was relieved to be finished serving because it kept him from glaring at her. His lips compressed, he returned to the sideboard and replaced the cover on the dish. The chit was a social climber, after all. He should never have imagined otherwise.

  He joined the other footmen who stood at attention by the wall until they were needed to clear the plates. The position allowed him to observe the party without being conspicuous.

  “The duke is indeed the catch of the season,” Edith declared. “I will not have anyone discouraging such a perfect match.”

  “But to marry simply to gain an exalted title is wrong,” Portia said with a disgusted shake of her head. She looked down the table at her father. “Papa, it would be a terrible mistake. You mustn’t allow it.”

  “Now, don’t badger your mother and sister,” George said. “You and Lindsey were permitted to make your own choices. And fine choices they were, too.”

  “But we married for love. Can you not see the importance of—?”

  “What I see,” George interrupted sternly, “is that your sister is a grown woman now. She has expressed a wish to wed Savoy, and all of you must honor her decision.”

  At that, Blythe did something utterly unexpected. She slipped out of her chair and went to her father, bending down to wrap her arms around him in a hug. “Dearest Papa. I shan’t disappoint you, I promise. I’ll always make you proud.”

  He laid down his fork and returned the embrace. With a tender smile, he reached up to stroke her cheek. “Just be happy, my sweet.”

  James was struck by the genuine warmth between them. It was clear that she loved her father, and that George felt the same strong affection for his daughter.

  The sight caused a visceral tension in James’s chest. His own sire had been too preoccupied with dice and wagering to take notice of his son. It had been a welcome day when the profligate finally had been lowered into his grave.

  As Blythe went back to her seat and resumed chattering with her sisters, James watched her broodingly. Her eyes bright, she glowed with happiness. And little wonder. Miss Blythe Crompton led a lavish, carefree life. Having grown up in the lap of luxury, she was secure in her position as the premier heiress of the season.

  What would happen when he exposed her parents as imposters? She would lose everything: her inheritance, her home, her place in society, and her chance to wed the duke. Her life would be in shambles.

  Laughing and talking with he
r family, she could have no idea of the grim future that lay in store for her. Nor did she have any inkling that the new footman would be the engineer of her downfall.

  James hardened his heart. He refused to let sentiment sway him. The righteousness of his cause outweighed any consequences to her. For all he knew, his cousin could have been murdered. Justice must prevail. But first, James had to find a way to prove that the man sitting at the head of the table was not the real George Crompton.

  If only he had a portrait of his cousin …

  James had a sudden inspiration as to how to achieve his purpose. There might be a way, after all. Tonight, once everyone was asleep, he would put his plan into motion.

  Chapter 10

  Later that evening, Edith was nearly finished preparing for bed. Instead of her regular maid, Kasi had helped out, and the old Hindu woman still lingered in the dressing room. Draped in a tangerine sari, she hummed to herself while folding a discarded petticoat.

  Tonight, the woman’s presence irritated Edith. She had so much to ponder. Of utmost importance was the task of seeing Blythe safely married to the Duke of Savoy. This was Edith’s last opportunity to link herself to the very highest ranks of society.

  Nothing—and no one—must interfere with that goal.

  She dipped her fingers into a green glass jar and slathered rose-scented lotion over her face, working it into her skin to prevent wrinkles. While performing the nightly ritual, she watched the stout woman in the pier glass. “Tell me, has Blythe ever mentioned Lancashire to you?”

  Kasi turned around. In a sing-song voice, she said, “Lanca-sheer … that is where you and sahib live long ago.”

  “Yes. Now, what does Blythe know of the place?”

  The Hindu shrugged. “Missy say nothing to me.”

  Edith relaxed marginally. Perhaps she’d overreacted at dinner. Blythe had been making conversation, that was all. Yet one could never be too careful. “Well, if she happens to do so in the future, tell me at once.”