by Olivia Drake
Lindsey marched forward and turned Blythe back around to face them. “We will worry if you don’t tell us exactly what you’re planning. Now, give it out. Every last bit, no holds barred.”
Blythe bit her lip. She didn’t want to cause trouble for James. Nor did she want to confess all to her sisters. But it was obvious from their determined faces that she had to tell them something.
“I’ve found a footman who’s willing to play the part. He’s well-spoken and he’ll be perfect for the role.”
Her sisters glanced at each other, then back at Blythe.
“Who is this man?” Portia asked. “Can he be trusted?”
“More to the point,” Lindsey said in a scoffing tone, “how can a mere footman ever hope to convince anyone that he’s a gentleman, let alone a prince?”
Blythe bristled at the unfair attack on James. He was a fine, upstanding man with hopes and dreams like everyone. He’d told her he wanted to go to India and make his fortune. She very nearly blurted out an argument in his defense. But the last thing she wanted was to reveal his identity because then her sisters might find some way to interfere.
“He was raised as a companion to a gentleman, and he’s quite adept at mimicry.” Blythe said in an offhand tone. “Truly, you’re both making far more of the scheme than I ever intended. It’ll involve just a minor flirtation or two, a brief meeting in the privacy of a garden, perhaps. Then, while the prince is with Lady Davina, I’ll have my chance to speak to the duke. The very moment that His Grace makes me a marriage offer, Prince Nicolai will leave the city, never to return.”
Or at least she prayed it would be that simple.
“It sounds tremendously risky,” Portia said, looking troubled. “This footman may speak well enough, but what if he’s questioned by members of society? What if the Countess de Lieven looks into his background and exposes him as an imposter?”
That possibility worried Blythe, too. Yet she refused to retreat at the first sign of a stumbling block. “He won’t be around long enough for anyone to send for information about him from abroad. So you needn’t fret. I promise you, his participation in society will be minimal.”
“I should like to meet this footman,” Lindsey said. “If you insist upon such a rash course of action, the least we can do is to help outfit him in the proper clothing. He’ll also need to be instructed in the ways of society and how to charm a lady.”
James was already charming enough. He had proven himself to be a fascinating conversationalist, one who could make a woman feel special and admired. The very thought stirred heat in Blythe. She wanted to see him adorned in royal garb. But transforming James into a prince was a task she would keep for herself.
It was not for her interfering sisters, however well-meaning they might be.
She crossed her arms. “Both of you are much too busy with your children. Besides, I’m perfectly capable of handling the matter myself without any assistance. Everything will work out just fine, you’ll see.”
“I certainly hope so,” Lindsey said, one eyebrow arched in doubt. “Because if this scheme of yours is exposed, the footman will lose his post.”
“Even worse,” Portia added with a stern look at Blythe, “you may find yourself embroiled in the scandal of the year.”
Chapter 15
“Check every room above stairs,” Godwin instructed James in the cellar kitchen. “Leave no candles burning unattended. And you must see to it that the oil lamps are not—”
The head footman broke off into a fit of coughing. Seated in a rocking chair next to the hearth, he looked feverish, his normally pale features flushed and his eyes reddened. Though a rough woolen blanket covered his lap, he shivered from a fit of the ague.
“I’ll make certain the lamps aren’t smoking,” James finished for him. “The wicks must be trimmed low so there’s no threat of a fire.”
Godwin nodded as he honked into a large handkerchief. He wiped his nose before grumpily adding, “See to it that the task is done properly. I shouldn’t be handing over such an important duty to a new man like you. But Laycock must man the front door and the other footmen are attending the family coach at Lord and Lady Wortham’s ball.”
James made a respectful bow. “Thank you, sir. I’m mindful of the great honor you’ve afforded me. Pray know that I shall not fail you.”
Taking a candle to light the way, he left Godwin to his misery and strode out into the shadowed passageway. Most of the other servants had retired for the night or had lain down to catch a few winks while waiting for the family to return home in the wee hours.
James was exhilarated to be given free rein to roam the upper floors. He’d been waiting for this chance to conduct a thorough search of the place. There had to be more evidence somewhere, something that would prove the Cromptons were not who they claimed to be.
Discovering the old letter in Edith’s bedside table three nights ago had been a boon to his investigation. Since Percy Thornton had departed already on his journey to find portraits of George and Edith, James had forwarded a message to the former estate agent. He had asked Thornton to track down Mrs. Hannah Bleasdale at Littleford Cottage and to inquire as to why the Cromptons had sent the woman a generous bequest for someone named Mercy.
For all James knew, he could be chasing a ghost. Mrs. Hannah Bleasdale might be long dead. However, it would be worth the extra day or two it would take for Thornton to find out for certain. If Mrs. Bleasdale was still alive, she might know information that would shed light on the mystery.
But James couldn’t bank on that hope. He would need a rock-solid case in order to convince a judge to arrest such an influential couple as the Cromptons.
Candlestick in hand, he mounted the narrow wooden stairs that led to the ground floor. He pushed open the door and stepped into a large, dimly lit passageway near the front of the house.
A few steps led him to a gloomy foyer. The formal rooms on either side lay in darkness. The only illumination came from an oil lamp that flickered near the footman on duty.
Laycock had fallen asleep on a stool beside the double front doors. The freckled young footman sat with his bewigged head tilted back against the wall. Soft snores emanated from his open mouth.
James celebrated another stroke of luck. There would be no witnesses at all to his explorations.
Cupping the candle flame against any drafts, he made a quiet retreat. He was supposed to be checking the bedrooms. But first he intended to have a look in George Crompton’s private office.
As James headed for the rear of the house, the faint hollow scrape of his footsteps echoed down the length of the wide corridor. At intervals, the feeble light from a few sconces made a valiant attempt to penetrate the deep pools of shadow. With its tall columns and marble statuary, the place might have been the palace of a king.
George Crompton owned this mansion. But not for long. As soon as James secured the irrefutable evidence, he would expose the man as an imposter—and quite possibly a murderer. George and Edith would be convicted in a court of law and a judge would determine their punishment. Then James would lay claim to his rightful inheritance.
And what would happen to Blythe?
He wanted to ignore the troubling question. Her fate was of no consequence to him. After all, it wasn’t as if she’d be tossed out on the streets to fend for herself. One of her sisters would take her in, although Blythe would be forever tainted by the crimes of her parents. Stripped of her generous dowry, she’d become a pariah, shunned by society, no longer welcome in the best homes.
The reality of her stark future disturbed James. It shouldn’t matter, he told himself. Justice must be done.
Nevertheless, he disliked being the instrument of her downfall. Not so much because of the money, but because he’d seen for himself that she harbored a genuine affection for her parents. Learning of their treachery would come as a terrible shock to a girl who’d grown up in an insulated world of wealth and privilege.
A girl who was hell-bent on mar
rying a title.
He grimaced. By God, he’d suffer no regrets for destroying her hope of wedding the Duke of Savoy. She should never have set her cap for a man who was old enough to be her father. In her ambition to become a duchess, she intended to resort to subterfuge in order to entrap Savoy.
Several days had passed since she’d summoned James to her bedchamber and offered to pay him an extravagant sum to play Prince Nicolai of Ambrosia. At a time yet to be announced, he was to garb himself as a foreign royal and distract the duke’s snooty daughter, Lady Davina, giving Blythe a chance to attract the duke.
James wanted no part of that folly. There were too many variables that could cause matters to go awry—not the least of which was for Prince Nicolai to be unmasked as an upstart footman. It was difficult enough pretending to be a servant. James didn’t need the added aggravation of pretending to be footman pretending to be a prince.
At least Blythe had made no further attempt to seek him out. A whirl of social engagements had kept her away from the house, including the ball that she and her parents were attending this evening. Perhaps she had failed in her attempt to spread a rumor about the imminent arrival of Prince Nicolai. Perhaps no one had believed the Banbury tale. Perhaps she’d snapped to her senses and abandoned the reckless plan.
His mouth twisted. Perhaps his long-dead, profligate father would rise from the grave.
Turning a corner, James spied the office at the end of the shadowed passageway. The sooner he had solid proof in his hands, the better. Then he could abandon this footman’s disguise, itchy wig and all. How shocked Blythe would be to learn that he was a blue-blooded gentleman—and the true heir to her father’s vast fortune.
Without a doubt, she would despise him for deceiving all of them. She would hold James to blame for the ruination of her parents. Which meant that he’d never know the pleasure of her kiss. If making love to her was off limits to him as a footman, it would be absolutely out of the question once she found out the truth of his purpose here. And that was a bitter pill for him to swallow.…
James came to an abrupt halt in front of the office door. Was he really weighing the prospect of abandoning his righteous cause in favor of indulging his lust?
No. It would never happen. Blythe Crompton might be an exceptionally pretty girl, but she wasn’t worth the sacrifice of his principles—and certainly not his stolen inheritance. He had to face the fact that there were no circumstances under which he could ever claim her for his own.
Grasping the doorknob, he felt a sudden prickling of unease. He lifted the candlestick. Nothing moved in the gloom of the passageway. Only the marble bust of an ancient Roman gazed sightlessly from a pillar against the opposite wall.
Nevertheless, James kept his attention on the murky shadows of the corridor while he slipped inside the darkened office. As he shut the door behind him, he shook off the nagging sense of disquiet. Now was no time to let his imagination run wild.
On impulse, he reached up and stripped off the cumbersome wig. It would be easier to search without that discomfort. But even as he turned around with the bundle of powdered horsehair gripped in his fingers, two observations struck him in rapid succession.
First, a faint whiff of flowery perfume overlay the more masculine aromas of leather and tobacco smoke.
Second, he was not alone.
The glow of his candle reached the broad mahogany desk. And there in the shadows, a quill pen in hand, sat Miss Blythe Crompton.
He stood rooted to the floor. Disbelief slammed into him at the sight of her staring back at him. She wore a shoulder-baring gown, the white gauzy fabric setting off to perfection her creamy skin and upswept copper hair. Since she had frozen in the act of leaning forward, apparently to blow out her own candle, he had a spectacular view of lush breasts and a hint of lacy chemise.
Her eyes wide, she uttered a little gasp and dropped her pen. “James! You frightened me half to death!”
“I could say the same for you.” In a temper over his wrecked plans—and the spontaneous combustion of lust inside him—he strode straight to the desk. “Why the devil are you in here? You’re supposed to be out at a ball.”
“I told Mama that I wasn’t feeling well. The coachman brought me home a little while ago.”
“She allowed you to abandon the Duke of Savoy?”
“He wasn’t present tonight. There was no reason for me to stay.”
“And so you would prefer to sit here in the dark.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! I blew out the candle when I heard someone coming.”
Blythe willed her heart to stop racing. The reaction had more to do with James himself than with the shock she’d experienced at his abrupt entry into her father’s office. For one, she’d never seen him without his white powdered wig. If she’d thought him handsome before, now he was downright gorgeous, with rumpled black hair to match his dark eyes and swarthy skin.
Clad in blue livery, he created a forceful presence that altered the quiet peace of the room. The flickering light of his candle cast harsh shadows over his strong cheekbones. She had the oddest impression of roiling emotions in him, a notion that was corroborated by his terse tone and scowling expression.
But why should a footman be angry to find her at her father’s desk? Come to think of it, why had James crept into the office so furtively?
“Enough of your inquisition,” she said. “I believe it’s my place to inquire why you’re here.”
His features took on an impassive look. “The lamps,” he said. “I was charged with the task of making certain there were none left burning that might start a fire.”
“I see.” It was a reasonable excuse, yet she knew he wasn’t telling her everything. “And when you check each room, do you always remove your wig?”
He tossed the bundle onto a nearby chair. “It’s an annoyance. I didn’t think you’d mind if I did so.”
“You also closed the door behind yourself. Why?”
He fixed her with an unfathomable stare. Then he set down the candlestick, strolled around to the side of the desk, and seated himself on the edge. Leaning forward, he murmured, “Because I guessed at once that you didn’t want anyone to know you’re in here. And besides, I find it necessary to have a private talk with my employer.”
His nearness gave Blythe a tiny shiver of pleasure. Although his tale didn’t quite ring true, the note of sensuality in his voice had a distracting effect on her, as did the sight of his disheveled hair. She had the mad urge to reach up and comb her fingers through it. Besides his casual appearance, his unorthodox behavior rattled her composure. Never before had she known a servant to sit in her presence without invitation. James was much too close and she really ought to order him to move.
Yet the paper lying before her was a stark reminder that she needed his cooperation.
“I’m not your employer,” she pointed out. “My father pays your wages.”
“A minor distinction. Nevertheless, you do wield an undeniable power over me, Miss Crompton.”
Again, his silken words seemed imbued with undercurrents of meaning. Was he admitting that he was attracted to her? Or was he merely referring to the difference in their ranks? Whatever the reason, his dark brown eyes held her enthralled. He gazed intently at her as if she was the subject of his romantic dreams. Her blood beating faster, Blythe found herself craving his embrace with unladylike desperation.
How imprudent even to allow such a thought. Nothing could be more forbidden to her than a liaison with a servant.
“Why did you wish to speak to me?” she asked.
Her question broke the spell. Sitting back, he folded his arms and subjected her to a cool stare. “It’s about your plan to trick the duke’s daughter. Since I’m involved, I was curious to know if you’ve given up on it.”
“Of course I haven’t given up. I’ve already spread the rumor that Prince Nicolai of Ambrosia is to visit London. Everyone is on pins and needles awaiting his arrival.”
A brief tightening of James’s mouth revealed his displeasure. “Then it seems the nobility is far too gullible.”
“You told me yourself that people will see whatever they wish to see.” To give herself something to do, Blythe picked up the quill and twirled it between her fingers. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I came home early tonight without my parents.”
“You felt ill.”
She shook her head. “That was merely an excuse. The truth is that I’ve been writing a note to Lady Davina from Prince Nicolai, and I needed to borrow a few sheets of my father’s stationery. It looks more manly than mine, you see.”
James picked up a blank piece of heavy cream paper and held it to his nose. “It also doesn’t reek of flowery perfume, as yours does.”
“How do you know—? Oh, you delivered the thank-you note that Mama made me write to the duke.”
“For the chocolate bonbons that were ever so much finer than the mundane offerings of your other suitors.”
His mocking tone wrested a self-conscious laugh from Blythe. How embarrassing to remember that James had been standing nearby while her mother had dictated those gushing words. Not wanting to be disloyal to the duke, Blythe said primly, “It was very considerate of His Grace to send me sweets.”
“Very special, indeed. I’m sure he put a tremendous amount of thought into such an unusual gift.”
Irked, she tossed down the quill. “I know you don’t approve of me marrying the duke, but may I remind you, it is no concern of yours.”
“Quite the contrary. In order for you to succeed in your mission, I am expected to play Prince Nicolai of Ambrosia.”
James had a point there. Blythe couldn’t fault him for feeling manipulated, so she strove for a more conciliatory tone. “I am rewarding you well for your trouble, don’t forget. Now, you should be interested to learn what the prince wrote to Lady Davina.” She pushed the paper toward him. “Go ahead, read it and tell me what you think.”
He stared at her, his eyes hooded. Then he reached for the letter and angled it to the light of the candle. “‘To the most gracious Lady Davina.’” He aimed a sardonic look at Blythe. “Do they use the English tongue in Ambrosia, then?”