The Footman and I: The Footmen’s Club Trilogy

by Bowman, Valerie

  She pushed the curl off her shoulder and a wide smile appeared on her face. “I suppose it’s only fair to tell you my name after you’ve been so kind to share yours,” she replied. “I’m Frances, Frances Wharton.”

  “Thank you, milady.” He bowed. There. Not only had she not been offended by the question, she’d bestowed a gorgeous smile on him. So far at least, Frances Wharton seemed like a nice young lady indeed.

  Lucas left the room and pulled the door closed behind him. He hadn’t exited a bit too soon, either. James was just coming out of the other bedchamber and Lucas joined him on his way back down the staircase to see to the next coach.

  Pulling it from his pocket, he tossed the coin in the air and caught it in his fist. Frances Wharton? She hadn’t used the word ‘lady,’ yet she must be of the Quality or she wouldn’t have been invited to the house party. Not to mention she was dressed as a lady, spoke like a lady, and had been treated like a lady by Theodora. Interesting, then, that she hadn’t included that word when telling him her name. She also hadn’t felt it necessary to blurt out her father’s name. Wharton? Hmm. Seemed Lucas knew a baron with that surname. A grin spread across his face. Yes, indeed. Frances Wharton might just be one young lady to keep an eye on.

  Chapter Five

  That night at the long table in Lord Clayton’s elegant dining room, the empty seat to Frances’s right caused her no end of concern. Her mother sat on the other side of the void, watching Frances while smiling and nodding like an inhabitant of Bedlam. Mama clearly knew something that pleased her about the seat’s future occupant. Which could only mean one thing. Sir Reginald was on the way. The theory stood to reason. He wasn’t occupying any of the other seats at the dinner table and Frances’s fervent wish that he had taken ill and would not be coming at all was dashed when Lady Clayton said in a loud voice for the entire table to hear, “Sir Reginald should be here any moment.”

  Frances’s heart sank. She had already tried to feign illness before dinner, believing that to be a much better alternative than pretending to be a shrew. Being a shrew would involve theatrics and was certain to be tiring, while feigning illness involved lying in one’s bed and reading, and what could be better than that?

  Despite Frances’s fake coughing, back of her hand to her forehead, and plenty of moan-sighing, her mother would have none of it. Mama had ordered Frances to dress for dinner and prepare to be charming and friendly. Mama had also reminded Frances she was not, under any circumstances, to mention anything about either the Employment Bill or politics of any sort.

  Frances had reluctantly allowed poor, beleaguered Albina to help her dress all the while seriously doubting whether she could be charming or friendly, let alone both, particularly if Sir Reginald was her dinner companion. How would she ever pretend to be interested when the man began telling a story about his feet or something equally mind-numbing? Abigail had always been good at listening to other people’s boring stories and feigning interest. Frances, however, tended to alternate looks that had been described by her mother as a trapped hare and a sleepy parson. But Frances couldn’t help it. Boring stories were boring stories and Sir Reginald Francis had proven himself to be a successive offender.

  For the thousandth time, Frances wondered why her mother simply didn’t give up on her and save the dowry money for Abigail. Abigail was charming. Abigail was friendly. Abigail was looking forward to marriage and running a household and having a family. Abigail never wanted to discuss politics. Abigail was much more like the other young women at the house party. Such ill luck that Abigail wasn’t the elder of the two of them.

  Frances glanced around at the other occupants of the dining table. It was mostly comprised of young ladies and their mothers. In fact, now that Frances considered it, the table was noticeably lacking in eligible gentlemen. Not that she minded as far as courtship was concerned, but she suspected the other young ladies had (like Mama) come here hoping to find more eligibles. Frances mentally shrugged. Normally, she’d be interested in talking politics with the eligible gentlemen, but since she’d already promised Mama not to broach the subject, she supposed it didn’t matter how many eligibles were here. She seriously doubted the other young women and their mamas felt the same, however.

  Frances took another surreptitious glance around the table. There were several lovely young women here. She recognized each one of them. Like her, they were all the outcasts of the Season. The ones who hadn’t made matches at least.

  With one notable exception.

  Lady Julianna Montgomery.

  Lady Julianna was the daughter of the Duke of Montlake and the sister of Frances’s friend, Mary. Lady Julianna was gorgeous, with blond hair and light-green eyes. She was also tall and thin and proper. In fact, she was so wealthy, popular, and beautiful that the Times had followed her debut and subsequent courtships. Abigail and Mama had been positively on tenterhooks reading the stories. Frances remembered bits and pieces of their gossip. Apparently, the year before last, when Lady Julianna had made her debut, there had been rumors that she’d caught the eye of the elusive Duke of Worthington, but no one had truly believed that. Worthington was dashing and exceedingly handsome by all accounts, but he was also an established rake and a notorious gambler. He’d never been one to frequent the events of the ton. Still, the rumors had been given some credence. After all, if Worthington was planning to finally marry, Julianna Montgomery certainly would be the sort of young woman who could manage to bring him to the altar. Surprisingly, Lady Julianna had remained unattached her entire first Season, but this past Season, she’d made an excellent match. She’d become engaged to the Marquess of Murdoch. The marquess was young, rich, handsome, and the heir to the Duke of Murdoch, his childless uncle.

  Frances took a sip of wine and eyed Lady Julianna from behind her glass. The blonde was here at the house party with her mother and younger sister, who’d just made her debut this Season and had yet to secure an engagement. Lady Julianna was everything Frances was not. Regal. Poised. Charming. Gorgeous. How she managed to always keep a serene and inviting look on her face, Frances would never know. No doubt about it, Lady Julianna was a diamond of the first water. Surely her dowry was indecent. And Frances was entirely certain that Lady Julianna never did anything inappropriate such as bringing up politics to potential suitors. No wonder the Marquess of Murdoch had come calling.

  When Lady Julianna suddenly turned and met Frances’s gaze, Frances nearly dropped her wine glass. She quickly looked away. Perfect. Now she’d been caught staring at Lady Julianna Montgomery. What more rude behavior could she display this evening? She glanced at the clock that rested on the mantelpiece in the center of the long room. That clock had to be the slowest contraption in history. She sighed under her breath. She’d be forced to sit here for at least two more hours, if not three. These sorts of formal affairs were ever so lengthy and tedious. Especially when the talk was as trivial as it was at present. Mama was chatting with the woman on the other side of her about Sir Reginald’s imminent arrival. Frances was already bored, and the knight hadn’t even arrived yet.

  The only thing that was keeping the evening from being completely wasted was the fact that the extremely handsome footman who’d helped with the trunks and asked for her name this morning was serving the table. She’d been unable to keep her gaze from him all evening. Was it her imagination or had he just glanced at her? Lucas was his name. Mr. Lucas. He’d been awfully kind to her. He’d even tried to give her back her coin. She’d never known a servant to do such a thing. She’d also never known a servant to be as handsome and well-built as he was. In addition to being tall, his broad shoulders filled out the black jacket he was wearing perfectly, not to mention his—Good heavens, her cheeks were heating. Mama would have a conniption if she knew the impure thoughts Frances was having about a footman. She hid her smile behind her napkin and tried not to glance at Mr. Lucas. Much.

  Moments later, Sir Reginald came hurrying into the dining room. “I’m awfully sorry
to be late, my lady,” he said to their hostess, “but I received a letter from the Prince Regent, and well, one does not wait to read a letter from Georgie.” He pretended as if he only meant Lady Clayton to hear, but his words had been loud enough to reach the entire dining room.

  Frances couldn’t help it. She glanced at Mr. Lucas. Had he just rolled his eyes? That was interesting. She took another sip from her wine glass to keep from smiling again.

  Sir Reginald soon located the empty chair to Frances’s right and proceeded to seat himself. He was just about to open his mouth to speak when Mama leaned across Frances to say, “My dear Sir Reginald, you must tell us what the Prince Regent said in his letter.”

  Frances didn’t miss that Mama had also emphasized the words Prince Regent and nearly toppled out of her chair in her attempt to garner Sir Reginald’s attention.

  A self-satisfied smirk popped to the knight’s thin lips as Mr. Lucas settled a napkin on his lap. Sir Reginald didn’t spare the footman so much as a glance, Frances noted with some distaste.

  Sir Reginald cleared his throat. “Why, he asked how I’m getting on at the house party and wanted to know if I’d like to come to dinner at Carlton House upon my return,” Sir Reginald announced, his voice raised again for the entire table to hear.

  “Did you hear that, Frances?” Mama asked nodding more. “Sir Reginald has been invited to Carlton House.”

  Frances did her best to smile and nod also, but she was certain both looked pained and awkward. Why did they keep emphasizing the words Prince Regent and Carlton House? Frances had never given a fig about the prince and wasn’t about to start now. The man was almost always on the wrong side of every political issue she’d ever taken an interest in.

  “I intend to write back and invite him here, with Lady Clayton’s blessing, of course.” Sir Reginald smiled and nodded toward Lady Clayton who raised her wine glass and inclined her head and said, “Of course, Sir Reginald. Of course.”

  Mama nearly squealed. She pressed one hand to her chest. “The Regent! Coming here! Why, just think of it, Frances.”

  A great deal of talking and excitement bubbled throughout the room at the news that the Prince Regent would be invited to join them. Frances glanced at Mr. Lucas who had pursed his lips and raised his brows in the semblance of being mock-excited about the news too. She smothered her laugh behind her napkin again just before Sir Reginald turned to her and said, “My dear Miss Wharton, it’s lovely to see you again. I still recall our fascinating discussion of whist the last time we spoke.”

  “I recall it, too,” Frances managed to croak, while Mama smiled approvingly. Frances glanced at Mr. Lucas when she said it and was convinced she saw the hint of a smile hovering at his firm lips. Goodness, that man was handsome. Was it hot in the dining room of a sudden?

  “Yes,” Mama added, “Frances has mentioned your fascinating conversation about whist more than once.” Mama leaned so far over toward Sir Reginald, that Frances had to grab her wine glass to keep it from toppling and lean so far back in her chair as to risk falling out of it. In fact, as the chair tipped back, Mr. Lucas appeared to right it for her.

  “Be careful, Frances,” Mama whispered under her breath, a false smile still plastered to her face for Sir Reginald’s sake.

  Frances shot Mr. Lucas a thankful look and lifted her wine glass to her lips again. She was quite certain Mama might smile herself into insanity if she kept it up at this rate.

  When Frances resumed listening to the conversation, Sir Reginald was still talking about whist. Frances watched the knight from the corners of her eyes. Did he truly believe his whist story had been fascinating? From the wide smile on his face, he looked as if he believed Mama. Frances fought the urge to shake her head. Some people were far too quick to believe flattery.

  Moments later, Frances found herself looking around the room to catch Mr. Lucas’s gaze again, but apparently he had left. He was probably on his way to the kitchens to retrieve the next course. Frances had the strangest feeling of being left alone. She glanced around the table again. When her gaze fell on Lady Julianna, the woman gave her an encouraging smile. Frances returned the smile just before Sir Reginald cleared his throat again.

  “I hope you don’t think it too forward of me to say, Miss Wharton, but I’ve had my eye out for you all afternoon,” the knight announced.

  “Have you?” Frances drawled, clutching her wine glass as if it might somehow save her from the conversation. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  She earned a scowl from her mother for that pronouncement.

  Her words didn’t appear to affect the knight in the least, however. He kept talking as if he hadn’t even heard her. “Yes, but when my man arrived from London with the mail and there was a letter from the prince, well, . . .” Sir Reginald let the sentence die away.

  Reading the letter was more important than looking for me, Frances mentally finished for him, biting her lip to keep from smiling. She wished Mr. Lucas had been in the room to hear this last bit. Sir Reginald could be quite entertaining if one had enough wine and the correct perspective.

  “Oh, do tell more about the prince’s letter,” Mama encouraged Sir Reginald. She looked as if she was about to shred her napkin with excitement. Frances continued to clutch at her wine glass as if it were the last connection to sanity.

  “Of course there was quite a bit more in the prince’s letter,” Sir Reginald continued obligingly, “but one doesn’t become a confidante to the prince by telling his secrets.” The man dabbed at his lips with his napkin while giving Frances a knowing look.

  Frances glanced away in misery. She searched the room. There were four footmen in total waiting on the dining table and two of them had been busy removing the soup bowls while Mr. Lucas and the fourth man had left the room. The two of them soon returned carrying a large silver platter upon which sat a roasted goose. They laid the platter on an empty sideboard and began helping the other two footmen lay out plates. Frances had never paid much attention to the comings and goings of servants at meals such as this one, but tonight she found herself watching Mr. Lucas’s every move. Soon after he finished with the plates, he was busy going from person to person offering slices of roasted goose, while two of his cohorts carried the platter. She watched his progress, a funny feeling roiled in her belly the closer he came to her.

  “Milady?” he asked, bowing when he finally reached her seat. “Roast goose?”

  “Yes, please,” she responded, not looking at him, and desperately hoping that neither Mama nor Mr. Lucas himself could tell she was blushing. Drat. She’d never blushed over being offered roast goose before. She was the goose.

  She was served quickly and efficiently before Mr. Lucas and the platter moved on to Sir Reginald while Mama asked, “Sir Reginald, how often do you dine with the prince?” Mama’s eyes were sparkling in a way that made Frances worry. It was official. Mama’s interest in the knight’s friendship with the prince bordered upon obsession.

  “Oh, quite a bit, I’d say,” Sir Reginald replied, another smirk on his face.

  Frances glanced at Mr. Lucas, who arched a brow this time. He obviously doubted Sir Reginald’s lofty pronouncement. Frances fumbled to get her napkin to her lips before she laughed out loud.

  “Does the prince enjoy whist?” she finally managed to ask Sir Reginald.

  The knight’s eyes widened. Frances wasn’t certain if he was pleased that she’d asked him a question or pleased that he had more opportunity to talk. Both, perhaps? “He does indeed, my lady.”

  For the next three quarters of an hour Frances sat listening to Sir Reginald and her mother carry on a lengthy conversation about the Prince Regent’s card-playing habits, while she sipped her wine and used her fork to poke at her goose.

  When Sir Reginald launched into a story that seemed to miss no detail about his travels to Clayton Manor, replete with an exhaustive description of each time they stopped to change horses, how his back ached whenever he emerged from the coach,
and (perhaps most fascinating) how much mud appeared to be clogging up the roadways of late, Frances decided she could take no more. She might not be able to feign illness, but nothing was stopping her from feigning shrewishness. She’d no sooner decided to make a scene that would (hopefully) horrify Sir Reginald and (mercifully) give her an excuse to leave the dining room, than she looked up to see Mr. Lucas pouring more wine in her glass.

  There it was. The perfect opportunity. One didn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

  She glanced at Mr. Lucas and winked, hoping against hope the looks they’d seemed to exchange all night weren’t merely in her imagination. She’d sorely regret it if Mr. Lucas misunderstood, but she’d be certain to apologize to him later regardless.

  She bumped Mr. Lucas’s arm, causing the wine to spill on both the tablecloth and her skirts and immediately leaped to her feet. She frantically swiped at her stained gown with her napkin. “Clumsy oaf!” she called in the most entitled, shrill tone she could muster. “Look at my skirts. They’re ruined!”

  Mr. Lucas turned his body away from the table so that only she could see him. For a horrible moment she thought she’d been completely wrong and he didn’t understand that she’d done this on purpose.

  He bowed to her, the light in his eyes signaling that he was in on the ruse. “Sincere apologies, my lady. I’ll fetch something to clean the gown immediately.”

  “No need,” she replied, still feigning a shrill tone. “The gown is ruined. I’ll just retire to my room and let my maid see to it.”

  Mama, who’d barely had enough time to comprehend what had happened, turned as red as an apple. “Frances, what in heaven’s name has got into you? Lower your voice.” Mama was intently watching Sir Reginald for his reaction to the scene, a fake smile pinned to her face.