The wind was knocked from her chest. Pain wrenched her insides. She clenched her fists and turned her head away from him, clenched her eyes shut. “Stop. Just stop. A bet? That is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard.” She forced herself to reopen her eyes, but refused to look at him. Instead she kept her gaze focused on the bannister this time. “You played with my life, my emotions over something as crass as a bet?” She practically spit the last word.
His voice remained low, obviously to keep the ladies from overhearing. “That’s not how it started, Frances. You’ve got to believe me. I—”
Still refusing to look at him, she faced the top of the staircase and lifted her skirts. “Go,” she demanded. “Just go. It makes me ill to look at you. I never want to see your face again.”
It took all her strength to climb that staircase without running, but she did it. She didn’t know how she did it and she had no earthly idea how long it took, but by God, she never once looked back.
By the time she made it to the end of the corridor and her bedchamber, she was a quivering mess. She opened her door, stepped inside, shut it behind her, leaned back against it, and slid all the way to the floor in a crumpled heap. Sobs racked her body and she cried until she had no more tears.
* * *
Albina came tiptoeing into Frances’s room from the adjoining bedchamber. “Are you all right, Miss?”
“I’m fine, Albina,” Frances said, grasping the door handle and forcing herself to stand. The last thing she needed was that tell-all Albina running off to inform her mother that she was laying on the floor crying. “I’m just going to lie down for a bit.”
“Yes, Miss,” Albina said before tiptoeing back out.
Frances walked to her bed on wooden legs. She’d no idea how much time had passed. It could have been moments, it could have been minutes. She pulled herself atop the mattress, and sat on its edge, staring numbly at her sodden handkerchief.
How? How could Lucas, the footman, the man she’d met the first day—no, nearly the first moment she’d stepped foot on this property—be the Earl of Kendall? How could he be the man she’d detested since learning last year that he was the sponsor of the Employment Bill? How was that possible? And more importantly, how had she managed to not know it? She’d always thought of herself as reasonably intelligent, but somehow, she’d failed to see what was happening. She was an utter fool.
No. That was not true. She was perfectly intelligent. The man had lied to her. He’d deliberately deceived her. Any normal person might have been duped if they’d been placed in her position. But why? Why had he lied? And why to her? Had he singled her out? The other young ladies at the party obviously knew who he was. Why had he chosen her to deceive?
The questions just kept coming, one after another rolled through her mind like waves upon the seashore. Why would an earl pretend to be a footman? What good did it do? What purpose did it serve? He’d mentioned a bet with his friends. That implied it had been a jest. A lark. She swallowed yet another painful lump in her throat. Had she just had her heart smashed into a thousand little pieces by a group of noblemen trying to outfox each other for a few lousy coins? Dear God, Kendall was even more of a bastard than she’d guessed. He could rot in hell as far as she was concerned.
Anger at herself seeped into her thoughts next. She’d been far too emotional downstairs. She should have told him she didn’t give a whit who he was and given him a piece of her mind about the Employment Bill. She’d told him she never wanted to see him again. She wouldn’t have another chance to tell Lord Kendall precisely what she thought of his abominable bill. In addition to having her heart broken, she’d missed her only opportunity to rail at the bastard. She ripped at her handkerchief with both hands. Life was so unfair.
Then the conversations they’d had in the library came back to haunt her, one-by-one. Oh, God! The things she’d said to him about the ton, about nobility, about gentlemen of the Quality. And all the while he’d smiled and nodded and pretended as if he agreed. He was a liar and a fake! The lowest of scoundrels.
What sort of man did something like this? What sort of man took advantage of a young lady the way he had? Why, she should have Papa call him out. Lord Kendall deserved no less. She quickly discarded that notion. She didn’t want Papa to die. Besides, she’d had a part to play in this turmoil, too. She’d never had any business meeting with a footman in the library each day. She would accept that much of the blame. But she wasn’t the one who’d lied about her identity. He was.
Dear heavens. He must have been laughing at her the entire time. And their kisses. Their kisses! Were they even real? Or had he merely been pretending to want her in order to win his silly bet? Good God. He’d touched her, he’d kissed her, he’d— No. She couldn’t think about that. If she did, she’d go mad. She had to pretend that had never happened or she couldn’t stand it. Not today. Perhaps not ever.
He’d lied about everything. From his name at first, to his job, to his relationship with Lord Clayton, to his stance on the Employment Bill. Oh, God. When he’d supposedly been playing devil’s advocate for the bill, that hadn’t been pretending at all. He was in favor of it. Her stomach lurched. She was going to vomit. She slid off the bed and ran for the sideboard, barely making it to the chamber pot in time.
Afterward, she sat in silence as every single word she’d ever spoken to him came back to taunt her. Again and again, she asked herself why? His only answer continued to throb inside her brain. Because of a bet. That was the cruelest part of all.
Darkness had descended outside Frances’s window when her mother came sailing in from the adjoining bedchamber. “Oh, dear, there you are. Your father’s just arrived. He’s already spoken to Sir Reginald, and he agrees we should proceed with announcing the betrothal at dinner tonight.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
There were not enough bottles of brandy in the world as far as Lucas was concerned. He’d had the better part of one and half of them and he intended to continue until the earth ran dry. Or at least until Clayton’s estate did.
Lucas was sitting on the cot in Bell’s fourth floor bedchamber again. Worth and Clayton had joined them.
“Pour me another drink,” Lucas demanded, slamming his fist atop the table next to the bed.
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough, Kendall?” Worth asked, from his preferred perch on the window ledge.
Bell sat on the cot next to Lucas, and Clayton, once again, sat in the chair in front of the desk. Just like the last time they’d been here, it was a tight squeeze, four grown men in the small room, but they weren’t particularly concerned with their accommodations at the moment. They were much more interested in drinking. Clayton, who’d brought the brandy with him, was in charge of pouring.
“I agree with Worth,” Clayton said, replacing the glass stopper on the brandy bottle. “You’ve had enough for the time being.”
“I have not had enough,” Lucas replied, blinking. “I am a horse’s arse. I’m a scoundrel. I’m a cur.”
“You’re certainly making a good case for being a horse’s arse,” Worth replied with a laugh. “I won’t disagree with you there, old chap.”
Lucas let his forehead drop to his palm and groaned. “I’ve made a mess of everything.”
“Come now, not everything,” Worth replied. “You weren’t involved in everything.”
Lucas’s head snapped up and he glared at Worth. “I will fight you with one hand tied behind my back if you besmirch her honor.” He lunged toward the brandy bottle.
“Good God. No one is besmirching anyone’s honor.” Worth reached down and pulled the brandy bottle out of Lucas’s reach. “Who knew you were such an angry drunk? I must admit I’ve never seen this side of you before, Kendall.”
“None of us has seen this side of him before,” Bell pointed out. “The man’s heart is broken.”
Bell wasn’t telling a secret. In the hours since he’d last seen Frances in the foyer, Lucas had gathered his frien
ds, began drinking heavily, and poured out his whole sad, sordid story to the lot of them.
None of them seemed particularly surprised.
“Is a broken heart the reason he’s like this?” Worth scoffed. “I thought he was merely angry with himself for losing the bet.”
“If I could reach you, I’d take a swing at you right now,” Lucas growled at Worth.
“Well, then it’s a good thing the desk is between us then, isn’t it?” Worth replied with a smug smile. He lifted his own brandy glass in salute and took a taunting sip.
Lucas pushed himself angrily back on the bed and leaned his head against the wall. “Damn you, Worth. I didn’t lose the bet.”
Worth nearly spit his drink. “The devil you didn’t. Half the ladies at the house party saw you trying to stop Miss Wharton from running away from you this morning.”
“Kendall is right,” Bell pointed out. “He hasn’t lost the bet.”
“How is he right?” Worth wanted to know, resting a wrist atop his propped-up knee.
“The ladies saw the Earl of Kendall trying to chase Miss Wharton up the staircase. They had no idea they were also looking at Lucas, the footman,” Bell said.
Clayton’s sharp clap of laughter filled the room. “By God, it’s true. Somehow Kendall has managed to keep his identities separate even still.”
“Except for Frances,” Lucas pointed out, tipping his already empty glass back toward his mouth. Realizing it was again empty, he cursed and tossed the glass onto the cot.
“Except for Miss Wharton, of course,” Clayton agreed. “And please have a care for my glassware. You’ve already ruined at least one snifter.”
“Well, fine then.” Worth crossed his arms over his chest. “I suppose Kendall’s still in the game.”
“I don’t give a seafarer’s rope about the stupid bet,” Lucas grumbled.
Bell picked up the empty glass and sat it on the floor next to his boot.
“Oy,” Lucas yelled. “Give that back.”
“I will do no such thing,” Bell replied. “Dinner is only a few hours away and you’ll need to be sober by then. Or at least much more sober than you are at present.”
“I don’t give a damn about dinner. Brandy is my dinner,” Lucas insisted.
“No, it’s not,” Bell replied, shaking his head.
Clayton winced and tugged at his cravat. “Yes, well, you know what’s going to happen at dinner tonight,” he said, giving Bell an urgent look.
“The betrothal?” Bell replied, blinking at him innocently.
Clayton rolled his eyes. “Fine then, if we’re going to speak about it in front of him. Yes, the betrothal. I received a note from Baron Winfield just before I came up here. He’s arrived and they fully intend to proceed with the announcement tonight.”
“Has Sir Reginald heard about the to-do in the foyer between his fiancée and Kendall here?” Bell asked Clayton next.
“I’ll punch Sir Reginald in the eye,” Lucas announced, waving both fists in the air.
“Yes, we’d all like to see that,” Bell said, forcing Lucas to lower his hands.
“He’s heard about it,” Clayton reported, “but according to Theodora, who heard it from the servants, who heard it from the guests’ servants, who heard it from the guests…no one took the incident in the foyer this morning particularly seriously.”
Bell arched a brow. “What? Why not?”
“Apparently, our friend Kendall here did a fine job of keeping his voice low. No one could hear what he and Miss Wharton were saying to each other. And—” Clayton winced. “No one can countenance the fact that the Earl of Kendall would actually be interested in Miss Frances Wharton.”
“I’ll punch them all in the eyes,” Lucas declared next, hoisting his fists in front of his face again.
“Now. Now. You’re talking about ladies here. I don’t think it would be good form to go about striking any of them,” Bell said, patting Lucas on the back.
“They have no right to be discussing me and Frances,” Lucas retorted.
“I agree with you there, Kendall,” Bell replied evenly. “But violence doesn’t seem like the best response. I, for one, think a far better decision would be for you to attend tonight’s dinner.”
“What?” The other three men all said the word simultaneously. Lucas’s mouth fell open, Worth’s eyebrows shot up, and Clayton frowned.
“Why shouldn’t he?” Bell asked, his gaze traveling around the room.
“He’s foxed for one thing,” Worth said with a laugh.
Clayton cleared his throat. “And the last thing he needs is all of those debutantes and their mothers trying to throw themselves at him if he wants Miss Wharton to think better of him.”
Lucas had leaned over on the bed and was holding up his head on one hand, his elbow braced on the mattress.
“I didn’t say he should go as Lord Kendall,” Bell pointed out. “I think he should go as Lucas, the footman. After he sobers up that is.” Bell stood. “And to that end, help me get his face in the washbowl, lads.”
* * *
Approximately three hours and three dunks in the washbowl later, Lucas was considerably more sober, but Bell still hadn’t convinced him to attend the evening’s dinner as Lucas, the footman. Clayton had already left to see to his guests and Worth had returned to the stables after wishing Lucas a hearty good luck.
Bell was shrugging into his coat. “It’s time for me to go help Lord Copperpot dress for dinner,” he announced.
“What purpose would it serve for me to go to the dining room as a footman?” Lucas asked a final time. “Frances would recognize me immediately. Besides, you heard Clayton. Sir Reginald and Frances intend to announce their engagement tonight. It’s too late.”
Bell adjusted his collar and smoothed his hands down the front of his liveried coat. “I can think of several purposes it would serve and you could too if you’d stop and consider it,” he replied. “Meanwhile, if I were you, I’d bloody well go to the dinner in one form or another and ensure the woman I love didn’t betroth herself to another man tonight.”
Chapter Thirty
Frances was forced to enter the dining room far behind the Prince Regent. Since George’s arrival, the party’s standards had become much more formal. The prince walked in with Lady Clayton, while Lord Clayton escorted George’s sister, one of the Royal princesses, who had come with him. Frances, being the daughter of a baron, stood toward the end of the queue.
While the entire set of guests was buzzing about either the prince’s arrival or spotting Lord Kendall in the library this morning, Frances sat at the far end of the table and stared at the wall as if in a trance. Sir Reginald was on her right, her mother on her left, and her father sat on the other side of her mother. Frances had no appetite. The only thought that briefly floated through her mind was gratitude that Albina had produced some sort of paste that had reduced the puffiness of Frances’s eyes. They were still slightly red and bloodshot, but at least they weren’t bloated, making it obvious she’d spent the afternoon crying in her bedchamber.
Frances had forgiven the maid for her betrayal. After all, what difference did any of it make now? Her betrothal to Sir Reginald was soon to be announced.
Mama had insisted Frances wear her most costly gown tonight. It was one they’d purchased before the Season began, a light pink sheath with puffed sleeves, an empire waist, and lace around the neckline. No doubt Mama had paid for it with credit. Credit that Sir Reginald would be honoring, apparently. Frances could barely stand the thought. At Mama’s urging, Albina had created a ring of flowers for Frances’s hair. She’d rubbed her cheeks with a bright, happy-colored rogue. On the outside, Frances was all dressed up for the announcement of her betrothal, but dread clawed at her insides.
Sir Reginald was doing his best to keep her engaged in the tedious conversation, but tonight the most she could manage in reply was a grunt or an mmm hmmm to most anything he said. Of course, that cowardly horse’s arse, Kend
all, hadn’t bothered to attend dinner. In fact, she had no idea if he was still at the house. Half of the table was gossiping about how they’d heard he’d left this afternoon in a coach bound for London. If that was true, good riddance.
Two courses had been served. Frances had been doing nothing more than pushing the food around on her plate until it was removed from her presence. She had every intention of treating the rest of the courses in a similar manner.
Course number three was watercress soup, normally something she enjoyed. She had been paying no attention whatsoever to the footmen who were serving until a familiar voice sounded in her ear. “Soup, my lady?”
She froze. She didn’t have to glance up to know it was him. Lucas. No, not Lucas, Kendall. Her breathing hitched. Her breaths came in short, anxious pants. She slowly lifted her gaze. Please God, let me be mistaken.
She was not that fortunate. It was him. What the devil was he doing here? Anger began to bubble through her veins.
“No, thank you,” she bit out. She smugly glanced around the table waiting for the first person who would recognize the ass. Yes, he had on livery and a powdered wig, but still.
It seemed like time had stopped. The table’s occupants were laughing and talking and eating and carrying on without the slightest bit of recognition. She glowered at Lucas. He shrugged almost imperceptibly and continued to the next diner, while Frances continued to glare at him as if her eyes could set him on fire.
What sort of sick game was he playing this time? Was this part of his idiotic bet? She glanced around at the other diners, silently urging first Sir Reginald, then her mother, then her father, to notice that the Earl of Kendall was traipsing around the table offering them soup. Should she say something? Should she point him out? It was as if she was trapped in a nightmare from which she couldn’t awaken. Had the entire world gone mad? What was wrong with everyone? How could the same man half of them had been swooning over earlier be completely invisible to them now? It made no—
The Footman and I: The Footmen’s Club Trilogy Page 18