Scandal of the Year (3 page)

She stormed straight to a chaise, snatched up a pillow to her mouth, and screamed. The crewel-work muffled the sound, but at least the release of tension made Blythe feel marginally better.

“Termagant!” Clutching the pillow to her bosom, she stalked back and forth while giving voice to all the names she’d wanted to call Lady Davina. “Selfish, vile, wicked
snob
. Conceited, overbearing blueblood!”

In the midst of her tirade, someone cleared his throat.

Aghast, she whirled around to see a towering male figure outlined in the doorway. His identity struck her at once. It was a footman carrying a tray … the same footman who had stared at her in the ballroom.

The realization that he’d witnessed her outburst appalled Blythe. What trick of fate had brought him to intrude on her privacy?

Unless it was no coincidence.

She gripped the pillow to her bosom. “You followed me,” she accused.

“Please forgive my presumption, Miss Crompton. I thought you might need this.” He set down the tray on a table, selected a glass, and stepped forward to press it into her hand. “Go on,” he murmured, “drink it down.”

In her present state, being issued an order by anyone, let alone a servant, should have sparked rebellion in her. Yet she found herself obeying his directive. The bubbles burst on her tongue and the refreshing liquid slid easily down her throat.

Tilting her head back, she drained the glass. Almost immediately a warm glow soothed the raw edges of her emotions.

“I’ll have another,” she snapped, then was ashamed of her sharpness. “Please.”

He chuckled under his breath, a sound she’d never heard from any member of the staff—at least not here in England. In India, however, the servants had been more open and relaxed in their manners. As a child, she’d often eavesdropped on the cook and the maids as they went about their duties, chattering in Hindi and laughing at the slightest provocation. Blythe hadn’t realized until this moment how much she’d missed that warm, happy banter.

The servants in London were all so stiff and proper. They kept their heads down and allowed themselves to fade into the background.

Except for this one impudent footman.

Warily, she watched as he took her empty glass and walked back to the tray. His command of the situation exuded an authority that was highly unusual in a servant. Even his long strides revealed him to be a man who was confident of himself.

He returned with the drink. A slight smile quirked his lips as he handed her the second glass. In the process, his gloved fingers brushed hers.

The keen awareness of him as a man coursed through her body. The sensation settled in the pit of her stomach and made her realize how alone they were here. The distant hum of the party only served to underscore a sense of intimacy.

What was wrong with her? He was only a servant like so many others. It was just that her emotions had been rattled by that incident with Lady Davina.

“It isn’t my place to advise you,” he said. “However, you may wish to sip this one more slowly.”

“I’ll do as I please.”

Despite her tart tone, Blythe took only a small swallow. He was right; it would be a disaster if she were to stagger drunkenly for the remainder of the evening. Not, of course, that she had any desire to return to the ballroom just yet. The heat of humiliation might have subsided, but her resentment toward Lady Davina still smoldered.

The footman stepped back and stood in the shadows a respectful distance away. She found his air of self-assurance unnerving. Why didn’t he depart and leave her alone? Any other servant would have vanished out the door by now.

His gaze flitted to the pillow that she still clutched in one arm, reminding her that he had witnessed that hysterical outburst. Perhaps he thought her a madwoman in need of supervision.

Fighting a blush, Blythe walked to the chaise and returned the pillow to its resting place. She wanted him to go … and yet she didn’t.

“What is your name?” she asked to fill the awkward silence.

“James.”

“My mother refers to all of the footmen as James. She finds it easier than trying to discern who is who.”

“Then she will make no mistake with me, for I assure you that truly
is
my given name.”

Blythe found herself rather liking the way he spoke to her so easily. It could be so tedious when a servant wouldn’t even look her in the eye. “I don’t recall ever seeing you on the staff. Are you here just for the party tonight?”

“No, I accepted a post in your house only yesterday … when
James
left.”

She surprised herself by giggling. “Which one? The one with the big nose? The shy one who stuttered? Or the one who always squinted a bit? Oh, well, I don’t suppose it matters.”

“We do all look alike in livery and wig,” James agreed.

He was wrong. Although footmen were chosen for their height and muscular build, Blythe found this man utterly unlike any of the others in the house. He was taller, more broad of shoulder, more imposing. His bold manner gave her the distinct impression that he regarded himself as her equal.

Savoring another taste of champagne, she speculated on the color of his hair underneath that formal wig. Was it as dark as his eyebrows? Would it be thick or thin, curly or straight? Would it feel soft to the touch of her fingers?

The force of her curiosity jolted Blythe. Good heavens. A surfeit of wine must have addled her brain. How absurd was it to be lingering in the company of a footman when so many fine gentlemen awaited her in the ballroom?

Absurd, indeed!

It was time to go back, yet she felt uneasy knowing that James had witnessed her unguarded flare of emotion. “You are not to gossip to the other servants about … anything that happened here.”

“I had no intention of doing so.”

Could he be trusted to keep his word? She hoped so. “Thank you for the champagne. You may go now.”

“As you wish.” James bowed to her, picked up his tray, and headed toward the door. Then he turned back to regard her one last time. “If I may be permitted to say so, Miss Crompton, you would have looked magnificent riding into the ballroom on the back of an elephant.”

He disappeared into the passageway. Left speechless, Blythe listened as the tapping of his footsteps faded away. The distant lilt of a waltz drifted to her ears. Again, she was struck by how out of the ordinary the footman behaved.

Even more curious, she felt invigorated by his compliment. By the heavens, he was right. She
would
have been magnificent.

Chapter 4

The next morning, James cursed the success of his plan to infiltrate the Crompton household. He had been cleaning lamps in this tiny workroom since breakfast. The messy task left his hands black with ash and oil, and he’d been forced to don an apron to protect his footman’s uniform. Yet still he wasn’t finished.

He had served endless rounds of drinks in the ballroom until the wee hours. The head footman, a slave master by the name of Godwin, had allowed the staff no extra sleep. At dawn, James had been up gathering all the soiled glassware from the formal chambers on the first floor. Then he had been assigned the task of tending the oil lamps. Another footman had fetched dozens from all over the house. They had been brought to this dank cellar room so that the mess of refilling the kerosene and trimming the wicks wouldn’t disturb the family.

Scowling, he polished a brass lamp with a mixture of oil and emery powder. It had taken a handsome bribe to convince the previous footman to give up his position so that James could apply for the post. Now he wondered if it had been worthwhile. He had envisioned having endless opportunities to search the house during the performance of his duties.

But things hadn’t worked out according to plan. If he wasn’t cleaning the lamps or the silver, he was running errands or standing duty at the front door. He had not yet had the freedom to go around the house, including the office used by George Crompton.

James hadn’t even had a close look at his quarry yet. At the ball, George and Edith had been surrounded by guests. The only family member James had met face to face had been Miss Blythe Crompton.

He rubbed at a stubborn bit of tarnish on the base of the lamp. What the devil had possessed him to follow her to that deserted sitting room? He had risked ruining his masquerade by acting more like a gentleman than a servant. He was supposed to be inconspicuous, an anonymous footman unnoticed by the family.

But the hurt in those expressive hazel eyes had caught him off guard. He had expected a wealthy heiress like Blythe Crompton to be a frivolous feather-brain. He’d amended that image to cunning social climber after watching her dance and flirt with a succession of titled men, including the Duke of Savoy, a man who was old enough to be her father. It disgusted James to see that she was using her rich dowry to purchase a titled husband.

Yet she hadn’t been impervious to Lady Davina’s insult. Miss Blythe Crompton had continued to smile although her eyes had revealed a depth of feeling that defied any shallow label he’d assigned her. She had been distraught enough to leave the ballroom and seek a secluded spot in which to give vent to her emotions.

He grinned in spite of himself. How embarrassed she’d been to realize he’d observed her little tirade. It was a miracle she hadn’t sacked him on the spot. Instead, she’d actually seemed amenable to conversing with him. There had been surprisingly little haughtiness to her demeanor, and he didn’t know quite what to make of that.

Carefully pouring oil into the well of the lamp, James mulled over the prospect of altering his investigation. It might prove useful to ingratiate himself with Miss Crompton. She could be privy to information that would prove her parents to be imposters.

God knew, she might even be a party to their ruse. A girl whose family owed its wealth to trade would do anything for the chance to wed into the rarified world of the aristocracy.

And if he was wrong about her? He wouldn’t allow himself to be troubled by the possibility. If George Crompton had absconded with the inheritance that rightfully belonged to James, then justice must be done.

“’Ello, James.”

The Cockney voice came from behind him. He swung around to see a maidservant sauntering through the doorway of the butler’s pantry. A few wisps of coal-black hair escaped the white mobcap on her head. Despite the drab gray gown buttoned to her throat, she managed to convey an impression of lush femininity.

He stifled a groan. From the moment he’d been introduced to the staff in the basement kitchen two days ago, Meg had been watching him with predatory brown eyes. James had given her no encouragement, not that it had made any difference.

He schooled his features into a bland expression. “Yes?”

Meg strolled toward him. “I come to bring ye a message.”

“What is it?”

She pretended to examine his handiwork. “My, ye’ve done a fine job. I like a man ’oo’s good wid ’is ’ands.”

Her bosom brushed his upper arm. Annoyed, James stepped back to place the newly refurbished lamp on the table with the others. A high standard of behavior was expected of the staff. The slightest infraction could result in immediate dismissal. James had no intention of being tossed out on the street before he had unmasked the Cromptons.

He wiped his hands on a rag. “What is the message?”

She sidled closer. “Ye’re a fine gent, ye are. Where did ye learn yer fancy manners?”

“I’ve no time for idle chit-chat. Now, answer my question.”

Meg pursed her lips in a pout. “There’s a parcel come for Miss Crompton. Ye’re to deliver it to ’er above stairs.”

The news galvanized James. “You should have said so at once.”

He went to wash his slimy hands in a basin of water. A sliver of cheap soap did little to clean the black oily tarnish from beneath his fingernails, but he scrubbed hard, driven by the prospect of seeing Miss Crompton again.

No, he was merely grateful for the chance to escape the confines of the butler’s pantry. Having an excuse to roam the house might help him further his investigation.

Meg had flounced out of the room, apparently discouraged by his lack of interest in her. So much the better. He needed no distractions from his purpose. This might be his chance to find a way to discredit the Cromptons and claim their ill-gained wealth for himself.

*   *   *

“Lady Davina has the power to ruin everything,” Edith Crompton said. “That is why you
must
make a concentrated effort to befriend her.”

Seated at the dressing table, Blythe frowned at her mother’s reflection in the oval mirror. In a gown of olive-green muslin, her russet hair piled atop her head, Mama looked more wide awake than anyone ought after staying up until nearly dawn.

And certainly more wide-awake than Blythe felt herself.

She had lain in bed, her thoughts restless, until the first fingers of sunlight had crept into her bedchamber. Her mind had been fraught with memories of the ball, the squabble with Lady Davina, and even that notable interlude with James, the footman. When she’d finally slept, her dreams had been unsettling. Only a few minutes ago she’d arisen feeling out of sorts and uncharacteristically irritable.

And now she faced this inquisition from her mother, who had pried out of Blythe the truth about what Lady Davina had said.

“Must we continue to speak of this right now?” Blythe asked, picking up a silver brush and running it through her unbound hair. “I haven’t even had my breakfast yet.”

Mrs. Crompton glided to the window and reached for the cord to draw back the draperies. “Perhaps the sunlight will revive you.”

“Mama, please. I’ve a slight headache.”

Leaving the curtains closed, her mother hurried to touch Blythe’s brow. “No fever. I’m sure you’ll feel better once your tray arrives. Now, do reassure me that you understand my concern about Lady Davina.”

“I understand that she despises me.” Blythe twirled a lock of hair around her index finger. How could she explain her sudden reluctance to pursue the duke? It was far more than the incident with Lady Davina. Blythe couldn’t forget the involuntary attraction she’d felt for James. Nothing like that had happened with His Grace. Yet how wonderful it would be to be courted by a gentleman who could arouse such a thrill in her. “Mama, I’ve been thinking that perhaps I shouldn’t wed the Duke of Savoy, after all.”