Scandal of the Year (7 page)

James needed to win her trust. So he formulated a lie that would explain his interest in the family’s background. “You’ve known them for quite a long time, then. I was wondering what manner of man is Mr. Crompton? You see, I would like to move to India someday, and I’m curious if you think he might write me a reference.”

Kasi shrugged. “You ask
sahib
. I do not know.”

“Don’t go yet.” James mounted the steps in an effort to stop her from leaving. “Please, I would merely like to know your assessment of him. Is he a kind master? Is he honest and obliging? Or is he perhaps cold and ruthless in matters of business?”

The Indian woman stared at him. Under the scrutiny of those dark currant eyes, a prickling ran over his skin, and he had the sudden illogical sense that she could read his mind and see his true purpose.

Nonsense. He couldn’t have given himself away with a few questions. No one here knew that James was really George Crompton’s cousin and heir.

The scuff of approaching footsteps broke the silence. A maidservant in mobcap and gray gown trudged around the corner. She was toting a large breakfast tray. Upon seeing them on the stairway, she halted so fast that the dishes clattered.

It was Meg, the saucy maid who had given up on flirting with James. Her startled attention was focused on Kasi.

The Indian woman scowled, her eyes narrowing to slits. Meg sucked in an audible breath, stepped swiftly backward, and bumped hard into the wall.

The breakfast tray tilted. James leaped down the few steps and grabbed it from her. But he wasn’t fast enough to stop one of the covered dishes from flying off. Toast and china scattered all over floor. Miraculously, the plate didn’t break.

Halfway down the long corridor, a man stepped out of the kitchen. James silently cursed the bad timing. Godwin, the head footman, was a nitpicking taskmaster who’d kept a close watch on James.

“What’s the matter there?” Godwin snapped.

“It was merely a slight mishap,” James called. “No harm done.”

“See to it that the mess is cleaned up,” Godwin ordered before vanishing back into the kitchen.

Meg was still staring at the staircase. “’Tis the Evil Eye,” she whispered.

James would have laughed out loud had she not looked so genuinely terrified. And if he wasn’t so frustrated from being thwarted in his interrogation of Kasi.

The Hindu woman had vanished up the stairs. Blast it, he would have to delay any further questioning until another time.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he told Meg. “Kasi is harmless. Now, you’ll need to replenish this tray. Where were you taking it?”

“To-to Miss Crompton.”

All of his senses snapped to alertness. Luck had handed him an opportunity on a silver platter—quite literally. “You’re too shaken to carry something so heavy. I’ll deliver it myself.”

Chapter 8

After donning a foam-green morning gown, Blythe dismissed the maid and finished her toilette herself. She had no engagements until the requisite calls in the early afternoon and for the moment, she preferred to be alone with her own thoughts.

Lifting her skirt slightly, she stepped into a pair of soft leather slippers. She really ought to have gone downstairs to join her parents for breakfast. But no doubt Mama would have launched into a litany of schemes designed to ingratiate them with Lady Davina and her father.

Still stung by the dirty trick Davina had played, Blythe pursed her lips. In the carriage going home the previous evening, Mama had shrugged off Blythe’s assertion that Davina had purposefully set up a situation whereby Viscount Kitchener would embroil Blythe in a scene. They must be forgiving of Davina, Mama had argued, if Blythe ever hoped to become the Duchess of Savoy.

Blythe
did
want to achieve the stellar marriage. Not so much to satisfy her mother’s ambitions, but to please Papa. It was clear he wished to see her well settled. Wedding the duke certainly would be the crowning glory of her London season.

But she drew the line at groveling before Lady Davina.

In regard to Savoy, the duke’s daughter might as well be a fire-breathing dragon barring entry to a castle. It would take cleverness to figure out a way to defeat the girl at her own game.

Pondering the problem, Blythe left the dressing room and went into her sunlit bedchamber. Perhaps her sisters would have some advice on the matter. During their own seasons, they too must have encountered such snobbery.

Her spirits lightened at the notion of seeing them again. Portia and Ratcliffe were due to arrive from Kent in the late afternoon along with their young son. They were staying with Lindsey and Mansfield, but they would be coming over for dinner this evening.

It would be just like old times. The whole family would be gathered together, laughing and talking, exchanging news about their lives.

The happy prospect made Blythe smile as she sat down at the dressing table to arrange her hair. This would be the first evening in a fortnight that she wouldn’t attend any social events, but she didn’t mind in the least. Strange, she had spent her adolescent years impatient to grow up and join the ton. She had never quite appreciated the blessing of having sisters. Now, Portia and Lindsey mattered more to her than an entire ballroom filled with glittering nobility.

Blythe was adding a few final pins to her hair when a firm knock sounded on the door. Leaning closer to the mirror to check for any loose strands, she called, “Come in.”

The door opened and her fingers froze in place. In the looking glass, she saw the tall reflection of James entering the bedchamber. His unexpected arrival caused her heart to lurch.

He was carrying her breakfast tray. “Good morning, Miss Crompton,” he said, appearing remarkably handsome in blue.

Unable to resist, she turned her head to watch as he crossed the room to place the tray on the round table by the window. A keen awareness of him hummed over her skin. “Where is the maid?”

“She had a minor mishap below stairs, so I took it upon myself to deliver this.” He fixed his gaze on Blythe. “I do hope you don’t mind my presumption.”

That direct stare unnerved her. It was so very unlike the other servants. Intrigued, she found herself wanting to unravel the mystery of him. What in his background had made him so bold?

Realizing she still had her hands raised to her head, Blythe returned her gaze to the mirror and pretended an interest in adjusting a few stray copper strands. “It’s perfectly fine.”

She refrained from adding that she might have been undressed and therefore didn’t appreciate his intrusion into her sanctum. But it wouldn’t do to put a picture of herself in a state of dishabille into his mind.

Continuing to primp, she observed him from the corner of her eye. James didn’t immediately depart. Instead, he was lifting the silver covers off the plates. He picked up something and walked to the hearth, then crouched down in front of the grate.

Curiosity overwhelmed common sense, and she swiveled on the stool to see what occupied him. He had a slice of bread on a long fork and he was toasting it over the flames, turning it to brown both sides.

“Why are you doing that?” she blurted out.

“Yesterday, when I delivered the parcel from the Duke of Savoy, I heard you mention that your toast is always delivered cold. No wonder, for the kitchen is quite a distance from here. But as you can see, the problem is easily remedied.”

Blythe sat in utter amazement. No other servant had ever proposed such a solution. His consideration touched her heart. “That’s very clever of you.”

“I would call it practical.” James rose to his feet and returned to the table, where he placed a pat of butter on top of the toasted bread. “You may wish to eat while it’s hot, or my efforts will be for naught.”

He held the chair for her, helping her slide in close to the tray. She picked up a knife to spread the melting butter, then added a dollop of strawberry jam. The first bite was buttery and sweet yet still warm and crisp the way she liked it.

“Mmm,” she said around a mouthful. “Delicious.”

James took another slice of bread over to the hearth and began to toast that one over the flames as well. “I’m glad to hear it. No young lady should have to endure the affliction of cold toast.”

Hunkered down, he cast a wry grin over his shoulder and Blythe found herself returning the smile. They might have been a lady and a gentleman bantering at a ball. How peculiar to feel so at ease with a footman. His audacity seemed to be an innate character trait, and it only made her more curious about him.

She brushed the crumbs from her fingers. “You haven’t always been a servant, have you?”

As he came forward with the second piece of toast, he cast a hooded glance at her. “May I ask why you say that?”

“You speak well, you look me straight in the eye, and you’re more candid than anyone else on staff.”

Lowering his gaze, James immediately assumed a more servile posture. “I beg your pardon, Miss Crompton. I shall be more unobtrusive.”

She frowned, irked to have ruined the camaraderie between them. “You haven’t offended me. But do answer my question. What is your background?”

His gaze returned to hers. “I grew up in the country as companion to the son of a gentleman. Thus, I was fortunate enough to have reaped the benefits of a superior education.”

“Ah.” That explained a lot. How difficult was it for him to be in possession of a gentleman’s skills, while being relegated to the lowly role of household servant? “Why did you not seek employment as a secretary or a land agent, then? Those positions surely must pay a higher salary.”

He buttered the second slice of toast for her. “There was nothing like that available at the agency. And I did hold a better position as a valet for a time. Alas, my master died on our voyage here from the West Indies.”

“The West Indies!” No wonder his skin was browned from the sun. “Had you lived there very long?”

“For a time. The master was inspecting some properties he owned there. Upon his death, I was left without recourse. Especially since … but never mind. I’m sure you aren’t interested in my tale of woe.”

“Oh, but I
am
. Do finish.”

His face solemn, James clasped his hands behind his back. “Upon my arrival in London, I left the ship, intending to spend a brief time touring the sights here. That’s when all of my savings were stolen by a gang of footpads near the docks.”

Aghast, Blythe paused in the act of pouring a cup of tea. Her father often went to the docks, but he always had a coachman and guard with him. “How terrible! Had you nothing left at all?”

“Not so much as tuppence in my pocket. I’m most grateful there was an opening here in this household. I appreciate the chance to earn enough coin for my passage.”

“Passage?” She set down the teapot to stare at him. “You’re leaving England again? To return to the West Indies?”

He shook his head. “Since taking employment here, I’ve become most admiring of your father’s accomplishments. Perhaps you’ll think me above my station, but I’ve resolved to travel to India myself and seek my own fortune.”

Blythe regarded him in astonishment. How very remarkable to meet a servant who held the dream of bettering himself. Never in her life had she known anyone of the lower classes to have aspirations beyond his station. It was just the way life was, with everyone accepting of the position in which he was born.

She very nearly asked James to sit down and join her. But such an act was forbidden. Who’d ever heard of a lady partaking of a meal with a servant as if they were equals? And in her bedchamber, no less!

At least the door stood ajar. Anyone who might look in on them would see nothing out of the ordinary.

“I shall speak to Papa,” she said. “Mayhap he can find a better place for you in his offices near the docks.”

James shook his head. “It may be difficult to understand, Miss Crompton, but I would very much like to make my own way in the world without anyone’s help.” He paused. “However…”

Blythe leaned forward. “Yes?”

He strolled to the window, then turned back, looking as if he was weighing his words. “However, there is a way in which you could assist me, if it isn’t too much trouble. You could tell me about India.”

“What did you wish to know?”

“I’d like to learn more of the native customs, the countryside, the Englishmen who trade there, and so forth. Pray forgive me if such a task is too bothersome.”

“No! I’m happy to help. But I scarcely know where to begin.”

James glanced around the bedchamber. “You haven’t any Indian artifacts on display. Does that mean you disliked living there?”

Blythe had never really noticed there was nothing of her old life in the elegant blue-and-white bedchamber. “No, Mama oversaw the decoration of this room. I’m afraid she never cared much for India. But I liked it very much. It was all I knew for the first fifteen years of my life.”

How clearly she recalled the hot, earthy, colorful chaos of India. There had been ash-covered madmen, half-naked beggars, cobras and tigers and elephants. Strange, she’d once thought England to be much more exotic than the familiar trappings of her youth. Mama had always spoken of London as being a place of refined elegance where the nobility attended parties and balls, where style and grace reigned supreme. It had all sounded so wonderful, like something out of a fairy tale.…

Blythe realized that James stood patiently waiting for her to continue. “I suppose you could say that India is a place of great extremes. In the heat of summer, it never, ever rains. But in the monsoon season, the showers pour in torrents for days on end. I would sit on the porch while sheets of rain came down, reading with my sisters or playing with one of our pets.”

“What sort of animals did you keep?”

“Usually a monkey or a cockatoo. I had a lemur once, too, with a beautiful long tail and a glossy coat that I liked to comb.” Blythe smiled at the memory. “But one day it escaped its cage and made a puddle inside one of Mama’s hats. She bade the
mali
return it to the jungle. I cried for days.”