Scandal of the Year (8 page)

“
Mali
?”

“The gardener. You will need to study the language, of course. Many of the English never bother to learn Hindi, but Papa did. He always said it gave him superior bargaining power when trading with the maharajahs.”

“Maharajah … isn’t that a king?”

“Yes, but unlike England, there are many maharajahs, each one ruling over a particular region. They’re fabulously wealthy, often wearing rubies and diamonds the size of eggs. My sister Portia very nearly married the son of a maharajah herself.”

James picked up the teapot and refilled Blythe’s cup. “I cannot imagine your parents would be agreeable to her wedding a native, no matter how many rubies and diamonds he might own.”

“Yes, Mama was extremely angry when she found out they were sweet on each other. That’s how she convinced Papa to move here from India in the first place. She said it was past time that my sisters and I returned to civilization.”

Sipping the tea, Blythe recalled how envious she’d been when Arun had traveled all the way from India to London to seek her sister’s hand in marriage. But Portia had fallen in love with Viscount Ratcliffe, and Arun returned to his native land, whereupon he had taken a Hindu princess as his bride. Not long ago, he had written to Portia in glowing terms of his happiness upon the birth of his first son.

Such was the way of the world, Blythe reflected again. There could be no breeching the rigid boundaries of one’s own social circle. It simply wasn’t done. Yet as she glanced up at James, she acknowledged a twinge of regret, for he was more captivating than any of the idle gentlemen who courted her.

She banished the foolish thought at once. Her parents would be horrified if they knew she’d harbored such a notion about a footman.

James continued to gaze at her, his dark eyes full of mystery. “How very fascinating it all sounds,” he said.

“Perhaps.” Flustered under his scrutiny, she pushed back her chair. “By the by, you’re mistaken to think I haven’t kept any mementos of India. I’ve some pieces tucked away, embroidered shawls from Kashmir, gold bangles, beautiful ivory carvings. I’ll show you one of my favorite things.”

Blythe stepped into her dressing room and returned with a spray of peacock feathers in a white vase. She fingered the long, delicate fronds of turquoise, green, and brown. “We had a flock of peacocks in our garden in India. Have you heard of the birds? They’re quite large and have a very raucous cry for so lovely a creature.”

James came closer to examine the plumes. “I’ve read of them. The male bird displays a fan of feathers to attract the female for purposes of mating.” He paused, then added, “One might say it’s rather like the dandies of society, strutting and preening to catch a lady’s attention.”

She laughed, thinking of Viscount Kitchener in his leaf-green coat and elaborate cravat. But she didn’t want to talk about society, not when memories of India shone so brightly in her mind.

Blythe traced the egg-shaped eye of one feather. “Because of their beauty, the plumage of the peacock is the symbol of royalty. The natives also believe these feathers can ward off the Evil Eye.”

“Perhaps I should borrow one, then. The other servants seem convinced that your Indian servant, Kasi, has the power of the Evil Eye.”

“Truly?” Blythe asked in surprise. “I suppose I used to believe that, too, when I was a child and she scowled at me for misbehaving. She does seem to have an uncanny way of knowing things.”

James wore a slight smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “How long has Kasi been with your family?”

“For as long as I can remember. Why do you ask?”

“I merely wondered since she seems so close to you and your mother. I imagine she’s privy to all the family secrets.”

Blythe started to laugh again, but the alertness of his manner made her suddenly uneasy. Was he seeking tittle-tattle to spread among the other servants?

She hoped not because that would mean she’d grossly misread his character. “I’m afraid we Cromptons are a rather dull lot. We haven’t any secrets—aside from Portia and Arun, of course.”

“Of course.” Gathering up the remains of her breakfast, James replaced the domed silver cover over her china plate. “I hope you’ll forgive my curious nature, Miss Crompton, but have you visited Lancashire since your return to England?”

“Lancashire?” As Blythe set down the vase of peacock feathers on a table, the question caught her off guard. “Do you mean Papa’s estate?”

“Yes, one of the other servants mentioned that your parents lived there a long time ago. Before you were born.”

She relaxed. “I see. Well, I haven’t ever visited the place. I suppose Mama and Papa prefer to remain in London.”

“Most other fine families divide their time between the city and the country. They’re only here for the social season.”

Wondering at his persistence, Blythe plucked out a feather and ran her fingers through the silky fronds. “That’s true, but why would it be of concern to you?”

His face bland, he looked up from the tray. “I merely wondered if I might be expected to travel with the family. You see, I grew up not far from there.”

“You’re from Lancashire, too?” The connection intrigued her. “What is your given name? Perhaps Papa or Mama knows your family.”

He frowned. “I assure you, they do not.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“I was an orphan of no consequence.” James skewered her with his sharp gaze. “And I must beg you not to trouble your parents with trivialities.”

“But you said you were companion to the son of a gentleman. Maybe they knew him—”

“Please do
not
mention it,” he reiterated. “Pray take into consideration my position here. Above all, I am to be inconspicuous, a nameless, faceless servant. Calling undue attention to myself could result in me losing my post.”

Understanding flooded her. For a few short minutes they’d chatted as equals and she’d nearly forgotten he was a member of the staff, subject to strict rules and regulations. She could never bear to be the instrument of him being tossed out onto the street with no funds and nowhere to go.

Seeking to reassure him, she stepped swiftly to him and touched his arm. “Of course I won’t tell. You may trust me on that, James.”

He stood very still, looking down at her. She had a sudden keen awareness of the muscles beneath his coat, the heat of his body, his faintly spicy scent. Her pulse throbbed in response to the innate masculine power of him. The shocking desire to experience his kiss held her motionless. From the way his gaze flitted to her lips, she was thrilled to realize that he too felt the same forbidden urge.

Abruptly, he stepped back and broke the spell. “I appreciate your kindness, Miss Crompton. Now, I’m afraid I’ve overstayed my welcome here. Good day.”

He picked up the breakfast tray and strode toward the bedroom door. Feeling oddly bereft, Blythe watched him go. How imprudent of her to feel an illicit attraction to a
servant
.

Impulse made her call out to him. “James, wait!”

He stopped, looking back at her in cool inquiry.

Snatching up the peacock feather, Blythe ran to him and placed it on the tray. She graced him with a warm smile. “You forgot this.”

He glanced down at the feather, then at her. “So I did.”

His dark eyes revealed nothing of his thoughts. He had become a remote stranger again, as if their friendly conversation had never occurred. Turning away, he disappeared out the door.

Blythe stood wishing she had another excuse to summon him back. Foolish as it was, she couldn’t deny her fascination with the footman. Knowing that he hailed from Lancashire only added another layer of mystery to James. Why had he suddenly turned cool when she’d suggested asking her parents if they knew of his family?

Blythe was determined to find the answer to that question—and many others. Whether it was indiscreet or not.

Chapter 9

A line of footmen, identical in blue livery and white wigs, walked along an upstairs corridor. Their steps echoed on the pale marble floor. Each servant carried a serving piece still steaming from the kitchen. The delectable aromas of roast beef and browned potatoes wafted through the air.

Bringing up the rear, James bore a covered oval dish in his gloved hands. The more senior footmen had been assigned duty during the soup and fish courses, and it had seemed for a time as if he might never have the chance to go above stairs. He had cooled his heels in the kitchen until he’d been summoned by Godwin, the fox-faced head footman jokingly referred to behind his back as
God
.

Now, a keen anticipation gripped James. This moment had been more than three days coming. At last he would have the opportunity to take a close look at the master of the house.

Was George Crompton really James’s cousin—or an imposter?

The tall arched doorway of the dining chamber loomed midway along the passage. One by one, the footmen disappeared into the room. James followed in their wake, his fingers tensed around the handles of the dish. He kept his face sober, his gaze focused straight ahead as he’d been instructed.

From the corner of his eye, he took in the intimate gathering. Matching silver candelabra cast a soft glow over the room. He’d spent the better part of an hour assisting in laying out the white linens, the array of silver utensils, the china plates and fine crystal. Now, glasses and cutlery clinked as the family prepared to partake of the main course.

There were seven of them in all at dinner. George and Edith occupied opposite ends of the table. Two gentlemen who must be the husbands of Portia and Lindsey sat with their backs to the door. On the other side, Blythe was positioned in between her sisters, and appeared to be engaged in a lively conversation with them.

He was struck by the sight. Surely three more winsome females could not be found anywhere in England. Portia and Lindsey had dark hair, pale skin, and startlingly blue eyes. By contrast, Blythe with her coppery hair looked uniquely delectable in cream silk cut low at the bosom.

He wanted to stare at her, but he dared not risk more than a glance. It would be idiotic to focus on her, anyway. She was merely a distraction to his purpose here.

“Arthur was quite the handful in the coach,” one of the sisters was telling the group. She must be the eldest daughter, Portia, who had traveled here from Kent. “Thank goodness his papa very kindly offered to take him up in the saddle to ride for a time.”

“He’ll make a fine horseman someday,” the man across from her drawled. “If ever he can learn not to piddle all over his father’s leg.”

Everyone laughed except Mrs. Crompton, who mildly chided her son-in-law about inappropriate dinner conversation.

Walking past the table, James risked another look at Blythe. She held a wineglass to her lips, her face bright with merriment and her hazel eyes sparkling. His blood beat with the same lust that had assailed him that morning in her bedchamber. She had been open and friendly, almost as if they were equals. Her attraction to him had been obvious. She had touched his arm and given him the peacock feather. The egalitarian nature of her behavior had caught him off guard.

Now, as her sisters continued to chatter, she glanced across the room and looked right at him. Her cheerful expression sobered somewhat, though in surprise or alarm he couldn’t tell. Their gazes held for the space of a pulse beat. Then, she broke the contact and resumed talking to her sisters.

As if he didn’t exist.

Jaw clenched, James marched after the other footmen to the sideboard. He felt unaccountably annoyed as if she had delivered the cut direct to him in a ballroom. What the devil had he expected, that she would beckon him closer and make introductions? A lady was supposed to ignore the servants. He had no true interest in Miss Blythe Crompton, anyway, except as an unwitting informant.

Earlier in the day, he’d deliberately fostered a sense of trust between them. The task had been simple enough. He had played upon her goodwill by asking questions about India, and she had fallen into his trap with all the naiveté of a green girl. Now, it was a matter of biding his time and awaiting another opportunity to continue his interrogation of her in private. Somehow, he had to lead her into revealing what she knew about her parents.

He noticed Godwin frowning in his direction. The head footman was a stickler for rules. If the fussbudget had caught James looking at the family, he’d be in deep trouble.

James busied himself at the sideboard by removing the domed cover from the dish of green peas in cream sauce. He selected a silver serving utensil, one of the spoons he’d spent hours polishing. The need for vigilance burned in him. He mustn’t forget, not even for an instant, that he was playing a role here. One false move and he’d be tossed out of the house on his ear, his ruse in ruins.

Thankfully, Godwin had turned his attention elsewhere. With as much pomp as one would afford the crown jewels, the head footman carried a platter of sliced roast beef to Mrs. Edith Crompton. Once she had served herself a portion, he moved on to the other ladies and the next footman took his place, this one offering a dish of potatoes au gratin to the mistress. Having been instructed in the strict order in which the dishes were to be served, James held back and awaited his turn.

He turned his gaze to George Crompton. Unfortunately, James stood a short distance behind the man, which made identification impossible. He summoned forth the image of his cousin from the mists of memory. The most distinguishing characteristic—at least to a boy of ten—had been George’s thick mane of dark, wavy hair.

From this vantage point, however, James could see only a thinning cap of graying brown hair. Of course, such a difference could be attributed to age. A man could change a lot in twenty years, especially when he’d been exposed to the harsh elements of India.

Impatience gnawed at James. In a matter of moments, he would have a better look. The footman ahead of him was carrying a dish of butter-glazed endives toward the table.

It was nearly James’s turn.

While he waited, he was struck by how much Portia and Lindsey resembled each other, both dark and willowy. Blythe was petite like her mother, with coppery hair and a pert nose. Odd, how little she resembled her sisters. He would never have taken them for siblings.…