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She smiled and angled her trim body to show her gown to best advantage. The shining silk and lace belonged on a duchess instead of the daughter of an impoverished viscount, but Amelia wasn’t one to burden herself with such pesky distinctions. The bright blue ribbons framing her oval face and the sapphire gems at her throat reminded him of Rose’s eyes. He gritted his teeth. Everywhere he looked today, Rose was there to taunt him.
“You seem distracted.” As was her wont in private, Amelia dismissed propriety and sank gracefully into one of the leather armchairs. “I saw you on Oxford Street earlier today. You looked rather harassed. I had my driver hail you, but you quite had your head in the clouds.”
“I’ve been preoccupied with a personal matter.” His gaze drifted to the door. How was it possible that Rose was even lovelier than he remembered? Over the years he’d forgotten the blueness of her eyes and the natural blush of color in her smooth, fair cheeks. Worse, no one made him feel more invigorated than she did. The moment she entered the room he lost track of all else. “It’s nothing to be concerned about.”
She glanced at him from under downcast lashes. “It’s not financial difficulties, I trust? After the grandeur you’ve become accustomed to, one doubts the Marshalsea would suit your tastes in the least.”
Compared to the squalor he and Rose had lived in once the orphanage closed its doors, the notorious debtor’s prison qualified as a palace. “I’d manage.”
“I’m certain you would. I find it excessively appealing that you’ve remained a scrapper beneath all the polish you’ve acquired, but I’m quite certain I’d die if I ever found myself in such a hideous place.” Her gloved hand soothed the silken folds of her gown. “If you are in dire straits, I hope you will remember you can come to me should you ever need a confidant—”
“I’m much obliged, but you needn’t fret.”
“As long as you know I’m always here for you.”
He tamped down the cynical suspicion that her loyalty depended on the sum of his bank accounts. “Your friendship is dear to me.”
She smiled. “As you’re aware, I want very much to be more than just your friend.”
Still rough from his confrontation with Rose, he leaned back against the desk. His fingers clutched the lip of the desktop, his right ankle crossed casually over the left.
This wasn’t the first time Amelia had made her wishes known. Just as she’d hinted on several occasions, he should probably marry her. In truth, he’d been considering a proposal for weeks. Her father’s hapless investments had made her family desperate enough for funds to overlook his guttersnipe background, and Amelia would make the perfect wife for a man who had everything except a permanent place in society.
“My father agrees we’d make a splendid couple,” she continued, undaunted by his lack of comment.
“I’m certain he does,” he said drily. In fact, he could think of a million reasons why.
The provocative gleam in her dark eyes faded. “Darling, what’s gotten into you today? You’re too sullen by half. I wish you’d reconsider and come shooting with us at the Digby estate in Devonshire next month. A nice long holiday would do you good.”
“It wouldn’t be much of a holiday, I’m afraid. I grew up in Devonshire. The area is filled with memories I’d rather forget.”
“Even more reason to come with us.” She stood and moved close enough to brush up against him. Her perfume, though subtle, carried a powdery scent that made his nose twitch. “It will give us a chance to replace those bad memories with fond, new ones.”
He gave her a cool half smile. “I’ll consider it.”
“That is all I ask. Her gloved hands reached for his cravat and began to refashion the knot. “You are quite a catch, you know. You may not be a peer, but you are divine to look at, charming when you choose to be and—”
“Rich.”
She pouted. “I’ve told you before, it’s vulgar to mention money, but since you have, yes, your wealth is, shall we say, one of your finest assets. It saddens me greatly because I am so fond of you, but without your fortune to make up for other things...”
“You wouldn’t be seen within a mile of me.”
“You needn’t be harsh. You’re aware of my circumstances.” She patted his chest. “Nor must you be unfair in your judgment of me. My family expects me to wed, if not well, then at least lucratively.”
Her snobbery both amused and revolted him. “And why should I want to marry you?”
“You must be joking. I’m the daughter of a peer.”
“You can also be a crick in the neck.”
“True, but you’re a philistine.” She laughed. “We’ve been dancing around an agreement for weeks, so since we’re being honest, let’s face facts. An alliance between us is a most sensible option. You have everything except a family to carry on your name and eventually squabble over the fortune you’ve amassed. I, thanks to my father’s missteps, am in need of...protection, shall we say. We understand each other and get on well most of the time. You can help my family, and I can open doors for you that your background prohibits you from entering on your own.”
“You assume I want to cross those lofty thresholds.”
She frowned as though she’d never heard such a ridiculous notion. “Of course you do, Sam. You don’t have to pretend with me. Everyone, even those who deny it, want to be part of the crème de la crème.”
“I don’t lack for invitations as it is.”
“Yes, however, these invitations will be from people who matter, not those boorish tradesmen or stuffy politicians with whom you usually conspire. All I ask is that you contemplate the possibilities. Imagine I’m a new stock and consider your potential rate of return.”
He already had. The Ratners’ decline in circumstances may be recent, but their title and mortgaged properties were centuries old. To a man whose own roots went no deeper than the day of his birth, buying a branch on the Ratners’ lauded family tree held a certain appeal.
Best of all, he wasn’t in any danger of falling in love with Amelia, nor did she expect him to. Their union would be little more than a mutually beneficial business arrangement. No deep emotions to make him feel helpless or dependent on anyone but himself for happiness.
“I’m always calculating variables.”
“Brilliant.” Voices passing in the corridor drew Amelia’s attention. “I’d best see to the dining room before our guests descend. Everything must be perfect tonight.”
“Speaking of variables—” he opened the door to help usher her out “—something popped up today and we’re short a footman this evening.”
Amelia paled. “How can that be?”
“I’ve made other arrangements with Hodges.”
“That old fossil you call a butler should have been put out to pasture a decade ago. I gave him strict instructions to send word to me if the slightest mishap occurred.”
He refrained from mentioning that Hodges had been in a dither himself when he’d informed the older man that he’d given Frank the night off and that Rose would fill his position.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” she moaned. “I’ve planned every detail and now all is ruined!”
“Hardly. A kitchen maid has already been found to replace him.”
“One of the maids?” Amelia’s hand fluttered to her chest as though she might faint. “I’m aware you’re not fully educated in these matters, but a woman serving...are you mad? That will never do.”
Amused by her dramatics, he wondered vaguely if there were any smelling salts on hand just in case she keeled over. “It’s already been decided.”
“I’ll send for one of ours—”
“There’s no time.” The first muffled notes of a violin being tuned bolstered his point. He led her to the door. “We’ll have to make due. You are the one interested in all the latest fashions. Perhaps we’ll usher in a new one.”
Chapter Three
Once free of Sam’s study, Rose followed the footman into the servants’ stairway. Shaking uncontrollably, she reached toward the wall for support as she made her way down the steps.
In the kitchen, the chaos before a dinner party was a situation with which she was well acquainted. Already at a fever pitch from her confrontation with Sam, her senses seemed unusually sensitive to the clamor of voices, banging pots and the aroma of roasted meats and exotic spices.
“Miss Smith?” An aged man with a bald pate ringed by gray hair called from the doorway. “Miss Rose Smith?”
“Yes, sir.” She made quick strides across the room. The man’s formal ensemble and somber mood marked him as the butler. With trepidation, she wondered what she’d done to be called out by the likes of him when it was the housekeeper’s duty to oversee female staff. “I’m Rose Smith.”
“I’m Mr. Hodges, Mr. Blackstone’s butler. Robert tells me the other girl on loan tonight suffered an accident on the journey here.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Hodges’s bushy, gray eyebrows pleated together into a straight line. His faded green eyes peered at her through thick spectacles, sizing her up from head to toe. His sigh of exasperation didn’t speak well of his impression of her. “Follow me.”
He led her to a small, oak-paneled office at the end of the corridor and motioned toward a mirror in the corner. “Have you seen yourself? You look as though you’ve been dragged by a runaway mount. How in the world am I to make you presentable in time?”
“In time for what, sir?” she asked, mortified by how mussed and messy she looked compared to the radiant Miss Ratner.
“Mr. Blackstone insists you serve tonight.”
Dismay choked her. “Me in the dining room? But I work in the kitchen.”
“He doesn’t care. He wants you.”
He wants to humiliate me, more like. He no longer loved her and intended to hammer home the point. There was no other reason to toss convention to the four winds just to have her wait on him and his self-important friends. She didn’t remember Sam being such a vindictive swine, but apparently nine years in London had hardened his heart to granite. That ruthless quality terrified her.
“Stay here,” Hodges said. “I’ll have one of the other girls fetch you a cap and something more acceptable to wear.”
Left alone with her untidy reflection, she longed to return to Devonshire and Hopewell Manor. She’d never been this far from Andrew, and her arms ached to hold her son. Exhaustion pressed in on her and hunger pangs cramped her stomach. The entire day had been one foul kettle of fish after another with the worst being the superior way Sam looked down his nose at her. The more she thought about how he’d ambushed her, the more indignant she became. He’d had no right to call her on the carpet, berate her and deny her the chance to explain. Who did he think he was? A pompous nobleman?
And yet...he had returned to Ashby Croft to collect her as he’d promised. He must have done or he wouldn’t have known about Harry. Regret pierced her like a thousand knives. If only she’d found the strength to wait for him a little longer.
The knowledge they were both to blame for losing one another helped to cool her temper. His love may have withered with more ease than she cared to admit, but he had not abandoned her without cause as she’d long believed.
“Lord,” she whispered, taking a moment to pray. “I need Your help again. I feel like David facing Goliath without a sling. How can I defend myself when Sam has already made up his mind? Please, soften his heart. Convince him to give me a proper listen and accept the truth for Andrew’s sake if not for mine.”
Moments later, an older kitchen maid with dark hair and merry blue eyes appeared in the doorway. “I’m Abigail,” she said as she closed the door behind her. “Our ’ousekeeper, Mrs. Frye, sent me.” She extended a short stack of fresh garments. “You’ll ’ave to change quick, dearie. We may ’ave to pin up the ’em a bit, but it’s the best we can do on short notice.”
Unfortunately, the skirt’s length wasn’t the problem. The tightness of the bodice and waist made it nearly impossible to breathe. “I can’t wear this.”
“You must.” Abigail surveyed her with a critical eye. “Tomorrow’s wash day and this is the last acceptable garment we ’ave that might fit you. The skirt is shorter than I expected so at least you won’t take a tumble.”
“Don’t you find it a bit peculiar I’m to serve tonight?”
“I’d say. Especially since the master usually likes things jus’ so. Some say ’e’s extra fussy cause ’e used to be a nobody ’imself and ’e don’t want those lofty new friends of ’is to ream him out behind ’is back.”
Rose doubted Sam cared much about stray opinions, but he had always been a man of detail. His ability to notice what others failed to see had made him restless as far back as childhood. While growing up in Ashby Croft, he’d been unable to ignore the injustice of their lot and be content. Little wonder Mr. Stark’s promises had stolen him away in a blink. After seeing just a glimpse of what Sam had been able to accomplish in London, she marveled that she’d ever dreamed she might be enough to hold his interest.
“There,” Abigail said as she finished tying the strings of Rose’s long, white apron. “Try lifting that stack of receipt books on the corner of the desk. Were I to fancy a guess, I’d say they’re as ’eavy as most of the trays you’ll be expected to carry.”
Rose reached for the pile of books and hefted them into her arms. The dress’s seams protested, but none of them gave way.
“Thank the Lord for small mercies.” Abigail smiled with obvious relief. “After the way Mr. Blackstone stormed about in a temper this afternoon, he was liable to dismiss us all if anything else went wrong this evening.”
“Don’t be surprised if does. I don’t have the faintest idea about the proper way to serve. I’m afraid I’ll be so nervous I’ll knock over a glass or drop a dirtied plate in someone’s lap.”
Abigail chuckled. “You’ll do fine. Jus’ be sure to steer clear of Miss Ratner’s father, Lord Sanbourne. ’E’s been known to make free with his ’ands when he thinks no one’ll notice.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Rose tugged at the tight material bunched at her waist. The clang of pots and pans filtered down the hall from the kitchen. “Anything else I should be aware of?”
“Well,” Abigail said after a thoughtful pause, “I ’ope you won’t think I make a ’abit of carrying tales about Mr. Blackstone or his friends, but if I was you, I’d be careful of Miss Ratner, as well.”
“She and Mr. Blackstone seem very close.”
“Indeed. Tonight is ’er debut as ’ostess ’ere. She’s been in a rumpus all week, giving orders and bragging about ’ow much the master would be lost without ’er. By bringing you on, ’e’s given ’er efforts a punch to the nose, to be sure. She won’t be ’appy about her plans being tinkered with, and she’s the kind to seek revenge on you, not ’im.”
“I’m only here to do my job. If I have my way, I’ll be gone for good before midnight.”
“That’s probably for the best.” Abigail finished pinning Rose’s cap into place. “You’ve got the prettiest ’air. What a pity it ’as to be ’idden under this silly article.”
The rare compliment gave her spirits a boost. “I’ve been a servant most of my life. I know how important it is to blend with the walls.”
“Especially since Miss Ratner searches for things to complain about.”
“She must have something to recommend her. You told me yourself, Mr. Blackstone is taken with her,” she said, denying the sudden ache in her chest had anything to do with Sam and stemmed from her inability to take in enough air.
“I suppose so. ’E’s been with ’er six months— longer than any of the other women ’e’s kept company with in all the years I’ve worked for ’im, more’s the pity. But rumor ’as it she’s angling for marriage, and a clever woman knows nothing is final until she ’as a ring on ’er finger or one in ’is nose.”
A loud clatter and a long stream of angry French drew Abigail’s quick retreat to the kitchen. Rose pressed her fingertips to her throbbing temples. Armed with more information than she’d bargained for or wanted, she fought back a dark cloud of depression. Even if she hadn’t been convinced Sam had well and truly moved on without her, she was now.
“Are you presentable?” Mr. Hodges called from out in the hall. “Only ten minutes until it’s time to announce the dinner service. We must go up this instant.”
She took as deep a breath as the gown allowed and whispered a prayer for mercy. Her rattled nerves refused to settle. With one last glance in the mirror, she saw an ordinary servant sausage-wrapped in black wool and starched, white cotton. There was nothing special about her, hopefully nothing to draw Miss Ratner’s ire.
“Robert is managing the soup course, but I shall oversee the fish and carve the roasts,” Mr. Hodges informed her on the way to the first floor. “Hold the platters within easy reach of each guest and allow them to serve themselves. By all means don’t speak to anyone unless you’re spoken to first. If that should happen, keep your responses to a minimum. Some of the ladies and gentlemen present are of noble stock and won’t take kindly to being addressed by a lowly subordinate such as yourself.”
The melody of a violin grew louder as they reached the top step. Both of them were out of breath by the time they paused on the landing. Rose tugged at the tight material bunching about her waist, certain she must be blue in the face while the warm glow of the gas lamps cast Hodges’s wrinkled visage in a golden hue.
From the corner of her eye, she saw the violinist standing in a small circular alcove off the main hall. The somber melody he played added an extra layer of formality to the high, curved ceilings and dark, paneled walls.
The low rumble of conversation signaled the direction of the drawing room and the current location of the party. Hodges lifted an index finger to his lips, warning her to keep silent. He pointed to an open set of sliding doors on the left side of the corridor. Rose nodded gravely and followed him to what seemed like her doom.
* * *
In the drawing room, a fire flickered in the hearth and the aroma of savory herbs wafted across the hall from the dining room.
Aware he should be pleased with the early success of the gathering, Sam could not dismiss his impatience to send everyone home. The laughter and light conversation that flowed freely from the assembly of his guests failed to hold his interest when the possibility of renewing his discussion with Rose beckoned him.
By design, he’d left the double doors open and chosen a seat with a clear view of the corridor where Rose would have to pass by. He’d tried to deny his longing to see her, but the simple knowledge that she was somewhere beneath his roof tormented him beyond all good sense and reason.
The music took a somber turn. He stood, intending to request a more cheerful tune, but Rose chose that moment to appear and everything ceased to exist except the slim column of black slipping into the dining room on the butler’s coattails.
To his annoyance, the sight of her eased his restlessness and improved his floundering mood with an immediacy that disturbed him. After all the years they’d been separated and the way she’d broken her promise to wait for him, how was it possible she inspired anything in him except contempt?
Amelia moved to his side and linked her arm with his. “The evening is going swimmingly well, don’t you agree, darling? Just as I predicted, the Ellistons are impressed with the vintage on offer and are already imbibing their second sample.”
