Scandal of the Year Page 3

  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.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You allowed Lindsey to marry an earl and Portia a viscount. Who am I to aim higher than them?”

  Edith Crompton frowned. “Don’t be absurd. You’re different from your sisters. You’ve always been more appreciative of all that society has to offer.”

  “But I told you, Lady Davina insulted me—and you and Papa as well.” Blythe mimicked the hateful words that were branded into her memory. “‘I would never permit my father to marry so vastly far beneath him.’”

  Her skirts rustling, Mama bent down to hug Blythe. Her lilac scent wafted over Blythe and their eyes met in the looking glass. “I know what she said is awful, darling, but you mustn’t let Lady Davina discourage you. Remember, her mother died only last summer. It’s understandable for her to be possessive of His Grace. Can you not find it in your heart to forgive her?”

  A natural tendency toward kindness rose to the fore of Blythe’s emotions. She knew how protective she herself would be of her own father in such a circumstance. Nevertheless, she resisted being maneuvered by her mother.

  “That doesn’t excuse her rudeness.”

  “You’re quite right. However, people will make inconsiderate remarks from time to time. That is merely the way society functions. You cannot allow it to stop you from achieving your dream.”

  “But … what about love?” Blythe tried to fathom the soul-deep yearning inside herself that the meeting with James had somehow ignited. “What if I am not in love with the duke?”

  Her mother laughed. “You’ve only just met him, darling. Love will come in time, never fear.”

  Would it? Blythe fervently hoped so. Having witnessed the closeness of her sisters with their husbands, she couldn’t deny a longing to find such happiness for herself.

  Straightening up, Mama patted Blythe’s shoulder. “As for Lady Davina, she doesn’t yet realize how wonderful a friend you can be. No doubt it was a shock for her to see how perfect you looked on the duke’s arm. You were so very beautiful last night. Like a true duchess.”

  Had James, the footman, found her beautiful?

  Blythe had a vivid memory of his tall, shadowy form entering the sitting room the previous night. Their hands had brushed when he’d given her the glass of champagne. Even now, something stirred deep inside her, but she refused to examine it. He was a servant and she mustn’t think about him that way.

  Better she should relish her happiness when she’d danced with the Duke of Savoy. Better she should savor the pleasurable memory of how everyone had gazed admiringly at her, how they had stepped aside and shown her deference as she’d passed. That was what she wanted—wasn’t it? To be accepted wholeheartedly by all of society.

  And if she could find love, too, then her life would be complete.

  A knock sounded and the door opened. A stout maid carrying a breakfast tray entered the bedchamber. She bobbed a curtsy and went to place the tray on a round table by the window.

  Blythe rose from the dressing table. “Thank you, Nan,” she told the maid, who scurried over to the bed to straighten the linens. “Mama, would you care for a cup of tea?”

  Edith Crompton shook her head. “I’ve already had my share at breakfast with your father. By the by, he was extremely pleased that you had danced with His Grace.”

  Blythe
glanced up in surprise. “Papa said that?”

  “Yes. Your father believes that a marriage between you and the duke would be an absolutely brilliant match.”

  As she poured herself a steaming cup of tea, Blythe felt a twinge of dismay. When it came to society, Mama had always been the ambitious one. She never seemed satisfied with their wealth, their fine home, their invitations to the best parties. She’d pushed all three of her daughters to marry dukes, although Portia and Lindsey had had other ideas.

  Papa had left all the match-making to her mother. He was busy with his shipping business, yet whenever Blythe entered his office, he would always push aside his work and chat with her. He had never asked anything of her other than affection. Until now.

  Now he wanted her to marry the Duke of Savoy.

  Blythe added a lump of sugar to her tea. Well then, so be it, she would make her dear Papa happy by pursuing a betrothal to the duke. Surely all of the doubts she’d awakened with this morning were just a temporary fit of the doldrums. And as Mama had said, love would come in time.

  “It would be marvelous to be a duchess,” Blythe said slowly. “No one would ever dare to snub any of us ever again. I would have my choice of invitations, I’d lead the way into dinner, and I’d even be invited to hobnob with royalty.”

  “Indeed you would,” her mother said approvingly. “I shall set my mind to the task of finding a way to win over Lady Davina. Nothing is impossible when one is determined.”

  While her mother paced, deep in thought, Blythe bent over the tray to uncover a dish of buttered toast. The delicious aroma caused her stomach to growl. But when she picked up a piece, it was soggy.

  “Cold toast again. When I am Duchess of Savoy, I shall insist—”

  Something made her look up. A footman stood in the open doorway—the door that Nan had left open. He was gazing straight at Blythe.

  Her heart lurched. James.

  Chapter 5

  A flurry of awareness raced over her skin. Dropping the toast, Blythe clutched the edges of her dressing gown together. The nightclothes covered her from neck to toe, yet she was keenly aware of her unbound breasts beneath the fine lawn fabric.

  She curled her bare toes into the soft Axminster carpet. How long had he been standing there? Had he overheard her nattering on about becoming a duchess?

  What did it matter, anyway, if he had? The opinion of a servant held no significance.

  Beneath the powdered wig, his chiseled features were impassive. “A parcel for Miss Crompton,” he announced.

  Only then did she notice the salver he carried in his gloved hands. On it sat a small box wrapped in cream paper.

  “Oh…” She pulled her scattered thoughts together. “Will you place it on the table by the hearth?”

  “It may be from His Grace,” Mrs. Crompton said, sweeping forward to pluck the box off the salver. “Draw the curtains, James. We’ll need more light.”

  He bowed, and there was something inherently proud in his bearing. “Yes, madam.”

  He started toward the bank of windows behind Blythe. Picking up a spoon, she pretended to be engrossed in stirring her tea. All the while, she studied him from beneath the veil of her lashes. He had the wide shoulders and muscled physique of an Adonis—although no lofty Greek god would have donned stiff blue livery with gold buttons. Her wayward mind produced an image of James in the pose of a classical statue with a naked torso and a loincloth slung low on his hips.

  She fought off a hot blush. Whatever had made her imagine that?

  To make matters worse, as her gaze returned to his face, James had the audacity to wink at her.

  As if he were privy to her fantasy.

  Her foolish heart stumbled over a beat. Quickly she stared down into her teacup. Never had she encountered a footman who seemed so oblivious to the boundaries between them. Yet it was ridiculous to feel so flustered. What was wrong with her?

  She ought to chastise him for his boldness. But to do so in front of her mother would have consequences. Mama would likely sack him on the spot, and as much as Blythe thought him cheeky, she couldn’t bear the notion of being the architect of his dismissal.

  From behind her came the rustle of draperies. A moment later, sunlight flooded the bedchamber. He went to each window in turn, proceeding past the bed where Nan was plumping the pillows.

  Blythe took a sip of her tea. She’d never before thought anything amiss in allowing a male servant to enter her bedchamber. The staff had been taught to be respectful and unobtrusive, and she scarcely noticed their presence.

  But she couldn’t say the same of James. She was entirely too aware of his intrusion in her private sanctuary.

  “Won’t you open this?” Mama asked.

  Blythe blinked, realizing her mother stood nearby, holding out the small parcel. “I’ll do it later.”

  Mrs. Crompton arched a fine eyebrow. “Well! You truly are in a snit today. Is it time for your monthlies?

  “Mama!”

  “Now, now,” her mother said, giving Blythe a soothing rub on the upper back. “I’m only trying to fathom your ill humor. If you’re suffering from the curse of Eve, it’s perfectly understandable that you might feel out of sorts. It certainly isn’t like you to be so averse to opening a gift.”

  “I’m sure it’s merely sweets or another set of embroidered handkerchiefs,” Blythe said, to distract her mother from the indelicate topic. “You may open it yourself if you like.”

  Her only consolation was that James gave no hint that he had heeded the exchange. Her gaze furtively sought him out. He had moved to the last window, where he drew back the blue draperies and looped the tassel around a hook on the wall. Then he strode to the fire to add a few more coals from the hob. His presence in the bedchamber made it difficult for Blythe to concentrate.

  Mrs. Crompton untied the string around the parcel and removed the heavy cream paper. “Well, I certainly would like to see what this is. Ah, there’s a card on top. And oh! Look who it’s from, darling—the Duke of Savoy.” With a triumphant smile, she waved a printed calling card.

  James picked up the poker to stir the coals, causing the flames to hiss and flare. Seeing that her mother was waiting for a response, Blythe murmured, “How very nice.”

  “Don’t you want to know what it is?”

  “Oh … certainly.”

  Mrs. Crompton peered down into the box. “Chocolate bonbons, the very finest, you may be sure of that. His Grace is renowned for his excellent taste. Do try one and you’ll see.”

  It was customary for a gentleman to send out gifts the day after a large party. As the package contained no personal message, Blythe suspected the duke had sent the exact same thing to every girl with whom he’d danced.

  But her mother was insistently holding out the box, so Blythe took a bonbon and popped it into her mouth. The rich sweetness melted on her tongue, and the sensual delight had a soothing effect on her rattled senses. “Mmm. Delicious.”

  James had put down the poker and stood waiting by the door. His gaze flicked from her mother to Blythe.

  The intensity in his dark eyes made Blythe wonder if there was a smudge of chocolate on her lips. Turning away, she ran her forefinger over her mouth. Why did he tarry here? He should vanish from the bedchamber as Nan had done when she’d finished making the bed.

  “Pardon me,” he said. “Will that be all?”

  “Yes!” Blythe said.

  “No,” Mrs. Crompton countered, frowning slightly. “Blythe, darling, sit down and write a thank-you note to His Grace. If the footman delivers it straightaway, the duke will know you to be a lady who is prompt in her duties.”

  “But Mama, I’m not even dressed yet.” Immediately Blythe regretted the poor choice of words. She oughtn’t have drawn attention to that fact with James present.

  “A task delayed is a task that will likely never be done,” Mrs. Crompton said. “It will only take you a moment.”

  Blythe wrestled with the urge to refuse
, then swallowed her pride and padded barefoot to the dainty writing desk in a corner. She sat down and pulled a note card from one of the cubbyholes. While she selected a quill pen and uncorked the inkpot, her mother kept up a stream of instructions.

  “Take care to use your finest penmanship. Don’t rush as you are often wont to do. Now is not the time for blots or crossed-out words.”

  “Of course, Mama.”

  “Now, as to the wording.” Mrs. Crompton walked back and forth while dictating, “‘To His Grace of Savoy, I am delighted to be in receipt of your excellent gift.’” She paused. “No, change that to ‘your superior gift.’ That way he will know you consider it to be much finer than anything sent by your other suitors.”

  Blythe compressed her lips. Did Mama think her incapable of writing a simple note? Apparently so, but with James standing within earshot near the door, she was loath to make a fuss. Releasing her breath in a huff, she dipped the sharpened end of the quill into the ink and began to write, the pen scratching over the paper.

  Mrs. Crompton went on, “‘It was extremely kind of you to have sent my favorite chocolates. Please know that your thoughtfulness has brightened my day.’ Start a new paragraph. ‘Last evening was a very special night for me.’”

  For no reason at all, Blythe saw herself back in the sitting room with James as he’d pressed a glass of champagne into her hand. She blocked the image at once. How irksome to keep dwelling upon that inconsequential scene.

  She continued to write as her mother dictated, “‘I hope you will not think me too forward in confessing that I will forever treasure the memory of our dance together. I shall wait with great anticipation for you to call upon me at your convenience.’”

  “I can’t say that,” Blythe objected. “It sounds as if I’m commanding him to visit me.”

  “And why shouldn’t you? Men are very flattered to know that a beautiful young lady is pining for them. Especially one as wealthy as you.”

  “But—” Blythe bit her lip to keep from blurting out that she wanted to be liked for herself, not for her dowry. Yet wasn’t that what the Marriage Mart was all about, the upper crust entering into alliances based on money and rank? She knew that well, for she and Mama had devoted weeks to weighing the merits of potential husbands.