Scandal of the Year Page 6

  “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.”

  “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 o
ne, 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.