Would that he’d listened to his ma sooner.
His door opened and he sat, feeling guilty that he wasn’t yet dressed. William, almost out of breath, stuck his head in. “Letter for you.”
James tempered his surprise and schooled his face as he rose and took the proffered paper.
“Who’s it from?” William asked.
“Me ma,” James answered, mentally crossing himself at using his mother in a lie.
“Oh.” William’s brows lowered as his interest waned. “You’ll be ready soon? The guests should be arriving any minute.”
“I’ll be ready.”
William closed the door and James waited until he heard his footsteps retreat before he opened the letter. He didn’t recognize the handwriting right away, so his gaze skipped to the end of the short missive where it was signed P. Birr.
It was from Patrick then. Now he was a man James had no trouble forgetting, though Patrick made sure it was never for long.
Time’s grown short. Meet me at the Blue Boar in two nights.
James would have liked to throw the letter in the fire and forget it, but if he didn’t meet Patrick, Patrick and his minion, Sean, would come and find him. That would put all three of them in jeopardy and Lady Philomena too. After all, she was the reason Patrick wanted to meet.
James tossed the letter in the fire anyway. He didn’t want William to read it and ask questions. Then he finished dressing and made his way to the kitchen where the cook was bellowing orders. The first footman was already there, and he ordered James to fetch the necessary serving pieces. The next hour was a blur of running here and there until finally the family had gone in to dinner and it was time to serve. All of the food for the first course had already been laid on the table, and James stood on one side of the room while Mr. Balcolm, the first footman, stood on the other, and Mr. Caffold, the butler, oversaw everything.
As the family entered, James and the other servants stared straight ahead, pretending to see and hear nothing. The guests did not note the men either. Instead, they continued their conversation from earlier as they took their seats and began passing dishes. James kept his head high, his eyes unseeing, but he still caught a glimpse of golden hair piled high and the smooth slope of pale shoulders. Lady Philomena’s back was to him, but he was certain she knew he was there.
He watched for Mr. Caffold’s nods to indicate he should fetch a dish from one end of the table and present it to a lady or gentleman at the other end. When not fetching and carrying, he returned to his position at the side of the room to await the signal to clear for the second course.
James kept his eyes on a distant point near Mr. Caffold, but he couldn’t stop his ears from hearing Lady Philomena’s voice when she spoke or the light sound of her laughter. He could tell it was forced laughter. Knoxwood made an effort to amuse, but it often fell flat. Not that James thought he could do much better. He doubted he would have more than three words to say to any of these nobs, save Phil, but he’d stood through enough dinners to know what was and was not amusing.
Finally, the signal to clear came, and he played his role then returned to the kitchen for the next course, presumably a fish. And so it went until the dessert course. When James entered, he heard the conversation had turned to the planned trip to London in two days. The ladies discussed the best shops and the latest fashions, none of which interested him much as he wouldn’t be needed. The town house had a full staff and only the ladies’ maids and other essential staff would accompany the duchess and her daughter. He would stay behind and be ordered by the housekeeper to assist with all of the housekeeping tasks she wanted done but which she felt would inconvenience the family too much if undertaken when they were at home.
Mr. Caffold gave the nod, and James fetched a dessert to bring to Viscount Knoxwood. It was some sort of bread or pastry with a sweet red sauce that must be drizzled on top. James held the plate within reach of the viscount, aware Lady Philomena was just to his left, and then, when the viscount had taken a portion, offered the sauce boat. At the same time, the viscount waved his arm to make a point, made contact with the boat, and sent sticky red sauce flying. James reacted quickly, withdrawing the boat and saving it from turning over completely, but he felt the sticky liquid soak through his gloves and stepped back quickly as the viscount stood and stared down at the red stain on his white shirt.
“What the devil?” he said, grasping his napkin and trying to wipe it off.
“I’m terribly sorry, me lord,” James said quickly, offering his serving towel as well.
“Oh, dear,” the duchess said. “I do think that will stain.”
“I daresay you’re right, Your Grace.” The viscount glared at James. “You cost me a shirt, sir.”
“I’m terribly sorry, me lord.” James kept his gaze down, not out of embarrassment but because he didn’t want the viscount to see his anger. The spill was wholly the fault of the viscount, and yet James must take the blame. At least he’d be sent upstairs for the remainder of the evening. Maybe one of the maids knew how to clean the sauce out of his gloves.
“It’s not James’s fault,” Lady Philomena said.
James’s head snapped up, and he met her gaze. He gave her a quick shake of the head. What was she doing? She did not need to defend him. He was a servant. It was a given he was always in the wrong.
“That’s quite enough, Philomena,” her mother said, giving her a stern look from across the table.
“But it’s not his fault, Mama. Knoxwood spilled the sauce, not James.”
James could feel all eyes land on him. The back of his collar felt hot, and he wished he would be dismissed. He was supposed to be invisible, and now he had captured the party’s attention twice. The silence seemed to drag on for a long moment, then Knoxwood turned to James and looked him up and down.
“You’re quite right, my lady. It was my fault entirely. No harm done, eh, James?”
“As ye say, me lord.”
The viscount sat again, and the butler gave James a speaking look. As soon as he was no longer the center of attention, James slipped out the door and returned downstairs.
“They done already?” Meg, the kitchen maid, asked.
“No. There was a spill.”
“Oh, heavens! You’d better go to your room before Mr. Caffold comes down. He’ll have your head.”
“It wasn’t my fault.”
“Doesn’t matter. And hand me your gloves. If I soak them now, I might get that stain out.”
He handed her the gloves and went up the back steps so there would be less chance of meeting the butler. But before he went to his chamber, he made his way to the coat room to tell William he would be needed after all. He gave William the news then started back across the foyer just as the party adjourned to the drawing room. He stepped into an alcove under the stairs and out of sight. As he stood in the shadows, he heard Phil’s voice. “Might I speak to you in private a moment, my lord?”
“Certainly,” Knoxwood answered.
“There’s a parlor just here.”
James made himself smaller as they passed him and entered the parlor across from him. She did not close the door, and James could hear their voices as the viscount asked what she wanted to speak to him about. James couldn’t see them unless he leaned forward. He could easily slip out of the alcove and make his way to the servants’ stairs without being seen.