“Milady?” he asked, bowing when he finally reached her seat. “Roast goose?”
“Yes, please,” she responded, not looking at him, and desperately hoping that neither Mama nor Mr. Lucas himself could tell she was blushing. Drat. She’d never blushed over being offered roast goose before. She was the goose.
She was served quickly and efficiently before Mr. Lucas and the platter moved on to Sir Reginald while Mama asked, “Sir Reginald, how often do you dine with the prince?” Mama’s eyes were sparkling in a way that made Frances worry. It was official. Mama’s interest in the knight’s friendship with the prince bordered upon obsession.
“Oh, quite a bit, I’d say,” Sir Reginald replied, another smirk on his face.
Frances glanced at Mr. Lucas, who arched a brow this time. He obviously doubted Sir Reginald’s lofty pronouncement. Frances fumbled to get her napkin to her lips before she laughed out loud.
“Does the prince enjoy whist?” she finally managed to ask Sir Reginald.
The knight’s eyes widened. Frances wasn’t certain if he was pleased that she’d asked him a question or pleased that he had more opportunity to talk. Both, perhaps? “He does indeed, my lady.”
For the next three quarters of an hour Frances sat listening to Sir Reginald and her mother carry on a lengthy conversation about the Prince Regent’s card-playing habits, while she sipped her wine and used her fork to poke at her goose.
When Sir Reginald launched into a story that seemed to miss no detail about his travels to Clayton Manor, replete with an exhaustive description of each time they stopped to change horses, how his back ached whenever he emerged from the coach, and (perhaps most fascinating) how much mud appeared to be clogging up the roadways of late, Frances decided she could take no more. She might not be able to feign illness, but nothing was stopping her from feigning shrewishness. She’d no sooner decided to make a scene that would (hopefully) horrify Sir Reginald and (mercifully) give her an excuse to leave the dining room, than she looked up to see Mr. Lucas pouring more wine in her glass.
There it was. The perfect opportunity. One didn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
She glanced at Mr. Lucas and winked, hoping against hope the looks they’d seemed to exchange all night weren’t merely in her imagination. She’d sorely regret it if Mr. Lucas misunderstood, but she’d be certain to apologize to him later regardless.
She bumped Mr. Lucas’s arm, causing the wine to spill on both the tablecloth and her skirts and immediately leaped to her feet. She frantically swiped at her stained gown with her napkin. “Clumsy oaf!” she called in the most entitled, shrill tone she could muster. “Look at my skirts. They’re ruined!”
Mr. Lucas turned his body away from the table so that only she could see him. For a horrible moment she thought she’d been completely wrong and he didn’t understand that she’d done this on purpose.
He bowed to her, the light in his eyes signaling that he was in on the ruse. “Sincere apologies, my lady. I’ll fetch something to clean the gown immediately.”
“No need,” she replied, still feigning a shrill tone. “The gown is ruined. I’ll just retire to my room and let my maid see to it.”
Mama, who’d barely had enough time to comprehend what had happened, turned as red as an apple. “Frances, what in heaven’s name has got into you? Lower your voice.” Mama was intently watching Sir Reginald for his reaction to the scene, a fake smile pinned to her face.
Lady Clayton stood and came sailing over. That lovely lady apologized quietly and escorted both Frances and Mr. Lucas quickly from the dining room. Frances had barely taken two steps toward the door when she heard Sir Reginald say to Mama, “I like a woman with spirit. And that footman was a clumsy oaf.”
Confound it. Was she actually attracting the ass with this behavior? As soon as they reached the corridor Frances turned to apologize to Mr. Lucas, but Lady Clayton had already ordered him to return to the servants’ hall in the basement and remain there for the rest of the evening. Oh, dear. Frances had no way of knowing for certain if he realized she’d done it all on purpose. She would have to go looking for him later.
Chapter Six
Frances Wharton, Lucas thought two hours later as he stood leaning a shoulder against a wall in the servant’s hall. Thankfully, no one had seemed to recognize him before Theodora had removed him from the dining room earlier. He’d turned his back upon the table immediately and Theodora had quickly carted him away, along with Miss Wharton.
He’d stayed downstairs to watch the butler complete his duties and to ask some questions about tomorrow’s plans. He’d learned quite a bit about life in service since he’d come here, and to his delight most of Clayton’s servants seemed pleased to teach him. Probably on Mrs. Cotswold’s orders, but still, he appreciated their help and their not acting put out by his presence. Of course, a few of them kept forgetting they weren’t supposed to call him “my lord,” but he quickly reminded them. His presence in the servants’ hall made one of the housemaids blush earlier. He hoped he hadn’t embarrassed the poor girl too much.
Service was more difficult than Lucas had imagined. He’d spent his evening rushing up and down a great many stairs while balancing elaborate platters full of food. Not only had his physical skills been put to the test, but so had his mental ones as he’d been kept quite busy trying to recall in which direction to serve the soup tureen, on which side of each guest to stand while serving, and precisely how long he should wait at each seat before moving to the next to ensure he wasn’t going too slowly. Ensuring he didn’t spill any food on the guests or the table was its own feat. He would have made it through the first evening without incident if Miss Wharton hadn’t purposely bumped into his arm.
By far his greatest fear of the evening, however, had been that the diners who knew him—and there were a handful—would suddenly look at his face and recognize him. Amazing, really, how correct Bell had been. The marquess had said none of the members of the ton would give Lucas a second glance when he was dressed in livery while wearing a powdered wig, and by God, none of them had. Except, that is, for Miss Wharton, who kept glancing at him. He knew she was glancing at him because he kept glancing at her. At first he’d been worried for her when Sir Reginald took the seat next to her. Particularly when the blowhard had begun by announcing to the table that he was friendly with the Prince Regent. In fact, he’d practically shouted the words “the Prince Regent” so the entire table could hear.
And calling the prince “Georgie”? That was enough to make one physically ill. The table’s occupants had seemed impressed, however. Especially Lady Winfield. Lucas had no idea why. Carlton House was famous for its lavish dinners, but it was hardly much fun. Why, Lucas usually tried to get out of any invitations to dinners at Carlton House (and he’d received a great many over the years). It was awkward there, in the past due to Mrs. Fitzherbert’s presence, and the conversation always revolved entirely around the prince.
Lucas much preferred the company of his friends at the Curious Goat Inn to the stuffy confines of Carlton House. However, Sir Reginald’s friendship with the Regent was one reason Lucas was interested in securing the knight’s vote. The man was a cohort of the Prince and the Prince was influential with a score of MPs. If Lucas could manage to sway that loyal group of royalists to his cause, he’d have the vote on the Employment Bill all but guaranteed. Lucas would have to continue to court his favor, though, if he were going to win over Sir Reginald and his cronies.