Worth accepted yet another new mug of ale from the barmaid and flipped a coin into the air for her tip. He gave her an outrageously flirtatious grin before turning his attention back to the conversation. “I, for one, am so interested in seeing such a situation play out, not only will I attend to watch the spectacle, I will also settle a large sum on the outcome as to whether you two can pull this off. Care to bet me?” He gave them both his most competitive stare.
Bell rolled his eyes. “Everything’s a bet with you, Worth.”
“Perhaps, but you must admit, this is a particularly tempting bet.” Worth lifted his chin toward the marquess. “Five hundred pounds say you are both outed by a keen-eyed mama within a sennight.”
“I’ll take that bet!” Clayton declared, pointing a finger in the air. “You’ll be attending as a guest, I presume, Worthington.”
Lucas’s snort of laughter interrupted Worth’s reply. “Of course he’s attending as a guest. Our mate Worth here could never pass for a footman.” He shook his head sympathetically toward the duke. “You couldn’t last one night serving others, I’m afraid.”
Worth’s nostrils flared. He gathered himself up and straightened his shoulders. “I take offense to that. If you two sops can do it, surely I can.”
Clayton blew air into his cheeks and shook his head, not quite meeting Worth’s gaze. “Hmm. I’m not exactly certain I agree with that, old chap.”
Worth crossed his arms over his chest and glared at his friend. “You truly don’t think I could do it?”
“No,” Clayton admitted, looking slightly sheepish. “Not if you actually have to fill the role of a servant and do real chores. No.”
Worth’s gaze swung to Bell. “You don’t think I can do it either?” He almost looked hurt.
Bell shook his head. “Not a chance. Apologies, Your Grace, but you’re far too used to being waited upon to wait on anyone else.”
“But that’s how I know how to do it properly,” Worth shot back, a disgruntled expression on his face.
Lucas snorted. “I’m afraid seeing one serve and actually serving are two entirely different things.”
Worth’s eyes widened. “You’re a bloody earl for Christ’s sake. Why do you think you can serve?”
“I may be an earl but I’m no stranger to hard work. I spent years in the Navy doing chores like picking oakum and deworming hardtack. And those two tasks were pleasant compared to some of my other tasks,” Lucas replied.
Worth slapped a palm on the tabletop. The mugs bounced. “Fine. One thousand pounds says I can make it through the entire fortnight as a servant too. Or at least I can last longer than either of you.”
“Now who is being mad?” Clayton asked, waggling his eyebrows at Worth.
“I’m quite serious.” Worth’s jaw was locked. “One thousand pounds, gentlemen. Who will take the bet?”
“I will,” all three called in unison.
Chapter One
Miss Frances Wharton winced when her mother came hurrying into the breakfast room. Mama had a smile on her face, which meant she’d received what she called “good news,” or more correctly, the opposite of the news Frances wanted to hear. Frances shut her copy of The Taming of the Shrew and pushed it behind a potted flower. Mama was always complaining that she read too much.
“I’ve just come from Lady Cranberry’s house,” Mama declared. “She has confirmed that Sir Reginald Francis will be attending the Claytons’ country house party next week.”
Frances exchanged a look with her younger sister who sat across from her. Abigail was only sixteen years old and had not yet come out, while Frances was eighteen and had just made her debut this Season. Her mother had set her sights on Sir Reginald Francis for her. Frances had no idea why. The man might be a knight, but he was also a loud, pompous ass. Not to mention his surname was Francis. She couldn’t imagine a life in which she was named Frances Francis. It presented so many issues.
“I’m not feeling particularly well, Mama. I’m not certain I can attend the Claytons’ house party.” Frances pressed the back of her hand to her forehead in as dramatic a gesture as she could manage. She’d never been much for dramatics, but usually Mama seemed to appreciate them.
“Nonsense,” Mama replied, clearly unmoved this time. “You are healthy as a horse, but even if you’d come down with the plague, I’d have the servants carry you to the house party.”
Frances gave her mother a side-wise glance paired with a frown.
“I wish I could attend,” Abigail said with a long, dramatic sigh. She too placed the back of her hand against her forehead. Now, her sister always had a flare for the dramatic. Somehow Abigail’s dramatics seemed so much more believable than her own. Frances made a mental note to ask her sister how to be both more dramatic and more believable at it.
“You’ve yet to make your debut,” Mother replied to Abigail.
“I know,” Abigail moaned, emphasizing her woe.
Another mental note. Moan more.
“But I would so love to attend a country house party filled with handsome gentlemen,” Abigail continued.
“Filled with handsome gentlemen and Sir Reginald Francis,” Frances mumbled.
Mama shot Frances a look that clearly indicated she did not find her daughter’s jest amusing in the least. “I fail to comprehend your objection to Sir Reginald,” Mama said, pointing her nose in the air.
Frances crossed her arms over her chest and drummed her fingertips against the opposite elbows. “Let’s see. He’s twice my age.”
“Forty is hardly ancient.” Mama’s nose remained aloft.
“He’s pompous,” Frances continued, still drumming her fingers.
Mama waived her handkerchief in the air. “All men with titles are pompous. Your father was when I met him.”
“He’s entirely uninteresting,” Frances continued, scratching her cheek.
“I don’t know why you say that. He’s perfectly interesting to me,” Mama insisted.
Frances arched a brow. “He spent the better part of an hour telling me about a game of whist he played four years ago. A hand he lost, by the by. And not a particularly compelling hand.”
“Oh, Frances, you’re so particular.” Mama gave a long-suffering sigh and pressed her handkerchief to her throat. “You must remember,” her voice dropped to a whisper as if they were not alone in their own drawing room, shabby though it might be. “You don’t have much of a dowry and while I love you, you’re hardly a diamond of the first water.”
“Thank you for the encouragement, Mama,” Frances replied, stifling her urge to laugh at her mother’s egregiousness.
“I’m quite serious,” Mama continued, “Sir Reginald has shown interest. His may be the best marriage offer you get.”
“If reciting a four-year-old tale about a card game is showing interest, I suppose you’re right, Mama, but I already told you, I’m perfectly happy for you to give my dowry to Abigail to ensure she makes a good match.”
Papa’s penchant for gambling paired with his proclivity for losing had caused the family great financial distress of late, but Frances couldn’t understand why her mother wouldn’t be practical and double Abigail’s dowry instead. It only made sense. Apparently, her mother didn’t appreciate sense.