“They have no right to be discussing me and Frances,” Lucas retorted.
“I agree with you there, Kendall,” Bell replied evenly. “But violence doesn’t seem like the best response. I, for one, think a far better decision would be for you to attend tonight’s dinner.”
“What?” The other three men all said the word simultaneously. Lucas’s mouth fell open, Worth’s eyebrows shot up, and Clayton frowned.
“Why shouldn’t he?” Bell asked, his gaze traveling around the room.
“He’s foxed for one thing,” Worth said with a laugh.
Clayton cleared his throat. “And the last thing he needs is all of those debutantes and their mothers trying to throw themselves at him if he wants Miss Wharton to think better of him.”
Lucas had leaned over on the bed and was holding up his head on one hand, his elbow braced on the mattress.
“I didn’t say he should go as Lord Kendall,” Bell pointed out. “I think he should go as Lucas, the footman. After he sobers up that is.” Bell stood. “And to that end, help me get his face in the washbowl, lads.”
Approximately three hours and three dunks in the washbowl later, Lucas was considerably more sober, but Bell still hadn’t convinced him to attend the evening’s dinner as Lucas, the footman. Clayton had already left to see to his guests and Worth had returned to the stables after wishing Lucas a hearty good luck.
Bell was shrugging into his coat. “It’s time for me to go help Lord Copperpot dress for dinner,” he announced.
“What purpose would it serve for me to go to the dining room as a footman?” Lucas asked a final time. “Frances would recognize me immediately. Besides, you heard Clayton. Sir Reginald and Frances intend to announce their engagement tonight. It’s too late.”
Bell adjusted his collar and smoothed his hands down the front of his liveried coat. “I can think of several purposes it would serve and you could too if you’d stop and consider it,” he replied. “Meanwhile, if I were you, I’d bloody well go to the dinner in one form or another and ensure the woman I love didn’t betroth herself to another man tonight.”
Chapter Thirty
Frances was forced to enter the dining room far behind the Prince Regent. Since George’s arrival, the party’s standards had become much more formal. The prince walked in with Lady Clayton, while Lord Clayton escorted George’s sister, one of the Royal princesses, who had come with him. Frances, being the daughter of a baron, stood toward the end of the queue.
While the entire set of guests was buzzing about either the prince’s arrival or spotting Lord Kendall in the library this morning, Frances sat at the far end of the table and stared at the wall as if in a trance. Sir Reginald was on her right, her mother on her left, and her father sat on the other side of her mother. Frances had no appetite. The only thought that briefly floated through her mind was gratitude that Albina had produced some sort of paste that had reduced the puffiness of Frances’s eyes. They were still slightly red and bloodshot, but at least they weren’t bloated, making it obvious she’d spent the afternoon crying in her bedchamber.
Frances had forgiven the maid for her betrayal. After all, what difference did any of it make now? Her betrothal to Sir Reginald was soon to be announced.
Mama had insisted Frances wear her most costly gown tonight. It was one they’d purchased before the Season began, a light pink sheath with puffed sleeves, an empire waist, and lace around the neckline. No doubt Mama had paid for it with credit. Credit that Sir Reginald would be honoring, apparently. Frances could barely stand the thought. At Mama’s urging, Albina had created a ring of flowers for Frances’s hair. She’d rubbed her cheeks with a bright, happy-colored rogue. On the outside, Frances was all dressed up for the announcement of her betrothal, but dread clawed at her insides.
Sir Reginald was doing his best to keep her engaged in the tedious conversation, but tonight the most she could manage in reply was a grunt or an mmm hmmm to most anything he said. Of course, that cowardly horse’s arse, Kendall, hadn’t bothered to attend dinner. In fact, she had no idea if he was still at the house. Half of the table was gossiping about how they’d heard he’d left this afternoon in a coach bound for London. If that was true, good riddance.
Two courses had been served. Frances had been doing nothing more than pushing the food around on her plate until it was removed from her presence. She had every intention of treating the rest of the courses in a similar manner.
Course number three was watercress soup, normally something she enjoyed. She had been paying no attention whatsoever to the footmen who were serving until a familiar voice sounded in her ear. “Soup, my lady?”
She froze. She didn’t have to glance up to know it was him. Lucas. No, not Lucas, Kendall. Her breathing hitched. Her breaths came in short, anxious pants. She slowly lifted her gaze. Please God, let me be mistaken.
She was not that fortunate. It was him. What the devil was he doing here? Anger began to bubble through her veins.
“No, thank you,” she bit out. She smugly glanced around the table waiting for the first person who would recognize the ass. Yes, he had on livery and a powdered wig, but still.
It seemed like time had stopped. The table’s occupants were laughing and talking and eating and carrying on without the slightest bit of recognition. She glowered at Lucas. He shrugged almost imperceptibly and continued to the next diner, while Frances continued to glare at him as if her eyes could set him on fire.
What sort of sick game was he playing this time? Was this part of his idiotic bet? She glanced around at the other diners, silently urging first Sir Reginald, then her mother, then her father, to notice that the Earl of Kendall was traipsing around the table offering them soup. Should she say something? Should she point him out? It was as if she was trapped in a nightmare from which she couldn’t awaken. Had the entire world gone mad? What was wrong with everyone? How could the same man half of them had been swooning over earlier be completely invisible to them now? It made no—
Frances sucked in her breath. Wait a moment.
If he was the Earl of Kendall, why hadn’t any of them recognized him all the other nights he’d been serving dinner?
Disbelief and disgust swirled in her middle. But the truth was right in front of her. The people he was serving were so oblivious to servants they hadn’t even noticed him. They still didn’t.
Had that been part of the bet?
She glanced at him. He looked tired. Good. Oh, botheration. She shouldn’t have looked. He looked at her, too, which meant he saw her look at him. She immediately dropped her gaze to her plate, cursing softly under her breath.
Frances continued to ignore her food and give monosyllabic replies to the people sitting next to her until Lucas came around with the fourth course, a roasted duck.
“My lady?” he asked.
“No, thank you,” she intoned again, staring directly ahead. This was some sort of torture and she’d no idea what she’d done to deserve it. She kept hoping she would wake up from the nightmare, but it was only too real.
Lucas dropped a napkin onto the floor next to her chair and bent to retrieve it. The scent of his soap hit her nostrils. She froze and pressed her lips together. Why was he here? Why was he tormenting her like this? Why did his cologne still make her pulse quicken?