As he stood up, his mouth brushed past her ear. “Meet me in the blue salon after dinner. I must speak with you.”
She kept her gaze fastened on her plate. “Never,” she replied in a sweet whisper.
He’d made his point. As a servant, he was completely unseen by the same people who would fall at his feet if he were sitting next to them dressed in his regular clothing. But if that were the point he was trying to make, why was he in favor of the Employment Bill, for heaven’s sake. The entire thing was confusing, but she refused to play into his game.
The fifth course seemed to arrive much more quickly, and Frances was beginning to feel as if she had an imminent appointment with the hangman’s noose. Her betrothal announcement was impending and the blackguard who’d tricked her into falling in love with him under false pretenses was making her life hell.
Fine. She could admit it to herself. She had fallen in love with Lucas. That’s why he’d been able to hurt her as much as he had. She’d even admitted it to him, which made her ill to think about now. What an ignorant emotion love was. She’d thought she’d found someone she could talk to, someone with whom she could share her thoughts, someone who respected her. Instead she’d found a charlatan who’d used her feelings as an archery target.
The sweetmeats Lucas brought around next didn’t tempt her. And when he lowered his head to fill her wine glass and said, “Please meet me,” she couldn’t help the seething anger in her reply, “Go to hell.”
Nearly an hour later, Frances had long ago given up the hope that any of the others at the dining table were going to notice that the Earl of Kendall had been serving them all night. She steadily drank from her wine glass and pointedly glared at the one person she knew was in on this ludicrous game. Lord Clayton met her gaze every so often before hastily glancing away and gulping more wine from his own glass. The man was obviously guilty over his part in Lord Kendall’s ruse. Good. No doubt Clayton was in on the bet, too. He had to be.
At least Lucas had stopped asking her to meet him after his third failed attempt. Though he continued to serve the table inconspicuously.
The dessert plates were being cleared when Sir Reginald finally stood and clinked his fork against his wine glass.
“I would like to call for a toast,” the knight intoned as the table quieted down. Sir Reginald was wearing a bright-blue jacket and matching pantaloons. His white shirt boasted a riot of lace around the throat and a similar amount of lace flopped at his wrist as he lifted his glass aloft. Frances couldn’t help but think he looked exactly like a peacock.
Frances forced herself to swallow the dread and panic that rose in her throat, threatening to strangle her. She met her mother’s gaze. Mama’s gray eyes were wide and feverish. She smiled encouragingly. Frances couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her mother so pleased. Too bad it was at Frances’s expense.
She tried to catch her father’s gaze, but he was staring at his lap, busily folding his napkin in one direction, then the other. She’d barely said two words to him since he’d arrived. If her father felt guilt over forcing his daughter into this situation, he certainly didn’t intend to acknowledge it.
Frances attempted to pin a smile on her face, but the best she could muster was a blank stare. She lifted her glass along with the others as Sir Reginald continued to speak.
“Tonight, my friends, I’d like to share some happy news.”
The table rang out with cheers and “hear, hears” as everyone watched Sir Reginald, clearly interested in what he was about to say.
Frances couldn’t help but glance at Lucas. He stood perfectly straight with his back to the wall next to the sideboard, his hands folded behind him. His eyes locked with hers momentarily. She darted her gaze away as if burned and, taking another sip of wine, did her best to concentrate on Sir Reginald’s speech.
“I would like to announce that I am engaged to be married,” Sir Reginald continued, a lop-sided grin on his face.
Surprised conjectures reverberated throughout the room.
Frances sipped her wine more quickly.
“I know. I know,” the knight continued. “Many of you were quite convinced that I was a confirmed bachelor. And I suppose I was, for a bit. But someone with my breeding, title, and fortune ought not to go to waste, wouldn’t you agree?”
Laughs and claps bounced about the room while Sir Reginald afforded them all with a self-satisfied smirk. “Therefore,” he continued, clutching his wine glass in one hand and his lapel in the other, “I am beyond pleased to inform you all that I have asked for a special lady’s hand and she has graciously accepted.”
Frances nearly spit her wine. What was he talking about? He hadn’t asked her, and she’d never accepted. It had been nothing more than a business arrangement with her parents.
“I am the luckiest man in the kingdom tonight and I dare say she is the luckiest lady.” Sir Reginald gave the crowd a sly grin.
Frances had to force herself not to wince. Sir Reginald was really spreading the jam on the toast, wasn’t he? As far as she was concerned, she was the exact opposite of the luckiest lady in the kingdom. She stared straight ahead, but she could feel the knight’s eyes on her, beaming at her. He might not have said her name yet, but it had to be obvious to the entire table that she was his betrothed. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze. He clearly intended to draw this out for both affect and attention.
Frances’s gaze darted to Lady Julianna Montgomery who sat near the center of the table with her handsome fiancé who’d also just arrived. Lady Julianna’s sympathetic look made tears sting the backs of Frances’s eyes. She tried to manage a smile to reassure the kind woman, but the best she could muster was a resigned nod.
“A toast to the future Lady Francis!” Sir Reginald finally finished, raising his wine glass even higher. “Miss Fra—”
“Stop!”
Frances’s head snapped up and her eyes went big as dinner plates. A collective gasp went up around the room.
Lucas had stepped up on the chair next to the sideboard. “Sir Reginald, I bid you to stop.”
The room fell silent. From the chair, Lucas stepped atop the sideboard and stood towering over the dining room, still dressed in his footman’s livery, powdered wig and all the rest.
“Dear me, he’s going to send me to my grave,” Mama huffed in Frances’s ear, already fanning herself with her napkin.
Frances glanced at her mother. The poor woman was the color of a ripe rutabaga.
“What is the meaning of this?” Sir Reginald demanded. He turned to Lord Clayton. “My lord, I demand you do something about your impertinent footman.”
“I am no footman,” Lucas pronounced, lifting his chin. “I am the Earl of Kendall.” He ripped off his wig and tossed it into the soup tureen near his feet.
Screams and shrieks went up around the room and one of the young ladies fell out of her chair in a dead faint. Two of the other footmen rushed forward to carry her away.
The rest of the diners stared in fascinated horror as Lucas shed his livery jacket and stood there clad in his waistcoat, white shirt, and breeches.
“By God, it is Kendall!” one of the gentlemen shouted.