“She’s marrying Sir Reginald. She told me I’m an arrogant horse’s arse.”
Bell scratched behind one ear. “None of this sounds particularly promising, I agree. But where there is a will, there is also a way.”
“Not any more. I tried. I served dinner. I stood up on the bloody sideboard for Christ’s sake.”
“I heard about that, too. I did like that touch. I’ve no doubt it added an air of the theatre. By the by, my thanks for making my and Worth’s future more difficult. No doubt every guest in this house will be searching the servants’ quarters for noblemen now.”
“You’ll both be fine,” Lucas replied.
Bell blinked again. “How could you possibly know that?”
“For one thing, they’ll never suspect there’s more than one of us being this mad, and for another, you’re limited to Lord Copperpot’s bedchamber for the most part and Worth is out hiding in stables.”
Bell shrugged. “You do have a point.”
“I wish you luck, my friend. Between you and Worth, may the best man win.”
Resting his elbow on one of the arms of the chair, Bell propped his chin on his fist. “Never thought I’d see the day when I had to call you a quitter, Kendall.”
“It’s over,” Lucas’s voice rose. “The entire bloody dining room knows I was pretending to be a footman.”
“Not quit the bet, you dolt, I mean quit your attempt to win over Miss Wharton.”
Lucas grabbed a nearby pillow and hurled it toward Bell. “Damn it, Bell, get out of here and leave me in peace.”
The pillow fell to the floor short of his chair. Bell hadn’t flinched and he continued to blink at him. “I still say you should—”
“I should what?” Lucas’s voice shook with anger. “I’ve tried everything I can. You’re talking to the wrong person. Perhaps you should try speaking to Miss Wharton. She’s the one refusing to hear me out.” He grabbed a second pillow and pulled it over his head. “Now, good night!”
Chapter Thirty-Three
When the door to the library opened the next morning, Frances couldn’t keep her traitorous heart from wishing for just one moment that it was Lucas. It was wrong of her to have come to this room. This place held nothing but bad memories for her. But, as if her feet had a will of their own, they’d brought her directly here this morning. She’d pulled one of the chairs closer to the windows and was sitting, staring out into the gardens, her pink shawl wrapped over her shoulders. Dark thunder clouds roiled outside. A horrible storm was brewing.
The familiar creak of the door made her turn with a start, her heart thumping faster.
But it wasn’t Lucas.
Her pulse returned to its normal rhythm.
She blinked. In fact, it was the same valet who’d come looking for her to tell her her mother had turned her ankle. She eyed him with mistrust as he came to stand next to her.
He bowed to her. “Good morning, Miss Wharton. I thought I’d find you here.”
“Have you come to tell me my father has taken ill this time?” she prompted; her eyes still narrowed on the man.
“No. In fact, first, I would like to apologize for being dishonest with you the other night.”
“That’s big of you.” She lifted her chin. “The question is...why were you dishonest with me the other night?”
The valet straightened his shoulders. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am the Marquess of Bellingham, but I do hope you’ll keep that to yourself for the remainder of your stay.”
Her jaw dropped. “You’re a marquess?”
“Yes, but at present I am pretending to be a valet. Much like our friend Kendall was pretending to be a footman.”
Frances shook her head. Was she still in a nightmare? “Oh, now I see why you lied. You’re his friend.”
“It’s true. I was trying to get you to leave the area so Kendall could return to his room without you recognizing him.”
“Yes, I understand perfectly now,” she said sweetly. “And pardon me for saying so but you’re all quite mad.”
“Perhaps.” He shrugged. “Or perhaps we have our reasons.”
“Reasons to lie to people?” She crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a condemning glare.
He folded his hands behind his back. “There’s a funny thing about not knowing people’s motives. It tends to make one assume the worst.”
Her eyes shot daggers at him. “Are you seriously going to attempt to blame me for Lord Kendall’s deception?”
“Absolutely not,” Lord Bellingham replied. “But I am going to tell you a story.”
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t think I want—”
“Oh, come now, Miss Wharton, everyone loves a good story.” He lowered himself to the chair next to her. “And this one is particularly interesting.”
She wanted to hate this man, too, but there was something oddly compelling about him. It was as if he’d never met a stranger and knew exactly what to say in any situation. She still didn’t trust him, of course, but she had to admit, if only to herself, that she was interested in hearing his story.
Lord Bellingham stretched his long legs out in front of him and settled into the chair as if the tale would be a lengthy one. “Once upon a time,” he began, “there was a decent young man, who was honorable, kind, and noble.”
Frances watched him carefully, her eyes still narrowed. She assumed he was talking about Lucas, but she wasn’t entirely certain.
“This young man was from a fine family. He was the second son who’d spent the majority of his life in the Royal Navy,” Lord Bellingham continued.
Very well, he wasn’t talking about Lucas. Lucas was an earl, not a second son, and she’d never heard a word about him being in the Navy.
“The young man worked hard and rose in the ranks. He became a Commander in the English Royal Fleet in the amount of time it takes most young men to become a sub-lieutenant.”
She raised her brows. A high-ranking officer? He couldn’t possibly be speaking of Lucas. Could he?
“As young men do, this particular young man fell in love with a beautiful young lady and he asked for her hand in marriage.”
Frances frowned. Surely, he was not speaking about Lucas. Lucas had never told her he’d been engaged to be married. Although Lucas had also never told her he was pretending to be a footman either, if one wanted to be precise about it.
“The wedding was set for Spring and most of the ton was invited. The young man was scheduled to return from the Navy on leave a fortnight before the wedding.”
“Are we speaking about you, Lord Bellingham?” she couldn’t stop herself from asking.
Instead of answering her, he merely cleared his throat. “On the night before he was to travel home for the wedding, the young man received a letter from his beloved.”
Frances found herself scooting toward the edge of her seat, leaning toward Lord Bellingham. “What happened?”
“The letter informed the young man that his betrothed had received a better offer, one from a man who was a first son, a baron.”