Chapter 4

The next morning, James cursed the success of his plan to infiltrate the Crompton household. He had been cleaning lamps in this tiny workroom since breakfast. The messy task left his hands black with ash and oil, and he’d been forced to don an apron to protect his footman’s uniform. Yet still he wasn’t finished.

He had served endless rounds of drinks in the ballroom until the wee hours. The head footman, a slave master by the name of Godwin, had allowed the staff no extra sleep. At dawn, James had been up gathering all the soiled glassware from the formal chambers on the first floor. Then he had been assigned the task of tending the oil lamps. Another footman had fetched dozens from all over the house. They had been brought to this dank cellar room so that the mess of refilling the kerosene and trimming the wicks wouldn’t disturb the family.

Scowling, he polished a brass lamp with a mixture of oil and emery powder. It had taken a handsome bribe to convince the previous footman to give up his position so that James could apply for the post. Now he wondered if it had been worthwhile. He had envisioned having endless opportunities to search the house during the performance of his duties.

But things hadn’t worked out according to plan. If he wasn’t cleaning the lamps or the silver, he was running errands or standing duty at the front door. He had not yet had the freedom to go around the house, including the office used by George Crompton.

James hadn’t even had a close look at his quarry yet. At the ball, George and Edith had been surrounded by guests. The only family member James had met face to face had been Miss Blythe Crompton.

He rubbed at a stubborn bit of tarnish on the base of the lamp. What the devil had possessed him to follow her to that deserted sitting room? He had risked ruining his masquerade by acting more like a gentleman than a servant. He was supposed to be inconspicuous, an anonymous footman unnoticed by the family.

But the hurt in those expressive hazel eyes had caught him off guard. He had expected a wealthy heiress like Blythe Crompton to be a frivolous feather-brain. He’d amended that image to cunning social climber after watching her dance and flirt with a succession of titled men, including the Duke of Savoy, a man who was old enough to be her father. It disgusted James to see that she was using her rich dowry to purchase a titled husband.

Yet she hadn’t been impervious to Lady Davina’s insult. Miss Blythe Crompton had continued to smile although her eyes had revealed a depth of feeling that defied any shallow label he’d assigned her. She had been distraught enough to leave the ballroom and seek a secluded spot in which to give vent to her emotions.

He grinned in spite of himself. How embarrassed she’d been to realize he’d observed her little tirade. It was a miracle she hadn’t sacked him on the spot. Instead, she’d actually seemed amenable to conversing with him. There had been surprisingly little haughtiness to her demeanor, and he didn’t know quite what to make of that.

Carefully pouring oil into the well of the lamp, James mulled over the prospect of altering his investigation. It might prove useful to ingratiate himself with Miss Crompton. She could be privy to information that would prove her parents to be imposters.

God knew, she might even be a party to their ruse. A girl whose family owed its wealth to trade would do anything for the chance to wed into the rarified world of the aristocracy.

And if he was wrong about her? He wouldn’t allow himself to be troubled by the possibility. If George Crompton had absconded with the inheritance that rightfully belonged to James, then justice must be done.

“’Ello, James.”

The Cockney voice came from behind him. He swung around to see a maidservant sauntering through the doorway of the butler’s pantry. A few wisps of coal-black hair escaped the white mobcap on her head. Despite the drab gray gown buttoned to her throat, she managed to convey an impression of lush femininity.

He stifled a groan. From the moment he’d been introduced to the staff in the basement kitchen two days ago, Meg had been watching him with predatory brown eyes. James had given her no encouragement, not that it had made any difference.

He schooled his features into a bland expression. “Yes?”

Meg strolled toward him. “I come to bring ye a message.”

“What is it?”

She pretended to examine his handiwork. “My, ye’ve done a fine job. I like a man ’oo’s good wid ’is ’ands.”

Her bosom brushed his upper arm. Annoyed, James stepped back to place the newly refurbished lamp on the table with the others. A high standard of behavior was expected of the staff. The slightest infraction could result in immediate dismissal. James had no intention of being tossed out on the street before he had unmasked the Cromptons.

He wiped his hands on a rag. “What is the message?”

She sidled closer. “Ye’re a fine gent, ye are. Where did ye learn yer fancy manners?”

“I’ve no time for idle chit-chat. Now, answer my question.”

Meg pursed her lips in a pout. “There’s a parcel come for Miss Crompton. Ye’re to deliver it to ’er above stairs.”

The news galvanized James. “You should have said so at once.”

He went to wash his slimy hands in a basin of water. A sliver of cheap soap did little to clean the black oily tarnish from beneath his fingernails, but he scrubbed hard, driven by the prospect of seeing Miss Crompton again.

No, he was merely grateful for the chance to escape the confines of the butler’s pantry. Having an excuse to roam the house might help him further his investigation.

Meg had flounced out of the room, apparently discouraged by his lack of interest in her. So much the better. He needed no distractions from his purpose. This might be his chance to find a way to discredit the Cromptons and claim their ill-gained wealth for himself.

*   *   *

“Lady Davina has the power to ruin everything,” Edith Crompton said. “That is why you must make a concentrated effort to befriend her.”

Seated at the dressing table, Blythe frowned at her mother’s reflection in the oval mirror. In a gown of olive-green muslin, her russet hair piled atop her head, Mama looked more wide awake than anyone ought after staying up until nearly dawn.

And certainly more wide-awake than Blythe felt herself.

She had lain in bed, her thoughts restless, until the first fingers of sunlight had crept into her bedchamber. Her mind had been fraught with memories of the ball, the squabble with Lady Davina, and even that notable interlude with James, the footman. When she’d finally slept, her dreams had been unsettling. Only a few minutes ago she’d arisen feeling out of sorts and uncharacteristically irritable.

And now she faced this inquisition from her mother, who had pried out of Blythe the truth about what Lady Davina had said.

“Must we continue to speak of this right now?” Blythe asked, picking up a silver brush and running it through her unbound hair. “I haven’t even had my breakfast yet.”

Mrs. Crompton glided to the window and reached for the cord to draw back the draperies. “Perhaps the sunlight will revive you.”

“Mama, please. I’ve a slight headache.”

Leaving the curtains closed, her mother hurried to touch Blythe’s brow. “No fever. I’m sure you’ll feel better once your tray arrives. Now, do reassure me that you understand my concern about Lady Davina.”

“I understand that she despises me.” Blythe twirled a lock of hair around her index finger. How could she explain her sudden reluctance to pursue the duke? It was far more than the incident with Lady Davina. Blythe couldn’t forget the involuntary attraction she’d felt for James. Nothing like that had happened with His Grace. Yet how wonderful it would be to be courted by a gentleman who could arouse such a thrill in her. “Mama, I’ve been thinking that perhaps I shouldn’t wed the Duke of Savoy, after all.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You allowed Lindsey to marry an earl and Portia a viscount. Who am I to aim higher than them?”

Edith Crompton frowned. “Don’t be absurd. You’re different from your sisters. You’ve always been more appreciative of all that society has to offer.”

“But I told you, Lady Davina insulted me—and you and Papa as well.” Blythe mimicked the hateful words that were branded into her memory. “‘I would never permit my father to marry so vastly far beneath him.’”

Her skirts rustling, Mama bent down to hug Blythe. Her lilac scent wafted over Blythe and their eyes met in the looking glass. “I know what she said is awful, darling, but you mustn’t let Lady Davina discourage you. Remember, her mother died only last summer. It’s understandable for her to be possessive of His Grace. Can you not find it in your heart to forgive her?”

A natural tendency toward kindness rose to the fore of Blythe’s emotions. She knew how protective she herself would be of her own father in such a circumstance. Nevertheless, she resisted being maneuvered by her mother.

“That doesn’t excuse her rudeness.”

“You’re quite right. However, people will make inconsiderate remarks from time to time. That is merely the way society functions. You cannot allow it to stop you from achieving your dream.”

“But … what about love?” Blythe tried to fathom the soul-deep yearning inside herself that the meeting with James had somehow ignited. “What if I am not in love with the duke?”

Her mother laughed. “You’ve only just met him, darling. Love will come in time, never fear.”

Would it? Blythe fervently hoped so. Having witnessed the closeness of her sisters with their husbands, she couldn’t deny a longing to find such happiness for herself.

Straightening up, Mama patted Blythe’s shoulder. “As for Lady Davina, she doesn’t yet realize how wonderful a friend you can be. No doubt it was a shock for her to see how perfect you looked on the duke’s arm. You were so very beautiful last night. Like a true duchess.”

Had James, the footman, found her beautiful?

Blythe had a vivid memory of his tall, shadowy form entering the sitting room the previous night. Their hands had brushed when he’d given her the glass of champagne. Even now, something stirred deep inside her, but she refused to examine it. He was a servant and she mustn’t think about him that way.

Better she should relish her happiness when she’d danced with the Duke of Savoy. Better she should savor the pleasurable memory of how everyone had gazed admiringly at her, how they had stepped aside and shown her deference as she’d passed. That was what she wanted—wasn’t it? To be accepted wholeheartedly by all of society.

And if she could find love, too, then her life would be complete.

A knock sounded and the door opened. A stout maid carrying a breakfast tray entered the bedchamber. She bobbed a curtsy and went to place the tray on a round table by the window.

Blythe rose from the dressing table. “Thank you, Nan,” she told the maid, who scurried over to the bed to straighten the linens. “Mama, would you care for a cup of tea?”

Edith Crompton shook her head. “I’ve already had my share at breakfast with your father. By the by, he was extremely pleased that you had danced with His Grace.”

Blythe glanced up in surprise. “Papa said that?”

“Yes. Your father believes that a marriage between you and the duke would be an absolutely brilliant match.”

As she poured herself a steaming cup of tea, Blythe felt a twinge of dismay. When it came to society, Mama had always been the ambitious one. She never seemed satisfied with their wealth, their fine home, their invitations to the best parties. She’d pushed all three of her daughters to marry dukes, although Portia and Lindsey had had other ideas.

Papa had left all the match-making to her mother. He was busy with his shipping business, yet whenever Blythe entered his office, he would always push aside his work and chat with her. He had never asked anything of her other than affection. Until now.

Now he wanted her to marry the Duke of Savoy.

Blythe added a lump of sugar to her tea. Well then, so be it, she would make her dear Papa happy by pursuing a betrothal to the duke. Surely all of the doubts she’d awakened with this morning were just a temporary fit of the doldrums. And as Mama had said, love would come in time.

“It would be marvelous to be a duchess,” Blythe said slowly. “No one would ever dare to snub any of us ever again. I would have my choice of invitations, I’d lead the way into dinner, and I’d even be invited to hobnob with royalty.”

“Indeed you would,” her mother said approvingly. “I shall set my mind to the task of finding a way to win over Lady Davina. Nothing is impossible when one is determined.”

While her mother paced, deep in thought, Blythe bent over the tray to uncover a dish of buttered toast. The delicious aroma caused her stomach to growl. But when she picked up a piece, it was soggy.

“Cold toast again. When I am Duchess of Savoy, I shall insist—”

Something made her look up. A footman stood in the open doorway—the door that Nan had left open. He was gazing straight at Blythe.

Her heart lurched. James.