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She turned her thoughts to the ball’s theme. Hmm. What would be a good draw this season? A fête of flowers, a rite of spring, Arabian nights? She discarded them as already having been done or too ostentatious in a time of mourning for Princess Augusta.

She continued thinking. What was on everyone’s mind?

The war.

That was a depressing thought. But wait, why not turn it around? A patriotic ball. Decorate the drawing room with the colors of various regiments. Celebrate some of the Peninsular victories. Invite the Horse Guards and whichever other officers were on leave.

It would certainly draw everyone. A sort of morale boost.

And with so many military figures in her ballroom, who was to say what bits of information she might glean?

She smiled at Kimberley. “I have an idea for the theme . . .”

The next afternoon, Céline had a hard time sitting for her portrait. Her mind flitted from one thing to another—from details for the upcoming dinner party to the many tasks to be done for Kimberley’s ball.

She half-regretted her impulsive gesture to host the ball. But she quickly shook away any qualms, reminding herself sternly of the reasons. She would not have the poor girl subjected to the same fate she had been forced to endure.

“My lady, if you could erase the scowl from your pretty features and look this way, please.”

She smiled at the artist, one of the most renowned in the country. “Forgive me, Mr. Lawrence.”

“You are too beautiful a lady to appear to all posterity as if you were forever having the blue devils.”

“Indeed not.” She straightened her shoulders, attempted to lighten
her features, and glanced in the direction the portraitist indicated, wondering why she had agreed to this portrait. Perhaps because in a couple of years she would be thirty.

A soft knock interrupted the depressing thought.

Trying not to move from her pose, she called, “Enter.”

“Excuse me, my lady, you rang for me.”

At the sound of MacKinnon’s voice, she turned just enough to face him. “Yes. Please, don’t stand there in the doorway, come in.”

His glance shifted to the painter. “I can return at a better time. I don’t wish to disturb you.”

She waved aside his concerns. “Nonsense. Mr. Lawrence can continue working as we talk.” She motioned to the silver salver her butler carried in one hand. “Good, you brought my visitors’ cards. I wish to go over them with you. Could you be so kind as to read the names for me?” She had only just returned half an hour ago from her own morning visits and needed to continue familiarizing her new butler with those visitors for whom she was in and those to whom she was unavailable.

“Certainly.” He picked up the first card. “Lord Dunston.”

She wrinkled her nose. “When did he call?”

“Shortly after noon. It was his second visit today.”

She sighed. “Very well. If he calls again, show him up.” Prosy old bore.

He picked up the next card. “Countess Wexham and her daughter.”

“Oh, I am sorry I missed them. I’m sure they are here to discuss the ball.” At the lift of his dark eyebrow, she added, “I have decided to hold a ball here in Lady Kimberley’s honor.” Her butler really did have fine eyebrows, she noted as she spoke—straight and heavy and very dark. They set off his light-colored eyes to distinction, making them appear all the more deep set.

She tilted her head, unmindful of the portraitist’s impatient throat-clearing. “Do you think you are up to a ball, Mr. MacKinnon?”

Her butler inclined his head a fraction. “I shall endeavor to do my best.”

He certainly had all the imperturbability of a butler in the making. And yet . . . there was something behind that steady regard. “That is all I can ask. In any case, I shall be discussing it further with you and Mrs. Finlay.”

“Very good, my lady.” He read another card. “Mrs. Morrison. She called about an hour ago.”

“I’m in for her.”

“Mr. Smythe-Wiley and his sisters.”

“No,” she said promptly.

“Miss Jamieson.”

“Yes.”

“Lord Marley.”

“Hmm . . .” She pursed her lips, considering. “Yes.”

He set the last card back down. “Those are the individuals who called when you were out.”

“Good, that takes care of the first lot for today. You shall have to bring the other cards to my sitting room as visitors arrive.” Her lips curled upward. “Don’t worry, soon enough you’ll know who are the dead bores, who
must
be received, and those I take pleasure in receiving.” She couldn’t help a laugh. “The latter list is quite short, so you shall have no problems with that one.”

His own lips quirked upward at one corner, but then he quickly cleared his throat, erasing all amusement from his features. “Yes, my lady.”

Valentine’s words drifted into her thoughts. She could well understand how her abigail had found this man’s looks and understated charms irresistible. “I shall be going out again, so please tell the coachman to have the phaeton ready at five.”

“Yes, my lady.” Although the words were spoken in a calm way that revealed nothing, the butler’s gaze held an intensity that not only intrigued her—but drew her.

She tore her gaze away with effort, looking instead to her portraitist. He was tapping his paintbrush against his palette. “I must resume
my pose for the long-suffering Mr. Lawrence. He is much sought after, and I mustn’t waste his time.”

MacKinnon took a step back and bowed. “I beg your pardon, my lady.”

Before she could make any reply, he turned away, leaving her feeling as if something unfinished lay between them.

5

T
he next morning, Rees left his room and headed down the basement corridor to the rear of the house for breakfast. He entered the servants’ dining room adjacent to the kitchen to hear Valentine speaking to one of the chambermaids. “You zink you can get in her ladyship’s good graces with zis?”

The lady’s maid jabbed her finger in the chambermaid’s face. Rees paused on the threshold, observing the two, who had not heard him come in.

“You had better watch yourself, you stupid girl, or you’ll be scrubbing ze scullery floor—”

Rees coughed, hastening forward. “What has Miss—Virginia,” he remembered in time, “done to cause you displeasure?” He tried to look his frostiest as he eyed the Frenchwoman.

Valentine glared at him. “This slattern who calls herself a parlor maid has made a mess of her ladyship’s belongings. I am absent for an evening, and she cannot serve her ladyship without leaving everything in disarray.”

He held up his hand to silence her and turned to the girl, who looked hardly more than seventeen, her eyes large with fright. “What is it that you have—ahem—supposedly done?”

“Supposedly done!” Valentine’s dark eyes flashed at him. “There
is no supposed about it. She is a clumsy, ignorant—” Valentine lapsed into a string of French, ending with the clear
“cochon!”
Pig.

Rees could not let on that he understood her insults. “That is enough, Valentine.” He gave the other maid his attention once again. “Virginia, please continue.” He waited, his hand still held up to keep the other woman silent. Valentine only fumed at him, her arms crossed.

“If you please, Mr. MacKinnon . . . I’ve done nothing wrong.” The young woman was near tears. Casting fearful glances at Valentine, she continued at Rees’s nod. “Mlle. Valentine accused m-me of l-leaving a mess in her ladyship’s room the night h-her ladyship came home early, but, sir, Lady Wexham insisted I leave her things as they were. I-I tried to tidy up, sir, honestly I did, but she wished only for me to leave. She said that Valentine would take care of things in the morning—”

Valentine harrumphed. “I’m sure ze countess did not mean for you to rummage about in her armoire and wrinkle her gowns when she told you to leave her things.”

Rees swallowed, realizing exactly who had left the disorder. “Ahem. Did you leave her armoire in the state Valentine describes?”

Virginia shook her head vigorously. “Oh no, sir, indeed I did not. Her ladyship didn’t even permit me to open it.”

“Very well.”

“Is zat all you can say!” Valentine spat at him. “You will let her get away with zis because she is a silly young thing—”

Before she began to hurl insults at him, he pulled himself up, towering over her. “That is enough! If Virginia says she did not do what you accuse her of, that is final. You will have to see to the tidying up yourself.”

“How—how dare you!”

“Because I am butler in this household. If you do not like that fact, we will go to Lady Wexham and ask for her account. If she did indeed tell Virginia not to open the armoires, then she did not.” He knew full well Valentine was not going to want to go to the countess. But he didn’t like having to make more an enemy of her than he already had.

He had not been in the household more than a day when she had sought him out in a dim passageway of the house and begun to flirt with him. The last thing he needed was an entanglement with a French lady’s maid.

Valentine continued eyeing him with malevolence in her dark eyes. She was not an unattractive woman, slim, of medium height, with dark hair and eyes. He judged her to be around his own age, thirty or so. But he found nothing attractive in her disdainful attitude.

It had crossed his mind that to enter into a flirtation with her would possibly help him ferret out information about the countess. Didn’t they say that servants were privy to most things in a household—and a trusted lady’s maid to her mistress’s most guarded secrets?

But Rees had drawn the line at going to those lengths. If there were secrets to be discovered, he wasn’t going to dally with a maid to uncover them. The fact that she, too, was French meant that she could very well be working with the countess.

He nodded in a clipped fashion to the women. “Very well, be about your business, the two of you.” One benefit of being butler was that his word was law.

Valentine sniffed and flounced away. Virginia smiled gratefully and bobbed a curtsy before backing away. “Thank you, sir. Honestly, I didn’t do anything but what I was supposed to—”

He smiled in reassurance. “It’s all right. I’m sure there is a logical explanation for it all.”
Which none of you will ever discover.

Mrs. Finlay entered from the kitchen, ushering them to the table. “Breakfast is served.”

With a gesture to Virginia to precede him, Rees made his way to the head of the long table. It was set with a white cloth and a place for each of the servants. The two scullery maids were scurrying from kitchen to table with steaming dishes.

The footmen, other maids, housekeeper, and outdoor staff found their places and stood behind their chairs, waiting for his appearance before taking their seats. It had been both humbling and daunting to realize his
position as butler. He was only a servant above stairs. An ineffaceable line of demarcation existed between him and the world of his employer.

But below stairs he was king, all of the other servants deferring to him, even Mrs. Finlay, though as housekeeper she was almost his equal, the chatelaine key ring at her waist marking her position. Everyone respected Rees’s word . . . except the two French servants, Valentine and the cook, Gaspard, who insisted on being called a chef.

“Good morning,” Rees greeted the servants around the table, then with a nod to them all, he signaled his permission for them to be seated. In the few days he’d had to receive his training from Mr. Rumford, the old butler had informed Rees on the precise hierarchy that governed this large household.

Rees let his gaze wander over the faces gazing back at him, waiting for him to bless the food so they could begin to eat. The chef sat to his immediate right, Valentine to his left, Mrs. Finlay at the foot of the table. Ranged down the length of the table were the other servants in order of importance and seniority. A dozen besides himself, footmen, parlor maids, kitchen maids, coachman, groom.

When the scullery maids had brought in the last dishes, they, too, took their places at the very end of the table.

Rees bowed his head. “Bless, O Father, thy gifts to our use and us to thy service, for Christ’s sake. Amen.”

The servants joined him in the amen then immediately unfolded their napkins and began passing plates. He was in charge of dishing out the main servings, a mixture of French and English-style fare, so he took up the plates as they were handed to him and spooned out the fluffy eggs, slices of fried ham, sautéed mushrooms, and cold pâtés. Baskets of bread were passed amongst the servants.

Gaspard snapped open his own napkin and took the first plate Rees filled. With a look of disdain from under his heavy black eyebrows and nary a “
merci
,” he bent over his plate and began to eat.

One of the scullery maids soon got up and began pouring tea or coffee for everyone else.

Rees compared this household of servants to those at his mother’s house. These days his mother and sister relied on only a cook and a woman of all work. When his father had been alive and they’d lived in the prosperous port city of Bristol, there had been a couple of additional servants. But he’d never lived in a household with so many to do for so few.

Taking his first forkful, Rees glanced at the chef. Gaspard was a gifted cook, he had to concede. He was perhaps in his midforties with lank black hair and a pale, almost sickly complexion. Perhaps he spent too much time at his stove and very little out of doors.

Rees only half paid attention to the servants’ talk around him as he pondered his next move in this game of stealth he was embarked upon. He let his gaze roam slowly over the members of the staff. He’d only searched Lady Wexham’s rooms—and not even finished those. Perhaps he should go through the two footmen’s. Not that he suspected them of anything. Tom and William, strapping young men of equal height and build, were thoroughly British, and if by some stretch of the imagination he could conceive of their behaving traitorously, they weren’t smart enough. They were the ones he worked closest with and he’d had their measure in the short time he’d been in the household.