Son of a Duke (3 page)

Eleanora approached him carefully.
 

"Mr. Hawkins, I do believe you have expressed concern over the number of footmen with us this evening."
 

She kept her hands behind her back, tucked under the bow of her apron.
 
She felt the scratch of starch even through the fabric of her gloves.
 
She wondered for a moment what it would feel like to wear clothing of a more luxurious fabric like the gowns she had seen on the dancing women upstairs.
 
The thought was preposterous, and she quickly banished it to take care of the matter at hand.

Mr. Hawkins paused in his pacing, turning his sagging face toward her.
 
Every time he cast her a look of dismay, she thought
 
of the long face of a Basset hound and felt the corners of her mouth pull upward, which never helped the situation involving Hawkins.
 

"There are only eleven footmen, Miss Quinton.
 
Surely, we need an even dozen."
 

Eleanora nodded in sympathy.
 

"Yes, Mr. Hawkins, I can see where an even number would feel more solid and provide a sense of security, but Gregenden House is fortunate enough to say the best footmen that can be found in all of London are here tonight, and they are serving the guests above stairs now even as we speak.
 
But do you know what would make it a solid dozen servants above stairs ensuring the meal is as much of a success as the ball itself?"
 

She watched Hawkins peel himself out of his misery as if it were a physical thing that clung to him like a wet cloak on a dreary day.
 
It gave her such a start to watch it unfold, and she knew that she had him.
 

"You, Mr. Hawkins," she continued, "You would make a solid dozen servants and a perfect completion to the evening's meal."
 

Hawkins straightened, a noticeable change coming across his features.
 

"That would be a dozen, indeed, Miss," he said, scanning the room above her head.
 
What he was looking for, she had not a single idea, but it did not matter as long as he moved his body upstairs.
 

She turned quickly, snatching a tray from a footman's outstretched arms.
 
She shooed the young man away, pushing the tray into the Hawkins' ready arms.
 
He looked down at the tray as if it had magically appeared.
 

"You are our twelfth and most gifted footman, Mr. Hawkins.
 
Now, go up those stairs and make this a memorable occasion."
 

Her talks with Hawkins were starting to sound like the drivel found in ladies' novels, and she worried her mind would turn to philosophical mush.
 
But Hawkins only stared at her in no apparent sense of recognition before turning and moving up the stairs before her.
 
She waited until he had reached the top and disappeared through the door leading into the dining room before she turned round.
 

Cook watched her from the other side of the large table that took up much of the center of the kitchen.
 
The table was strewn with bits of mauled vegetables and scattered pieces of dough.
 
The older woman's red cheeks rounded on a smile.
 

"You get better at that every day, love," she said and moved away to retrieve bread from the ovens.

Eleanora relished the moment of resolving another issue but put aside her feelings to return to the matter at hand.
 
Guests who required attention and a lord and lady to serve.
 
But what would it feel like to have no one to please?
 
No one to serve?
 
Would it be as refreshing and exhilarating as Eleanora imagined?

She quickly looked over her shoulder, down the hall that led off the kitchens to a door at the very end of the corridor, hidden in the dark recess and just as quickly pushed the ridiculous thought away.

Returning to the ballroom, she found it just as she had left it.
 
Not that she had any doubt that anything would be amiss.
 
Hawkins was in his place, and supper could be served.

The grandfather clock in the hall chimed midnight.
 
One, two, three strokes of the bell so far.
 
The guests should start milling into the other room where the banquet table was set up.
 
A few had straggled in, but most were still here in the ballroom wanting to gossip a little more while their mouths were free of the ridiculously expensive food set out for them in the opposite room.
 

Eleanora looked to the footman across the floor guarding the doors to the buffet.
 
He shook his head once to the left.
 
Less than ten people had moved then.
 
Well.
 
She would have to make an announcement to get the rest moving, or they would never get them out of the house by dawn.
 

She stepped away from the pillar she had been pushed against as she had come back into the crowd and began to make her way to the orchestra in the far corner.
 
It was a crush as always, and various bodies stuffed into outrageously huge garments impeded her way.
 
She had said
Pardon me
more times now than she cared to count and suddenly did not feel like saying it any more.
 
She just started pushing as the rest were pushing back against her.
 
It really was the only way to move some people.
 

The grandfather clock had struck four more times now.
 
Seven down, five to go.
 
She had almost reached the orchestra.
 
The crowd was starting to lessen over here.
 
It being so close to the orchestra was probably the reason.
 
One cannot gossip with loud music pounding in one's ears.
 
She passed the Earl of Stryden, and he winked at her again.
 
Blasted man.
 
Why did he keep doing that?
 
She nodded politely back at him and thought once again of his reputation of seductive powers.
 

Seduced by a man as wickedly handsome as the earl?

She wondered again ever so briefly before her mind snapped away from the thought.

She reached the platform where the orchestra had been set up and turned to face the noisy crowd of the
ton's
most important peers.
 
She cleared her throat as the clock in the hall tolled its twelfth stroke.
 
She opened her mouth to get the crowd's attention.
 

Then a gunshot cracked through the air, and a body fell from the balcony above to the ballroom floor.
 

Eleanora closed her mouth, realizing she really should give Hawkins more credit for all his worrying.
 

CHAPTER TWO

Pandemonium.

This was what pandemonium must look like.

Ladies started dropping faster than rain, swooning into the nearest gentleman's arms, only said gentleman was not prepared for a lady to suddenly appear in his arms and was subsequently knocked into a potted fern, sending the lady, the fern and himself tumbling to the ground in the most undignified and colorful heap Eleanora had ever seen.

The ladies that did not instantly collapse at the sight of the very dead body in the middle of the dance floor felt the immediate need to scream with all the air they could push from their lungs.
 
Upon finishing their screeching, they ran for the nearest exit, which was usually on the other side of one of those humps of fabric, dirt, arms, legs, and potted fern.
 
The ladies never made it over the heaps and simply added themselves to it.
 
Some of the more stout gentlemen who had managed to catch the ladies that collapsed on them were standing in a state of complete stupidity having not a single, bloody clue what to do with an unconscious woman in their arms.
 
And in most cases, the gentleman did not even know the lady, and her being unconscious did not help matters at all.
 

Eleanora stood on the orchestra platform with her hands neatly tucked under the bow of her apron and watched everyone resort to sheer panic.
 
The members of the orchestra behind her had already escaped out the terrace doors, leaving them open to the cold, night wind that amazingly refreshed Eleanora as she waited for everyone to calm down enough for something useful to be done.

Ladies were coming to now, staring around with wide eyes, not remembering exactly how they had managed to get into such an awkward position.
 
And then, of course, they saw the body again and either swooned...again...or ran.
 
And until Eleanora saw it, she did not believe a woman could run that fast in a ball gown.
 
But Lady Dendrigeshire proved her not only wrong in the fact that a woman is very capable of running in a ball gown, but also that Lady Dendrigeshire could move all of her girth in such a timely fashion.
 
It really was quite astonishing.
 
Other ladies began following her and soon the doors to the outside hall were clogged with women, scrambling to get through the opening.
 
The men hung back, gesturing with their arms and opening and closing their mouths but really doing nothing at all.
     

And then a single lady turned around to see who was standing on the back of her gown when she noticed the open terrace doors.
 
The woman stopped and stared for a full minute before the significance of the open doors hit her.
 
And then she moved.
 
Her skirt ripped under whatever foot was holding it down as she threw herself at the open doors.

And thus into Eleanora.

The woman had moved too fast for Eleanora to have a chance.
 
But suddenly someone was grabbing her out of the way as the entire herd of hysterical women stampeded the terrace doors.
 
Whoever had grabbed her pulled her off the platform and over his shoulder, carrying her to the side of the melee to set her down by an overturned fern.
 
She watched as the entire ballroom emptied in less than a breath.
 
The entire room, moments before filled with so much noise she had not been able to hear her own heartbeat, was perfectly quiet and deadly still.

"Well, it was a good party, up until about the point where that poor bloke got shot."

Eleanora turned around to stare at the Earl of Stryden.
 
His cravat was crooked and his jacket wrinkled, his dark hair falling over his forehead.
 
Seductive powers, indeed.

"Thank you," Eleanora said.
 
"I might have been killed by the stampede."

"You are welcome, Miss Quinton."
 
He ran his fingers through his hair as if to push back the lock across his forehead.
 
It immediately returned, but he did not seem to notice.
 

Eleanora turned back to the wreckage in the ballroom.
 
Footmen and maids were starting to come out of their places of hiding, popping out from behind pillars and refreshment tables.
 
And there was Hawkins, emerging from the dining room, a tray of champagne in his hands, his face drawn, eyes wide.
 
And Eleanora knew that no amount of talking would get him to see the good side of the events of the evening.

She heard Lord Gregenden before she saw him.
 
He was at the far end of the room, being sick into someone's hat.
 
Lady Gregenden was lying on the floor at his feet, completely still and staring at the ceiling as if it were the most fascinating thing in the room.
 
Eleanora had been in the Gregenden's employ for nearly twelve years, and something this catastrophic had never occurred under her watch.
 
Would they sack her for this?
 
Surely, they would not.
 
It was not as if she had orchestrated this chaos nor could she be held responsible for it happening.
 
She thought of the small room below stairs, and a hand went unconsciously to her stomach.
 
She could not lose her post.
 
People depended on her, and she must make this right.
 
However one made a murder right.

She let out a sigh and jumped when the earl put his hand on her shoulder.
 
She turned slowly to look at him.

"I'll go get the authorities."

Eleanora nodded once before stopping herself.
 

"I am sure that is not necessary, my lord.
 
Hawkins will be pleased to handle that matter."
 

Stryden looked over his shoulder, and Eleanora followed his gaze to the distraught butler who still stood with the tray of champagne Eleanora had thrust in his arms only moments before.
 
He stood unmoving in the doorway as footmen gathered about him.
 
The footmen not moving because their leader was not moving.

And Eleanora acquiesced.
 

"Perhaps, it would be good of you to see to the matter, my lord."

The earl turned around and left before she said anything else, which left her with one ballroom and one dead body to clean up.
 
Looking back at Hawkins, she amended her thoughts with the unfortunate characteristic of having to do all of that on her own.
 

"Was this part of your plans for the evening, Miss Quinton?"
 

Eleanora turned to her side to see the Duchess of Lofton standing amidst fronds, champagne glasses and the remains of a lady's broken fan and another's glove.
 
A rather pretty lilac glove, Eleanora thought.