Bell frowned. “I thought you already met with him.”
“I did, but I haven’t yet had a chance to tell you what he said.”
“Do tell,” Worth replied, settling himself deeper into the window ledge.
“The bastard tried to blackmail me,” Lucas began, then he spent the next few minutes recounting his meeting with Sir Reginald.
When he was through, Clayton winced and shook his head. “It’s not particularly well done of him, but there’s a fine line between blackmail and political negotiations.”
“Is that what you call it?” Worth asked, arching a dark brow.
“I call it what it bloody well is…blackmail,” Bell said, anger seeping from his tone.
“Perhaps,” Clayton allowed, “But you may want to consider Sir Reginald’s connection to the prince.”
“What does the bloody prince have to do with it?” Worth replied, crossing his arms over his chest.
Clayton took a deep breath and addressed his remarks to Lucas. “Look, you obviously don’t want to cater to his disreputable intentions, Kendall, but that doesn’t mean you still can’t play the game. Tell Sir Reginald you’ve decided to bow out of this particular match. He can vote on the bill any way he sees fit and may the Chancellor of the Duchy go to the best man. That way, you won’t burn any bridges.”
“Spoken like a true politician,” Worth said with a dramatic eye roll.
“What’s your advice, Worth,” Bell asked next, “given that you’re the subject of this particular attempt at blackmail?”
Worth contemplated his own countenance in the small looking glass on the wall opposite the window for a moment and straightened his cravat before he spoke. “I say you inform Sir Reginald that I will indeed vote for him for the chancellor role.”
“Really?” Bell’s brows shot up.
“Of course,” Worth replied. “Tell him that, Kendall, then I’ll maneuver to get the duchy vote moved after the Employment Bill vote, and by the time the bastard realizes he’d been lied to, it will be too late.” He gave them all a triumphant smile.
“Spoken like a man who doesn’t care how many enemies he makes,” Clayton retorted, shaking his head.
Bell scratched his chin. “No one’s asked me, but for what it’s worth, I say you tell Sir Reginald he can go straight to hell.”
“That’s hardly helpful,” Clayton replied.
“That’s why you’re the best politician in the room, Clayton,” Worth pointed out with a grin.
Lucas leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He shook his head, staring at the wooden floorboards. “That bastard. I can hardly stand to look at him, let alone speak to him again.”
“What do you plan to say to him tomorrow, Kendall?” Clayton prompted.
Lucas lifted his head and met his friend’s gaze. “I think I know what I must do. I’ll tell you all after I meet with him.”
“Well, then,” Bell asked, leaning back upon his wrists. “If you’re settled on your course of action regarding Sir Reginald, what is your course of action regarding Miss Wharton?”
Lucas expelled a deep breath. “Regarding Miss Wharton, I have one last lie to tell.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Just one more day. That’s what Lucas promised himself when he made his way to the library the next morning. He intended to tell Frances that he had to leave. Lucas the footman’s father was ailing in Northumberland. It would be the final lie he told her, and it already sat like a dead weight upon his conscience.
He would leave that afternoon, immediately following his second meeting with Sir Reginald. Leaving was the right thing to do. Lucas was certain of it. He needed time and space. Time to make sense of the last several days and to decide upon the most honorable way to tell Frances the truth without upsetting her more than he had to, and space to stop making additional mistakes such as kissing her again. He would go to his own estate in Kent and think through all of it before returning to London in autumn for the vote in Parliament and his reckoning with Frances. At this point, he looked forward to neither.
He’d promised Frances that he’d meet her today. That promise and his disgust at the thought of leaving her without saying good-bye were the only two things that made him keep walking toward the library.
He’d already written the note to Frances from Kendall telling her he couldn’t meet with her. He’d spent the night on the fourth floor in case she decided to wait outside his room again. He would ask James to ensure she received the note the moment his coach pulled away from Clayton’s drive.
Lucas was risking something, meeting her today. Her maid interrupting them yesterday had been nothing if not a reminder of the dangerous game he was playing. If the young woman had only walked in a moment sooner, she might well have caught them kissing. As it was, she probably suspected something similar had happened. Lucas had been unable to sleep last night playing the scenario through his head.
What would have happened had Albina caught them in an embrace? They could have asked her not to tell anyone, but could they trust her? The most likely scenario would be that a scandal would result, and Frances’s reputation would be ruined. If she was caught kissing a footman, no man in the ton would have her. Not even that snake, Sir Reginald.
Of course, Lucas could offer her the protection of his name and marry her, but telling her his name would be the problem. She detested who he really was. That would hardly be the answer to such a debacle.
He should have stopped the kiss, shouldn’t have allowed it in the first place. He’d come close to resisting her, but in the end, the feel of her soft warm body pressed against his and her lips insistent and urging had been his undoing. He wanted her, he always had, and she felt right in his arms, which made the fact that he had to leave her even more loathsome.
When Lucas entered the library, the room was empty. Alarm tingled through his veins. Had Albina seen something after all? Had she told Frances’s mother?
In keeping with his usual routine, he set the logs next to the fireplace, removed his coat, and tossed the wood onto the pile.
Perhaps she was merely running late. Perhaps she’d decided to wait outside Lord Kendall’s room again. He expelled his breath. At least Lucas wasn’t in the room.
He finished with the logs, replaced his coat, and wandered over toward the table where she should be. He slid his hands into his pockets and stared out the windows absently into the gardens. Alarm had begun prickling along his skin once more when a noise from within the alcove caught his attention.
He turned swiftly to see Frances peeking out. She stepped out of the space wearing a pretty white gown, a pink flower tucked behind her ear.
“Well, are you going to join me, or aren’t you?” she asked, a beautiful smile on her lips.
Lucas couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face. “I’d no idea you were here.” He strode over to her, but stopped just outside the alcove. It was safer outside the alcove. He wouldn’t be so tempted to kiss her one last time.
“I could tell,” she replied. “It took you long enough to toss those logs on the fire. By the by, what did Lord Clayton say in his note yesterday?”
Lucas dropped his chin to his chest and scratched the back of his neck. “He just needed to see me for a bit.” That much at least was true.
“I missed you in the dining room last night,” Frances said next, a coy tone in her voice.
Lucas lifted his chin and looked at her again. “I was, ahem, reassigned again.” That was somewhat true too. He simply failed to mention that he’d been reassigned to his bedchamber because of his hidden identity.
She plucked at one of the soft brown curls that sat on her shoulder. “You haven’t missed much. It’s mostly been a lot of love-sick young ladies swooning over Lord Kendall, who hasn’t even had the decency to deign to join them.”
“Really?” Lucas asked, clenching his jaw as the guilt gnawed at him. “What excuse was given?”
“None that I ever heard,�
� Frances replied with a sigh. “The only thing Lord Clayton said about Lord Kendall was that he doesn’t intend to stay long. But that certainly didn’t keep the young ladies from talking about him all night. Both nights.” She rolled her eyes.
“Was the conversation more interesting than Sir Reginald’s talk about the prince at least?” Lucas ventured, doing his best to smile.
“Hardly, but I wasn’t spared that either. Sir Reginald sat next to me again and did an awful job of attempting to be charming. Then he asked me to go walking with him in the garden this morning.”
Lucas lifted his brows. “Did you say yes?”
“No, I told him I had already made plans to walk in the gardens this morning, which is why you see this flower in my hair.” She laughed, pointing to the little pink bud.
“You’re beautiful, Frances,” Lucas breathed. “You should always have a flower in your hair.”
Her gaze keeping his, she stepped farther out of the alcove and stood not an inch in front of him. “Thank you, Lucas,” she whispered.
He tipped down his chin and watched her lips. Just one more kiss? The thought sprinted across his mind. He couldn’t ignore it. Without question, a kiss was the wrong thing to do. He would have no excuse when the time came to tell her the truth, but something in him, some primitive part of him that still wished he could have her, told him that he needed one final kiss to remember her by. Afterward, he would have to tell her he was leaving, of course, but first, one more kiss.
He lowered his head and met her soft lips with his. He closed his eyes and relished the scent of her, the feel of her, the sound of her. He would always remember her standing in Clayton’s library wearing a white gown with a pink rosebud in her hair. Her image was burned into his memory forever.
His mouth opened and his lips slanted across hers, he pulled her tight against him.
“What do you think you are doing!” The loud shriek jolted Lucas from the cocoon of their intimacy. He pulled away from Frances, who looked equally startled, and spun around to see Lady Winfield standing in the doorway, a look of complete outrage on her mottled face.
The woman shut the door behind her with a loud thud and lowered her voice considerably before speaking through clenched teeth. “I’ll thank you to get away from my daughter.”
Instead of moving away, Lucas instinctively moved in front of Frances. Clearly, her mother had lost her senses and was even now stalking toward her daughter as if she might inflict bodily harm. He wasn’t about to let that happen. A second thought flashed through his mind. While Lady Winfield clearly hadn’t looked twice at him while he was serving her meals in the dining room, she might well recognize him if she got a good look at him after he kissed her daughter. So be it. He wasn’t about to let the woman hurt Frances, no matter what.
When Lady Winfield reached them, she pushed past Lucas, reached around him, and grabbed Frances’s arm.
Lucas moved to block the woman, but Frances cried softly, “Lucas, no.”
With a smug smile, Lady Winfield yanked her daughter to her side.
Lucas’s nostrils flared with anger, but he stepped aside, not wanting to make this moment any more awful for Frances.
“It’s a fine day when I have to come and pull my daughter out of the arms of a footman,” Lady Winfield growled, her voice still low. Lucas could only surmise that she had determined the most prudent course of action would be to keep what she’d seen as quiet as possible. They were the only three in the library after all.
Thankfully for her, Lady Winfield unhanded her daughter, but soon pointed toward the door as she spoke to Frances in a menacing tone. “Walk in front of me. Now. Directly up to your bedchamber. Don’t you dare act as if anything is amiss. Do you hear me?”
That confirmed it. Lady Winfield clearly planned to pretend as if this had not happened. The only thing that kept Lucas from ripping off that damned itchy wig and declaring himself in love with Frances as the Earl of Kendall was the certain belief that that was not what Frances wanted. She’d made it clear that she thought gentlemen of the ton were high-handed when it came to getting what they wanted. The truth was, he wanted nothing more, but he forced himself to watch in silence as Frances walked slowly out of the library, her mother marching behind her.
Lucas cursed and clenched his fist. He cast about with no idea what he was looking for, perhaps something to throw or hit. Either would do at the moment. A small bit of color on the floor caught his attention. He glanced down. The rosebud lay on the rug at his feet. It must have fallen when Lady Winfield yanked Frances away from him. He leaned over, gently scooped up the small flower, and held it to his nose.
Christ, how he hoped that wasn’t the last time he’d ever see her.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Frances sat on the foot of her bed while her mother’s lengthy diatribe continued. It had begun the moment they had closed the bedchamber door and it showed no signs of abating anytime soon.
“What were you thinking, you hoyden!” Mama cried, dabbing at her sweating face with her handkerchief.
“Mama, I—”
But her mother was in no mood to listen. The woman continued to pace and wave her handkerchief in the air between dabs. The mottled purple tone of her skin alarmed Frances. The only thing she could be grateful for was the fact that Mama was keeping her voice low, apparently to avoid anyone overhearing and causing a scandal. Their walk upstairs had been perfectly calm and orderly. They’d only seen a few guests to whom they’d both smiled and nodded at as if nothing had been amiss.
“Thank God Albina alerted me,” Mama continued, her pace increasing.
Frances’s head jerked up. She searched the room and the adjoining bedchamber until she spotted Albina peeking through a crack in the door between the rooms. The maid had a sly triumphant smile on her face. When she saw Frances looking, Albina immediately darted behind the door.
“Albina told you?” Frances asked, her eyes narrowing, her hands balled into fists on her lap. “Why, that little, backstabbing—”
“We owe Albina a great debt,” Mama insisted. “Do you have any idea what might have happened if someone else had walked in on that display in the library? If Albina hadn’t sent me looking for you, I might never have known, let alone had a chance to stop it.”
Mama continued to pace, while Frances expelled her breath and tried to think of the best way to handle the situation. Normally, when Mama was in such a state, little served to calm her.
“You could ruin your chances with Sir Reginald if he were to find out,” Mama said next.
“I don’t care if I ruin my chances with Sir Reginald,” Frances spit out, still stewing over Albina’s treachery. The last thing Frances was worried about at the moment was Sir Reginald’s opinion. On anything.
Mama pressed the handkerchief first to one cheek and then the other. She looked as if she was about to faint. “How can you say such a thing?” She took a long, deep breath. “You know, I truly believed I was protecting you and your sister by keeping the truth from you, but I now I see I must tell you or you’ll continue to sabotage your own future.”
“Tell me what?” Frances asked defiantly, her arms still tightly crossed.
“You and your sister have no dowries. None! Not just small dowries. Nothing! Your father has gambled it all away.”
Frances’s mouth dropped open. “Pardon?”
“That’s right,” Mama continued. “There’s nothing left, but Sir Reginald has indicated he’s still willing to take you.”
Frances closed her eyes. The weight in her chest felt as if a cannonball had just settled in her middle. The news was difficult to hear, but her mother’s obvious angst over it was even more difficult to watch.
Frances already knew from experience that attempting to tell her mother that she didn’t care if she remained a spinster wouldn’t help the situation. Mama was hell-bent on marrying her off. A flurry of thoughts competed for attention in Frances’s mind. Could it be that her parents did not ev
en have the money to keep her in their household as a spinster? She’d never considered that before. She was being selfish not to listen to her mother’s words. Mama’s fear stemmed from the fact that she was clearly worried for her own future.
“Don’t you see, Frances?” Mama cried brokenly, coming to a stop directly in front of her. “We need you to marry Sir Reginald. He may very well be our only hope for survival. Sir Reginald is wealthy. He’s promised us a purse. Your sister is yet too young to marry. I suppose we could consider a match for her sooner than later, but—”
Frances immediately stood and hugged her Mama tightly. Her mother hugged her back, tears streaming down her face.
“I didn’t know, Mama. I didn’t know how bad it was.” She felt like a fool, a blind, selfish fool. She’d known Papa was in trouble, she’d heard the arguments, seen the men come to the house. But she’d foolishly believed Mama when she’d told her they were poor instead of destitute. Frances knew one thing for certain. There was no way she would allow her little sister to be bargained off for a purse. No. If one of them needed to be sold into marriage to save their family, it would be Frances, without question.
“I know you didn’t know, dear.” Her mother sobbed. “I’m only sorry it’s got to this point. The truth is I’ve spent our last bit of coin bringing you to this house party. Sir Reginald is our final hope.”
They both moved to sit on the foot of the bed together. Frances ran a hand over her mother’s graying hair, while patting her hand softly. “I’m sorry, Mama. I’m sorry I’ve been so difficult. Don’t worry. Please, don’t worry.”
Mama dabbed at her wet eyes with the handkerchief she’d finally stopped waving. “Thank you, my dear. Now, will you please think of your family and accept Sir Reginald’s suit?”
Frances expelled her breath and nodded slowly. However ludicrous the idea that she might somehow have a future with Lucas had been, the notion died an instant death. There was no way she could marry a poor footman. Her family was counting on her.
The Footman and I Page 15
