The Footman and I - Valerie Bowman Page 0,34

create a problem, doesn’t it?” Clayton said, pressing a finger to his top lip.

“I say that is a problem for another day,” Bell added, plucking at his bottom lip. “I wouldn’t worry about it now, Kendall. These things have their ways of resolving themselves.”

“I don’t know about that,” Lucas replied, “but I do know I’d certainly like to stop discussing it.” He pulled off the hot wig and ran a hand through his hair. “Now, can we speak about something else?”

“Yes, what would you like to speak about, Kendall?” Clayton answered gamely.

Lucas settled back into his chair. “I’m going to need your help with something, all of you.”

“What’s that?” Clayton asked, leaning forward again and looking quite interested.

“I need to speak privately with Sir Reginald and when I do so it has to be as the Earl of Kendall.”

Clayton snorted. “So, what, you intend to run back and forth between rooms pretending to be Lucas the footman in one and Lord Kendall, the earl, in another?”

Lucas scrubbed the back of his hand against his forehead. “Something like that.”

“Oh, I cannot wait,” Clayton replied, laughing and slapping his hand against the table. “How quickly can you change clothing between courses?”

Worth’s crack of laughter bounced off the walls of the small room. “Yes, and remember, the game will be lost if you show up as the Earl of Kendall in your livery.”

“Or accidentally pour Sir Reginald’s wine when dressed as the earl,” Clayton added.

Bell turned to lean his back entirely against the wall and expelled a deep breath. “Oh, Kendall, you do know how to complicate things.”

Chapter Eleven

The next morning Frances could barely sit still on the tufted stool in front of the mirrored dressing table in her guest bedchamber. Albina was busy curling her hair with hot tongs. The maid had recently finished applying the slightest hint of rose-colored rouge to Frances’s cheeks. She’d also already dabbed her favorite peony-scented perfume behind both ears. The butterflies winging around in her middle made her feel more like she was preparing for a ball than dressing in a simple yellow gown to take a stroll to the library.

But Mr. Lucas would be in the library again today. She was certain of it. Just as certain as she was of the fact that she was looking forward to spending time with him again. It made no sense. It wasn’t as if she could have a future with him. Even if she wanted to. Her parents would never allow it. And besides, hadn’t she always been the one dead set against marriage? Not that she wanted to marry Mr. Lucas. Why, she’d only just met the man. Heavens, no. But he certainly was handsome, and funny, and charming and—

“Ouch!”

“I’m sorry, Miss. It were an accident,” Albina said, wincing and scrunching up her nose.

Frances rubbed at her right cheek, the one that Albina had just accidentally glanced with the hot tongs.

Frances met the maid’s gaze in the looking glass. Albina’s eyes were wide with worry. “Please don’t tell yer mum, Miss Frances. She’ll be displeased with me, fer certain.”

Frances left off rubbing her cheek and gave the maid an encouraging smile. “No, of course I won’t tell her, Albina. It’s all right. Don’t worry.”

Albina expelled her breath and her eyes lost their troubled look. She resumed her ministrations on Frances’s coiffure.

Frances continued to watch the maid in the looking glass. Albina was medium height, with blond hair and sky-blue eyes. She was pretty enough but usually had a vacant expression on her face. She did her work thoroughly and never complained, however, which was why the maid was one of only two servants Frances’s family had left. She’d already stepped in to be a lady’s maid to all three women in the house and clean and help cook. What more could they ask of her? The poor girl had nothing to worry about from her mother’s quarter. They needed her desperately. Hmm. Perhaps Albina was afraid for her job for just that reason. They’d let go of all the rest of the staff except their cook. No doubt Albina thought she could be next on the chopping block.

For the hundredth time in as many days, Frances silently cursed her father. The man couldn’t leave a gaming table alone. She’d heard the late night conversations her mother and father had in the bedchamber when their voices were raised. Her mother begged her father to stop gambling, while her father insisted he’d win the next time and all