The Footman and I - Valerie Bowman Page 0,18

the prince, well, . . .” Sir Reginald let the sentence die away.

Reading the letter was more important than looking for me, Frances mentally finished for him, biting her lip to keep from smiling. She wished Mr. Lucas had been in the room to hear this last bit. Sir Reginald could be quite entertaining if one had enough wine and the correct perspective.

“Oh, do tell more about the prince’s letter,” Mama encouraged Sir Reginald. She looked as if she was about to shred her napkin with excitement. Frances continued to clutch at her wine glass as if it were the last connection to sanity.

“Of course there was quite a bit more in the prince’s letter,” Sir Reginald continued obligingly, “but one doesn’t become a confidante to the prince by telling his secrets.” The man dabbed at his lips with his napkin while giving Frances a knowing look.

Frances glanced away in misery. She searched the room. There were four footmen in total waiting on the dining table and two of them had been busy removing the soup bowls while Mr. Lucas and the fourth man had left the room. The two of them soon returned carrying a large silver platter upon which sat a roasted goose. They laid the platter on an empty sideboard and began helping the other two footmen lay out plates. Frances had never paid much attention to the comings and goings of servants at meals such as this one, but tonight she found herself watching Mr. Lucas’s every move. Soon after he finished with the plates, he was busy going from person to person offering slices of roasted goose, while two of his cohorts carried the platter. She watched his progress, a funny feeling roiled in her belly the closer he came to her.

“Milady?” he asked, bowing when he finally reached her seat. “Roast goose?”

“Yes, please,” she responded, not looking at him, and desperately hoping that neither Mama nor Mr. Lucas himself could tell she was blushing. Drat. She’d never blushed over being offered roast goose before. She was the goose.

She was served quickly and efficiently before Mr. Lucas and the platter moved on to Sir Reginald while Mama asked, “Sir Reginald, how often do you dine with the prince?” Mama’s eyes were sparkling in a way that made Frances worry. It was official. Mama’s interest in the knight’s friendship with the prince bordered upon obsession.

“Oh, quite a bit, I’d say,” Sir Reginald replied, another smirk on his face.

Frances glanced at Mr. Lucas, who arched a brow this time. He obviously doubted Sir Reginald’s lofty pronouncement. Frances fumbled to get her napkin to her lips before she laughed out loud.

“Does the prince enjoy whist?” she finally managed to ask Sir Reginald.

The knight’s eyes widened. Frances wasn’t certain if he was pleased that she’d asked him a question or pleased that he had more opportunity to talk. Both, perhaps? “He does indeed, my lady.”

For the next three quarters of an hour Frances sat listening to Sir Reginald and her mother carry on a lengthy conversation about the Prince Regent’s card-playing habits, while she sipped her wine and used her fork to poke at her goose.

When Sir Reginald launched into a story that seemed to miss no detail about his travels to Clayton Manor, replete with an exhaustive description of each time they stopped to change horses, how his back ached whenever he emerged from the coach, and (perhaps most fascinating) how much mud appeared to be clogging up the roadways of late, Frances decided she could take no more. She might not be able to feign illness, but nothing was stopping her from feigning shrewishness. She’d no sooner decided to make a scene that would (hopefully) horrify Sir Reginald and (mercifully) give her an excuse to leave the dining room, than she looked up to see Mr. Lucas pouring more wine in her glass.

There it was. The perfect opportunity. One didn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

She glanced at Mr. Lucas and winked, hoping against hope the looks they’d seemed to exchange all night weren’t merely in her imagination. She’d sorely regret it if Mr. Lucas misunderstood, but she’d be certain to apologize to him later regardless.

She bumped Mr. Lucas’s arm, causing the wine to spill on both the tablecloth and her skirts and immediately leaped to her feet. She frantically swiped at her stained gown with her napkin. “Clumsy oaf!” she called in the most entitled, shrill tone she could muster. “Look at my skirts. They’re