The Footman and I - Valerie Bowman Page 0,20
out of any invitations to dinners at Carlton House (and he’d received a great many over the years). It was awkward there, in the past due to Mrs. Fitzherbert’s presence, and the conversation always revolved entirely around the prince.
Lucas much preferred the company of his friends at the Curious Goat Inn to the stuffy confines of Carlton House. However, Sir Reginald’s friendship with the Regent was one reason Lucas was interested in securing the knight’s vote. The man was a cohort of the Prince and the Prince was influential with a score of MPs. If Lucas could manage to sway that loyal group of royalists to his cause, he’d have the vote on the Employment Bill all but guaranteed. Lucas would have to continue to court his favor, though, if he were going to win over Sir Reginald and his cronies.
Yes, tonight Lucas had felt sorry for Frances Wharton. He couldn’t help it. He realized why she’d been in such a state trying to hide this morning. She was avoiding Sir Reginald at all costs. The moment the knight sat down, she looked as if she wanted to flee. Lucas had made it his business to hurry over to provide Sir Reginald with his napkin. Any worry about Sir Reginald looking up at him and recognizing him was quickly squelched. The older man didn’t so much as spare him a glance. Sir Reginald was much more interested at staring down Miss Wharton’s décolletage. That had been difficult to watch. He’d wanted to punch the leering knight in the gut.
But being invisible had its benefits. Lucas was beginning to enjoy himself actually. It was as if he had a sort of magic or something. The feeling was both alarming and freeing at the exact same time. It truly perplexed him that not one of the diners (save for Miss Wharton and Theodora) had made eye contact with him. On the other hand, he could overhear comments he’d never have a chance to hear as a guest at a dinner table.
He’d also made it his business to closely watch Miss Wharton’s interactions with Sir Reginald. Lucas came around often enough with wine refills that he was able to hear some of the mind-numbing conversation Sir Reginald was treating poor Miss Wharton to. Lucas could have sworn there was an entire conversation about mud. He and Miss Wharton had shared more than one look, both rolling their eyes over the knight’s tales.
At one point in the evening, the pained look on poor Miss Wharton’s face made Lucas want to pour the entire tureen of turtle soup in Sir Reginald’s lap. But she soon responded with a saucy comment or two that made Lucas smile and her mother blanch. He’d learned more about Frances Wharton tonight. The young lady clearly wasn’t one to demur and apparently, she was quite comfortable with speaking her own mind. Lucas would have liked to have heard more of Miss Wharton’s witty comments, but too often his duties called him from the room when he and James needed to hurry downstairs to fetch the next course.
Theodora had been drinking wine tonight, probably to keep from laughing at him. She’d been simultaneously horrified and delighted by the idea of The Footmen’s Club. Clayton had had to talk her into it in the end, but once she’d agreed, she was entirely immersed in the plot and endlessly amused by it. She, too, appeared nonplussed to discover that not one person at the dining table had recognized Lucas. Granted, given their guest list, there were only a handful of people present who had met him before, and that ass Sir Reginald was the surest choice, but he was so busy talking about himself and his closeness to the prince, he hadn’t glanced at the servants at all.
Clayton had sat at the other end of the table, dutifully ignoring Lucas. In fact, Clayton had done such a good job of ignoring him it was almost odd. When Lucas finally got to him to serve the goose, Clayton waved him away. He’d have to have a talk with him about not acting too obvious.
Lucas had frozen after Miss Wharton had used him to spill wine on her gown. Would that be the way everyone recognized him? Her calling him out for being a “clumsy oaf”? The hint of a smile played around the corners of his mouth. She wasn’t a terribly good actress, poor woman. She’d delivered her lines far too formally. But it