The Footman and I - Valerie Bowman Page 0,8
her well. She’d loved Abigail since she’d been a two-year old peering into Abby’s crib. Frances felt responsible for her and she was entirely serious when she’d told her mother she would like nothing better than to give up her dowry to make Abigail’s more substantial. She would do anything for her little sister. “I might have crossed my toes if I’d thought about it,” she jested. “But I promised Mama I wouldn’t talk about any of the causes dear to my heart and so I won’t.”
Abigail leaned forward and peered at her. “What shall you do?”
Frances shrugged. “I have little choice. I suppose I’ll have to dissuade Sir Reginald from wanting to offer for me some other way.”
Abigail’s eyes were wide orbs. “How do you intend to do that?” Her sister had never defied their parents in her life, and she seemed perpetually amazed at Frances’s penchant for doing so.
Frances scooped up The Taming of the Shrew and made her way over to the window. She stared out across the street to the park while hugging the book to her chest, contemplating the matter for a moment. Slowly, her gaze dropped to the book and she held it out in front of her, letting her gaze to trail across the cover. Then she turned back to her sister and allowed a sly grin to spread across her face. The perfect idea had just popped into her mind. “By acting as if I’m the biggest shrew in the land, of course.”
Chapter Two
London, early August 1814
“We’ll call it The Footmen’s Club,” Lucas declared.
Three days had passed since they’d come up with their drunken idea and none of them had backed down in the harsh light of sobriety. Apparently, they were doing this mad thing and Lucas couldn’t say he didn’t want to. The idea seemed to make more sense the longer he contemplated it. And he’d even contemplated it with nary a drink in sight.
They’d all arrived at Clayton’s town house so that his town servants could teach them the ways of Clayton’s household chores. They were just finishing being fitted for their livery, an event that delighted Worth. “It doesn’t matter what I’m wearing,” the duke said with a charming grin and a wink. “It’s all about how you wear it.”
“‘The Footmen’s Club,’” Bell echoed. “I like the sound of that even though I intend to be a valet.” Bell didn’t need Clayton livery, but he was being fitted just the same in order to have clothing befitting a valet to wear for his interview.
“Who knew that knee breeches and white stockings would look so good on me?” Worth called out, completely ignoring their discussion about the title of their escapade.
“Yes. The Clayton livery is quite distinct,” Clayton said. “Black coats, emerald waistcoats, white shirts, white stockings.”
“You should pay me more because of my height,” Worth added, smoothing his hand down the front of his shirt. “Aren’t tall footmen paid more?”
Bell shook his head. “We aren’t collecting wages.”
“The devil we’re not,” Worth replied. “If I’m to perform the duties of a servant, I expect a servant’s pay.”
Clayton threw back his head and laughed. “Not to worry, Worth. You’ll get your money. I usually hire extra staff this time of year to help with the house party. Your wages will be waiting for you after you complete your fortnight of work. I daresay you’ll need every farthing you can get if you’re going to pay each of us one thousand pounds when this is over.”
Worth glared at him. “You let me worry about the thousand pounds. Just show me what to do and I’ll do it. I intend to be a groomsman, by the by, but I like the sound of ‘The Footmen’s Club’ too.”
“Is no one to be a footman with me?” Lucas asked. “I thought we were doing this together.”
Bell tugged at his cuff. “I need to be close to the men I’m watching. I intend to see to it that at least one of them is in need of a valet before the party begins.”
“What are you going to do to his valet?” Clayton asked, his eyes widening.
Bell shrugged. “Don’t worry. Nothing dangerous. Pay off the chap, most likely.”
“Being a groomsman isn’t going to be as taxing as being a valet,” Lucas told Worth. “You didn’t tell us you intended to be a groomsman when you made the bet.”
“Have a care,” Worth replied, looking a bit offended. “I need at least a sporting chance at winning. Besides, I’m