The Prince of Spies (Hope and Glory #3) - Elizabeth Camden Page 0,85

affair was for grown-ups only. These days, Sam preferred the company of the servants anyway. He was still cowed and sullen around Andrew because of what happened to Bandit, and Marianne suspected the damage from that spiteful act would haunt the boy for years.

The table was starting to look overstuffed with three glasses at each place, along with three different forks, two types of knives, and a bread plate. Then Delia stepped forward to add more, and Vera nearly exploded.

“Delia, I’ve already told you there is no room on the table for the individual saltcellars.”

Delia paid no mind as she set another tiny bowl beside a place setting. “But they’re so precious!” she defended. “All the best families use saltcellars instead of a shared saltshaker.”

Delia had brought the saltcellars all the way from Baltimore specifically for this dinner. Each miniature bowl was made of amethyst crystal cut to look like a thistle, and had a tiny silver spoon with a matching amethyst at the finial. Marianne couldn’t decide if they were charming or tacky.

Vera clearly thought they were tacky. “Once we have the floral arrangements on the table, there will be no room for saltcellars.”

Delia lifted her chin and began removing the crystal bowls. “What a shame this table is going to look very common for Colonel Phelps.”

Marianne continued setting out the butter knives and said nothing. She wished people would stop making such a production over Colonel Phelps, but what could she do?

By seven o’clock all the guests had gathered in the parlor for an aperitif. Andrew and Delia could both be counted on to comport themselves with ease, but old Jedidiah was always a question mark. Her grandfather had the intelligence to carry on a conversation with anyone, but some people were put off by his back-country accent and coarse sense of humor. The first thing her grandfather said to their guest of honor was to apologize for the way Marianne and Delia looked “so darn pooped.”

“The womenfolk spent all afternoon out in the backyard, skinning the coons I caught for supper,” he said in a teasing voice as he shook Colonel Phelps’s hand.

Delia froze in mortification, but Colonel Phelps took it in stride and knew exactly the right thing to say.

“I’d have come earlier if they needed any help,” he said with an engaging smile. “I did my fair share of hunting and skinning when I was out west with the cavalry.”

Jedidiah nodded in approval and launched into a discussion of army rations during the recent war. Marianne stood a few feet away, trying to see the army’s youngest colonel with new eyes. If she wasn’t already so dazzled by Luke, could she have been attracted to him? He had an easy manner with Jedidiah. After twenty minutes, Colonel Phelps had established a better rapport with the crusty old man than Delia had managed after twelve years of marriage.

At last it was time to proceed into dinner, and Colonel Phelps offered his arm to escort Marianne into the dining room. He murmured all the right compliments for her mother’s fine presentation and the elegance of the setting, but all Marianne could see were the amethyst saltcellars that had mysteriously reappeared beside each place setting.

Vera noticed too. She went white around the lips while trying to graciously accept Colonel Phelps’s compliments.

Why did Delia have to do that? This evening was already stressful enough for Vera without petty attempts to see who could outshine the other.

At least the presentation of the soup course and brie pastries went well. The main course of quail with truffles was next. Vera was explaining the process of making the truffles for the elegant dish when a disturbance sounded in the hall.

It sounded like two men were arguing. A man’s voice she didn’t recognize was angry and insistent, but his words were too muffled to understand. Their butler was just as adamant.

“Congressman Magruder is not at home to visitors,” the butler insisted.

Her gaze flew to her father, who looked annoyed as he set his linen napkin beside his plate. A frazzled maid hurried to her father’s side. “There’s a man at the front door. He’s very angry and pushed his way inside.”

“Who is it?” Clyde demanded.

The maid held up her hands. “I’ve never seen him before.”

Clyde rose just as the double doors to the dining room burst open. Good heavens! It was Gray Delacroix, his shirtsleeves rolled up and hair disheveled. The butler was right behind him, dragging on Mr. Delacroix’s arm to pull