Stephen took Peaches by the elbow. “If you’ll excuse us, Miss Alexander needs to call her sister immediately.”
Peaches looked at him in surprise. “What?”
“Sedgwick is on fire.”
Peaches felt her knees buckle, but she was spared the indignity of landing on her less-than-pristine slacks by Stephen making excuses for her and pulling her through the crowd that had turned to look at her. She didn’t want to credit them with smirking, but she didn’t imagine it was Stephen they were snickering at. Being hauled out of dinner like a recalcitrant child was no doubt adding a great deal to the spectacle. She tried to pull her arm away from him, but he didn’t seem inclined to release her.
“I can walk, you know,” she said pointedly.
He said nothing. He simply continued to pull her along with him.
“Why did Tess call you and not me?”
He ignored her.
Peaches put up with it until they were out of the dining room and twenty feet down the hall before she pulled her arm away from him and glared at him.
“
Stop
herding me.”
He simply looked at her. “You must be hungry.”
She blinked. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Nothing in particular.”
She was obviously light-headed from having missed lunch. That was the only reason nothing that was happening at the moment made any sense. She focused on Stephen with difficulty. “Is Sedgwick on fire?”
“I haven’t eaten, either,” he said. “I imagine the edible food is still hiding in the pantry.”
She rubbed her arms and wondered if she had just dropped into some sort of alternate reality. There was a man standing in front of her, an extremely handsome man dressed in a quite lovely sport coat, trousers, and burgundy tie. He didn’t look as if he’d just lost his mind, but he was saying things that simply didn’t make sense.
“Is my sister’s hall on fire?” she asked again.
“No.”
She felt her mouth fall open. “You pulled me out of that party with a
lie
?”
“Subterfuge,” he corrected. “It comes in handy when the food at a buffet is inedible and the company intolerable.”
The brittle laughter echoing down the hallway sent a renewed flush to her face. She had credited the last blush to the number of people in the room and still having her extremities warming up. Now, she had to admit, it had been more a blush of shame than anything else.
“They’re very good people,” Peaches said, trying to be polite. “High society, and all that.”
“But the food was dreadful,” he said, taking her by the elbow yet again. “And if we don’t hurry, they’ll fetch us and make us eat more of it.”
“I don’t want to be rude,” she protested. “To Lord David.”
“Trust me, he won’t notice your absence. He has other things to keep him occupied.”
It took her another twenty feet to realize what he’d said. And when she did, she felt as if she’d been kicked in the stomach. She managed to get her elbow away from him without undue fuss. It occurred to her that she didn’t even have the energy to be angry with him for what he’d said because it was probably the truth.
Stephen cleared his throat. “I meant—”
“I’m tired,” she said, her voice sounding far away and slightly tinny to her own ears. “I think I need to just go to bed, if you don’t mind.” She looked around herself, but all she could see were wallpapered walls decorated with mirrors that reflected just how unlovely she looked at the moment. “If I could just find my way—”
Stephen stepped between her and the largest mirror she couldn’t seem to stop looking in, leaving her no choice but to look up at him. “I didn’t have lunch,” he said quietly, “and I imagine you didn’t, either.”
She was slightly unnerved by the kindness in his voice, but she decided to treat that as an aberration. He couldn’t be trying to be nice to her. “I wonder if they’ll let me have a glass of water before I retire?” she muttered.
Stephen didn’t move; he only remained where he was, silent and very grave.
Peaches would have tried to get past him but she found her way blocked by a new butlerish sort of person who was dressed in clothes that looked as if he’d swiped them from a Regency-period piece set. He made Stephen a small bow.
“My lord,” he said, then turned to her. “And Miss Alexander, of course. I have a meal prepared for you both.”
Peaches felt her mouth fall open. “You do?”
The older man nodded. “His lordship doesn’t much care for rich food, miss, and given his terrible temper, I do my best to humor him at all times.”
Peaches retrieved her jaw from where it had descended. “Do you know each other?”
“Yes, miss,” the man said. “I am Humphreys, Lord Stephen’s gentleman’s personal gentleman.”
Peaches smiled in spite of herself. She thought it might have been the first time she’d smiled all day. “Are you, really?”
“I am,” Humphreys said seriously. “Really. And as such, being familiar with his lordship’s legendary unhappiness when he misses his usual fare, I have taken the liberty of providing what suits him. I hope, miss, that it will suit you as well.”
She wanted to say that any meal that didn’t include Irene Preston commenting on her wardrobe suited her just fine, but she didn’t have the chance. She simply followed Stephen’s keeper past the kitchen and along a hallway to a delightful little breakfast room.
An older woman was standing at the window, but she turned when they entered. Humphreys paused, then made the woman a bow before he turned and made introductions.
“Her Grace, Raphaela Preston, dowager Duchess of Kenneworth,” he intoned, “may I present Miss Peaches Alexander. I believe, Your Grace, that you already know the Viscount Haulton.”
“I believe I do,” the duchess said, coming over to allow Stephen to kiss her hand. “I’m pleased you found these two, Humphreys. They look hungry.”
Peaches found herself swept up into Raphaela Preston’s cloud of perfume and exquisite manners and didn’t have the energy or the desire to fight the trip.
Whoever had determined that supper down the way should be a buffet had obviously not dared tangle with the duchess and her desires for a decent meal. Peaches didn’t pay much attention to what she ate past noting that it was hot, vegetarian, and delicious. Stephen’s meal, from what she noticed of it, was much like hers with the addition of a few heartier side dishes that he
plowed through with single-mindedness. Peaches looked at the duchess finally and smiled.
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
The duchess waved her hand dismissively. “Call me Raphaela, darling. We don’t stand on formality here in this little room.”
Peaches was quite happy to discover that the duchess preferred private meals over lavish buffets and French over English. She was also enormously relieved that she had taken such pains to become fluent under Aunt Edna’s Swiss-style finishing school tutelage. She was almost surprised to listen to Stephen take part now and again in the conversation in his own perfect French.
She had to close her eyes briefly. How could the man be so deliciously cultured yet such a cad at the same time?
“I see, my dear, that you have dressed very sensibly for a quiet evening after a long journey here.”
“Ah, yes,” Peaches managed, because it was the best she could do. She was acutely aware of her less-than-pristine attire. At least the worst of the wet sheep smell had been left behind in some location that wasn’t her present one. “It has been a long day, Your Grace.”
“Raphaela,” the duchess said with a small smile, “though I’ve heard so much about you I think you might soon be calling me something more familiar than that. If my son has his way, of course. I wonder what Haulton has to say about that?”
Peaches looked at Stephen to find him watching the duchess with a bland expression. Whatever else could be said about the man, he would have made a formidable poker player.
“I believe, Your Grace,” he said, “that on some subjects it is best to remain silent.”
Peaches imagined it was and did her best not to scowl at Stephen. She could only imagine what he would say about David wishing to have anything of a romantic or fairy-tale nature to do with her.
Raphaela laughed and reached over to pat his hand. “Wisdom gained from many years treading carefully, no doubt. Now, Peaches darling, tell me of yourself. What brought you to England during such unpleasant weather?”
Peaches didn’t dare look at Stephen as she spun a very elaborate tale about wanting to keep in touch with her twin sister,
which easily led away from her own circumstances to a discussion of twins in general.
By the time she had warmed up sufficiently by the small fire in the delicate hearth, she was starting to feel less out of place. Raphaela Preston was a wonderful host, dinner had been marvelous, and the conversation delightful. Even Stephen had managed to keep his mouth shut.
She was almost to the point where she thought she could stop second-guessing her decision to come at all. She had a wonderful ball gown thanks to her sister’s generosity. If she worked things right, she might manage to avoid tomorrow morning’s shooting party and the accompanying humiliation of having to ride a horse. The afternoon would be more difficult, but maybe Raphaela had some intentions she needed help focusing, which would require Peaches to remain with her out of sight until supper. She could perhaps borrow something from Andrea for dinner, then spend the bulk of Saturday preparing for the ball.
And perhaps somewhere along the line, she might manage to pull together the slightly unraveled threads of her fairy tale.
She was in the kitchen, true, but she wasn’t covered in soot. The lady of the house seemed to like her, not want to put her to work, and the eligible duke hadn’t even had the chance to move past the unfortunate condition of her sweater to really get things zipping right along.
Now, if she could only manage to get rid of that enormous fly in the ointment sitting approximately three feet from her, sipping manfully at his tea, things might start really looking up.
S
tephen
sat in the morning breakfast room with two beautiful women and the remains of an excellent supper, and was very grateful for both. He was fairly sure Peaches was no fonder of him than she had been before supper, but at least she was fed and out of the lion’s den. For himself, he had been happy to simply sit back and listen to Peaches and Raphaela discuss everything from art to fashion to the deplorable lack of decent food north of Calais. He, being an Englishman, had been forced to defend his country’s culinary roots, but he had been immediately overruled.
Raphaela wagged her finger at him. “You cannot deny the abysmal state of British cuisine, darling.”
“Artane’s chef is without peer,” Stephen said mildly, “though I will admit that even yours has done himself proud tonight.”
“And you would rather eat in London than in Paris?” she asked archly.
“I never said that,” he conceded, “though I never said I wouldn’t, either. I was merely trying to be politic and assure myself of a decent meal or two at your table over the remainder of the weekend.”
Raphaela laughed lightly. “I promise not to have you poisoned,
dastardly de Piaget spawn that you are. And before you are forced to sing the praises of my chef overmuch, we should perhaps see ourselves off to bed. I understand David has a morning of riding and hunting planned, and I wouldn’t want you to miss any of your shots.”
Stephen imagined she wouldn’t. He smiled dryly, then rose to pull out Peaches’s chair for her. She shot him a look of suspicion, as if she expected him to leave her sprawled on the floor. He simply looked away, because there was nothing he could say to change her mind about him, nor was there anything he should say in front of the lady of the house. He simply held Peaches’s chair, then followed her and Raphaela from the morning room and into the hallway.
“Now, perhaps Stephen will escort us safely upstairs, then seek out his own accommodations. It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest to find David had put him in the cellar, though perhaps without the key to the wine room.”
Stephen opened his mouth to engage in the required polite banter, but shut it at the look on Peaches’s face. She was profoundly uncomfortable, though he couldn’t account for it.
Unless that damned David Preston had actually had the cheek to put her
in
his room, in which case Stephen would most definitely be going to bed without delay so his shots in the morning wouldn’t miss their mark.
Humphreys coughed discreetly. “It would be my honor to escort Miss Alexander to her room, Your Grace.” He paused. “I took the liberty of memorizing where the guests were being housed, should the need for assistance arise.”
Raphaela looked at Peaches. “Stephen doesn’t deserve him.”
Peaches only smiled, but it was a rather strained smile. Stephen didn’t dare look at Humphreys, lest he reveal more than he cared to in his expression. Obviously investigations had been carried out. He had the feeling, based on Humphrey’s tone, that he wasn’t going to be happy with the results.
Her Grace was looking at Humphreys closely, as if she also sensed there was something going on she wouldn’t care for. She slipped her arm through Peaches’s and looked at Stephen’s valet.
“I wasn’t privy to that list you were able to memorize,” Raphaela said, “so why don’t we all escort Peaches to her room. To make sure she arrives safely.”
“Oh, I think I can find it on my own,” Peaches protested, looking even more uncomfortable, if possible, than before.
“Nonsense, darling,” Raphaela said. “It’s the least I can do to repay you for such delightful dinner conversation. We’ll follow along after you, Humphreys.” She looked over her shoulder. “You can be our bodyguard, Haulton, yes?”
Stephen had every intention of being that—and more—so he nodded without hesitation.
He walked behind the dowager Duchess of Kenneworth and that ethereal creature from across the Pond and felt somehow as if he were walking into a pitched battle. Peaches was stressed—he could see it in the set of her shoulders. He couldn’t account for why until Humphreys paused well before the staircase that led to the bedrooms above. Humphreys said nothing, he simply turned and walked down a side hallway.