S
injon held the tureen as Mrs. Cooper filled it with turtle soup. There was also cream of cauliflower for those who were sick of turtle, since it was served at most
ton
dinners.
“Lady Evelyn must feed her guests in popular style,” Mrs. Cooper explained. “It’s as important as what she’s wearing. Everyone will be watching, and sniffing and tasting. Her guests will go home and tell their maids and valets what they ate, and they’ll rush down to the kitchen to report to the cook. By tea time tomorrow the details of tonight’s menu will be all over London.”
Since there was no other news of the Renshaws to serve with tea, Mrs. Cooper might be right, Sinjon thought. He climbed the stairs with Annie and Sal at his heels, carrying the second tureen. Starling stood anxiously outside the door to the dining room.
“Sam and I will serve,” he informed the maids, and pushed open the door.
“May I ask what shade of yellow you are wearing?” Marianne Westlake was asking someone, and Sinjon rolled his eyes.
“My cousin Lottie called it ‘honey.’ ”
Sinjon stopped in his tracks, recognizing the lady’s voice. He nearly dropped the tureen.
Caroline Forrester—
his
Caroline Forrester—was sitting on Evelyn’s left. Her head started to turn at the clatter of the crockery, and he held his breath. In a moment her eyes would meet his and—
“Lady Caroline, have you been to see the Tower menagerie since your arrival in London?” Westlake asked, drawing her attention instantly. She cast her smile on
him
, instead, and Sinjon was saved. At least for the moment.
“Why yes, I went with Countess Elizabeth last week.”
Countess Elizabeth? Not his mother!
Sinjon’s eyes shot to her placid profile. She was wearing the Halliwell rubies. He stopped in his tracks and stared, but she didn’t even look up. She rarely acknowledged servants, he recalled, unless they did something wrong.
He took a better grip on the tureen and burned his hand. His eyes watered and the lid rattled like chattering teeth. Starling scowled a warning and nudged him toward the table.
“Honey is a delicious name for a color,” Marianne Westlake continued. “Evelyn is wearing ‘chicken soup.’ ”
“Trifle,” Adam corrected.
“A lady’s attire is never a trifle, my lord,” Sinjon’s mother said, the gentle tone of her rebuke as familiar as the rubies. He could smell her rose perfume as he served her soup.
He looked around the room. His brother was here as well, seated next to Marianne, looking as dull and pompous as ever. Sinjon met the question in Westlake’s eyes and answered it with the barest shake of his head.
He glanced at Evelyn, but she avoided his eyes, kept her expression placid, holding her place as hostess with her usual unshakable elegance.
She had no idea that she was dining with his family.
He set a plate of soup before her, cleared his throat quietly, but she didn’t look up. Frustration flared. He resisted the urge to shake her. He’d tried to tell her the truth, but she refused to listen. Now it was too late. This wasn’t the way he wanted to introduce himself.
The shock would kill her.
He thanked the stars his father wasn’t here as well.
His brother held up his wineglass. “More hock, if you please,” he said, looking straight at Sinjon without the slightest hint of recognition.
Had he changed so remarkably that his own family didn’t know him? A mixture of pain and relief surged through him as Starling stepped in to refill the glass when Sinjon hesitated. With a crisp nod, he sent Sam to his place by the door to wait until the soup was finished.
Sinjon stood in the shadows and watched his mother eat. How many years had it been since she last visited London? His father couldn’t abide what he called “the false powdered fools of the
ton,
” which showed
he
hadn’t been to Town since powdered wigs went out of fashion. William was drinking too much, and trying to draw Westlake into a conversation about hunting.
Sinjon smirked. If Will knew the kind of hunting Westlake did, he’d run and hide under the nearest bed.
Westlake was skillfully diverting every glance away from Sinjon’s direction, his face red with the effort of such animated conversation. Had
he
known? Sinjon wondered. Damn him if he did, or if Westlake thought he could use his family to ensure his cooperation.
He let his eyes fall on Caroline. Her gaze was fixed on William, soft and bemused, exactly the way she used to look at him. He looked at her hand, expecting to see the family betrothal ring, but her fingers were bare. He glanced at Evelyn, and knew he would never have been happy with Caroline. His guilt at deserting her faded, and he wished her well of William.
He cleared the soup plates, passing the dishes to Annie outside the door, who hustled them down the kitchen stairs as Starling carried up the next course, a magnificent poached salmon, displayed on a bed of oysters.
Sinjon skipped his mother as he served, knowing that she did not like fish, and felt the room go quiet at his faux pas. If he hadn’t been holding a heavy platter, he might have kicked himself. Caroline glanced up at him, and he felt his skin heat.
“Lady Caroline! Do you like the theater?” Westlake cried out.
“I prefer the opera myself,” William interrupted. He grinned at Evelyn, who smiled back warmly. Sinjon bristled, tempted to drop an oyster down his brother’s back, or Evelyn’s. He wanted her eyes on him, and only him. She hadn’t looked at him all evening.
He served the oysters onto her plate instead, coming close enough that he could smell her perfume, feel the brush of her hair on his cheek as he bent.
He blew in her ear. Her hand tightened on the stem of her wineglass, and he knew she was aware of him.
He wondered how the conversation would go between them now. He’d been prepared to tell her who he was and why he was in disgrace, leaving out his connection to Westlake.
The conversation was going to be even more difficult now, after he’d served his family dinner as Evelyn’s anonymous footman without saying a word. But what
could
he say?
The third course arrived, a succulent dish of chicken, rabbit, and ham, and Marianne grinned. “The sauce matches your gown perfectly, Evelyn! How clever you are!”
Caroline and his mother glanced at each other as if they were quite mystified by London customs.
Westlake sighed. “I do hope that ladies tire of fashions named for food very soon. What do you suppose next year’s theme will be? Birds? Animals? What names might they give those items?”
“Ladies already wear fur and feathers,” William pointed out dully. “What about vegetables?”
“Vegetables are still food,” Westlake murmured, and the topic fizzled.
Sinjon served the French dishes, doling out asparagus, cauliflower in sauce, potatoes, and minted peas, unnoticed.
Starling sent him down to the kitchen a dozen times to fetch more wine, more plates, or the next dish. He was tempted to linger in the wine cellar, take a fortifying swig of something potent. Instead he climbed the stairs, kept his face blank, tried to catch Evelyn’s stubborn eye, and did his job. No one even glanced at him.
He remembered the footmen at his father’s estate. He’d grinned at them when they gave him a choice bit of beef, or an extra potato, and they’d winked back. His mother would probably faint if he winked at her, he thought, putting extra asparagus on her plate, since it was her favorite.
Mrs. Cooper accosted him between each course. “Well? Did they like it? What did they say?” He hardly knew. He embellished his reports with every superlative he could think of, and his confidence grew with each course. Once Evelyn’s guests had left, he would find a way to explain. Fortunately it looked like she’d be spared the embarrassment of a surprise family reunion.
He carried up a towering plate of cakes, almost whistling. Apricot tart was one of William’s favorites, and Caroline would be delighted to see the croquembouche and charlotte russe.
“I wonder if you might have any connections at Horse Guards who might help me, Lord Westlake,” his mother was saying as he entered the room. “I came to London to find news of my youngest son. He’s serving with Lord Wellington in Spain, but it has been some time since I have had word from him—”
Sinjon’s heart stopped in his chest, and he looked at his mother in surprise, staring at her, reading the concern in her eyes. The grand entrance of dessert was missed in the earnest conversation.
“Go out and come in again,” Starling instructed. Sinjon couldn’t move. The sorrow in his mother’s eyes held him rooted to the floor.
“Sam!” Starling hissed, and tugged his sleeve.
The plate slipped. The charlotte russe toppled into the lap of the Earl of Westlake with a creamy plop.
For an instant there was shocked silence. Then everything happened at once.
Caroline looked up at him, and Sinjon watched recognition bloom in her eyes. “Sin!” she cried.
Marianne Westlake was scooping whipped cream out of her husband’s lap. “Oh, no, not a
sin,
Lady Caroline, merely an accident. Adam has an excellent valet, and he should have no trouble cleaning—”
Sinjon’s mother gasped and rose to her feet, pointing, her mouth moving without sound. Sinjon pressed the empty tray into Starling’s hands and caught her as she fainted.
William grabbed his arm. “What the devil are you doing? Unhand my mother at once!” he ordered. “What kind of servant would dare —”
Sinjon glared at him, and saw William start as he recognized him at last.
“Good God, Sinjon, you’re a servant? A mere
footman
? Haven’t you heaped enough shame upon this family?” William’s shocked gaze roamed over Sinjon’s livery.
Sinjon looked at Evelyn. She was the only one looking at him as if she’d never seen him before. He supposed she hadn’t. Her face was as white as the whipped cream in Westlake’s lap. Confusion and hurt filled her eyes before she looked away, schooling her features to placid nothingness.
“Carry the countess through to the sitting room, if you please, Sam,” Starling ordered.
“Sam?” Caroline parroted. Sinjon glared at her, trying to silence her. “Sinjon, what’s this about?” she asked. He could feel Evelyn’s eyes on him now.
Sinjon.
She mouthed his name, and her jaw dropped in realization of who he was, and what he stood accused of.
She looked around at each member of his family and back at him, noting the family resemblance. Her green eyes darkened with accusation. He sent her a pleading look, but she turned away.
“Take the countess upstairs to recover. Starling, have Mary bring the hartshorn and a warmed blanket,” she instructed, taking charge of everything, hiding behind the necessities of the moment.
Sinjon lifted his prostrate mother, but Westlake stepped forward. “She’s likely to faint again if she wakes up and sees you,” he murmured. “Lord William? Perhaps you’d see to your mother?”
William was still staring at Sinjon as he took her. “We thought you were in Spain.”
“I was,” Sinjon replied. For now, explanations would have to wait, though every face in the room demanded one.
Except Evelyn’s. There was no curiosity on her face.
Only betrayal.
“H
ow could you let this happen?” Westlake demanded.
They were closeted in the library, while everyone else hovered over Countess Elizabeth upstairs. Sinjon had no idea what was being said in the kitchen.
Sinjon stared at Adam. “Me? I had no idea my family was coming to dinner.
You
should have warned me.”
Westlake straightened his stained coat. “I was not party to the guest list until we were on our way over here and my wife informed me—”
Sinjon laughed. “She knows more than you do, my lord.”
Westlake colored. “How could you not know?”
Sinjon glowered at him. “I am—was—a footman. Do you consult with your footmen about who to include on your guest lists? I was told Somerson’s sister-in-law was coming. I had no idea she meant Caroline.”
“Well, you’re not a servant anymore. You’ve been dismissed. I heard Lady Evelyn tell Starling to see that you left at once.”
Sinjon shut his eyes. “I need to speak to her before I go anywhere,” he insisted.
Westlake crossed to a side table, lifted the stopper on the decanter and made a face. “Sherry.” He replaced the lid. “Wait for a day or two. We’ll come up with a logical story and you’ll apologize. I’ll need to find another footman to—”
Sinjon got to his feet. “No.”
Westlake raised a haughty eyebrow. Anger flared in Sinjon, and he curled his hand into a fist.
“Leave her alone, Westlake, or I’ll knock your teeth down your throat!”
Westlake’s expression didn’t change. “I still need information and—”
“I know where the damned gonfalon is!”
The silence that filled the room was deafening.
“Do you intend to give me details?” Westlake asked at last. “Were you going to tell me at all?”
The door opened before he could reply, and William strode into the room. “What the devil do you think you’re playing at, Sinjon? Look what you’ve done to Mother, to say nothing of how upset Caroline is! I should call you out and shoot you.”
“Dueling is illegal, my lord,” Westlake murmured. “And he
is
your brother.”
“My father disowned him,” William snapped. “I want you gone before Mother wakes, Sinjon. I’ll tell her it was a dream, or bad fish. If you don’t leave at once, I’ll have you arrested for treason.”
“The situation is not as it appears, Lord Mears,” Westlake warned.
“Does that mean he’s
not
guilty?” William spluttered.
“You sound disappointed,” Sinjon said.
“Mother said there’d be an explanation.”
“And Father?”
“Never wants to see you again. He’s forbidden anyone to mention your name.”
Starling entered the room. “Your pardon, my lords. Countess Halliwell is asking to see her son.”
Sinjon stepped forward, but William grabbed his arm. “Oh, no—you’ve caused enough harm for one night. I’m taking her home. You can call tomorrow.” He left without bothering to say good-night.
“Shall I pack your things,
sir
?” Starling asked stiffly.
“No, Mr. Starling, I’ll do it myself. Where is Lady Evelyn?”
Starling’s lips pursed. “She won’t see you, and I have orders to escort you out if necessary.” Evelyn’s small elderly butler looked ready to try, Sinjon thought.
“I’ll go and gather my belongings,” he said. “Can you find some whisky for Lord Westlake?”
Instead of going downstairs, Sinjon climbed the stairs two at a time.
In a day or two all of London would know this story, and that included Creighton. He had to see Evelyn now.
He paused as he came to the door to the small bedroom. There wasn’t a sound from inside, nor any light coming from under the door, but he knew she was there.
He hesitated. Perhaps he should walk away, leave her in peace, but guilt gnawed at him, kept him standing outside the door, his hand on the latch.
He owed her an explanation.
And a warning.