The Footman and I: The Footmen’s Club Trilogy Read online

  Worth’s laughter cracked off the wooden beams on the tavern’s ceiling. “I’d pay to see that. An earl dressed up like a common man to find true love. Has a certain poetic ring to it, don’t it?”

  Clayton laughed too and shook his head, while Bell’s shrewd, narrowed-eyed stare intensified. “It’s not a completely outlandish idea.” He tilted his head to the side.

  “What’s not?” Lucas had nearly forgotten what he’d said.

  “The idea of pretending you’re a commoner to find a wife,” Bell replied.

  Worth slapped Bell on the back. “Are you mad, man? You’re not even drinking.”

  Bell never drank. His mug probably contained rice milk or something equally unexciting. He preferred to remain in control of his faculties, and they all knew it. He’d always been the one to ensure they all made it home safely and without unnecessary run-ins with the foot patrol or the chancellors at Oxford. The marquess leaned forward to stare directly at Lucas. “Given the right circumstances, it could work, you know?”

  “Pretending I’m common?” Lucas replied, blinking. “I don’t see how.”

  “Everyone in the ton knows him,” Clayton pointed out. “How would he ever manage it?”

  “Are you suggesting he wear a mask or alter his appearance?” Worth asked, stroking his chin, his own eyes narrowing as if he, too, were taking the idea seriously.

  Lucas glanced back and forth between Worth and Bell. “You cannot be serious, either of you. Clayton’s right. How would it ever work?”

  “No, not a costume.” Bell addressed his remarks to Worth. “I was thinking something more like the right...situation.”

  “Such as?” Worth replied, drawing out both words. He also leaned forward.

  “You two are frightening me, you know?” Lucas replied. “You seem as if you’re actually trying to plot out a way this ludicrous idea might work.”

  “Like a…house party,” Bell replied to Worth, stroking his chin and completely ignoring Lucas’s concern.

  Worth inclined his head, his eyes still narrowed. “A house party, yes. I see what you mean.”

  “But it couldn’t be just any house party, of course,” Bell continued. “It would have to be one given by someone who was in on the experiment.”

  “Experiment?” Clayton perked up. “There are few things I enjoy more than an experiment, and I just so happen to be about to send the invitations to my annual country house party.” Clayton’s words were stated casually as if he hadn’t just added a large helping of kindling to the fire that was already burning brightly with insanity.

  “Experiment?” Lucas repeated numbly, blinking.

  Bell snapped his fingers. “Your house party would be perfect, Clayton.”

  “Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait.” Lucas, who sat between Bell and Worth, pushed against each of his friends’ shoulders with both hands. He needed to sober up quickly. His friends had clearly lost their minds, even Bell, who was normally the level-headed one when things went too far afield. “A house party isn’t going to change my identity. Ladies of the ton will still know who I am at a house party.”

  “He makes a good point,” Clayton replied, sloshing more ale down his throat. Thank heavens, Clayton wasn’t taking this discussion seriously, after all.

  “Not if you invite only the debutantes from this Season,” Bell replied, a smug smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “And not if you create the right circumstances.”

  Lucas sucked in a deep breath and pushed his mug out of reach. “The ladies may not know me, but some of their mothers do. More than one of them has already been to court with an older daughter making her debut.” There. That was common sense, which this discussion was sorely lacking.

  “That’s where the right circumstances come in,” Bell replied, crossing his arms over his chest, the half-smile still riding his lips.

  Worth scratched at the dark, day-old stubble on his chin and smiled an even wider, much more charming smile than Bell’s. “By God, I think you’re onto something.”

  “I refuse to wear a mask if that’s what you’re thinking. That’s positively medieval,” Lucas declared, shaking his head.

  “Not a mask,” Bell replied. He settled back in his chair and plucked at his lower lip, a gesture he often made when he was plotting something.

  “Or a costume, either,” Lucas continued. He pushed his mug farther away for good measure. More drinking would only make this particular situation more insane.

  “Not a costume…precisely.” Bell exchanged a positively roguish grin with Worth.

  “By God, I’m going to have the best time watching this,” Worth added, nodding.

  “Watching what?” Clayton’s nose was scrunched in confusion. “I don’t know what in the devil either of you is talking about any longer.”

  “I’m talking about Lucas here pretending to be a servant,” Bell replied, still grinning like an arse.

  Lucas blinked. “A servant?” Of all the things he’d expected his friend to say, those two words had been at the bottom of the list.

  “Yes. It’s perfect,” Worth added, nodding.

  Lucas turned to him and stared at the duke as if he’d lost his mind. “Perfect? Me? Being a servant? How is that perfect?”

  “That still doesn’t fix the problem of the ladies’ mothers recognizing him. Even if he’s dressed as a servant,” Clayton pointed out.

  “Ah, but it does,” Bell replied. “That’s the beauty of it. Most people don’t look at servants. They don’t pay attention to the majority of things beyond what they need and want. My training as a spy has taught me much about the human failure to notice details. I’d be willing to bet that not one of those ladies of the ton will look twice at Kendall if he’s dressed as a servant and performing servants’ duties. He’ll be wearing livery, knee breeches, and a powdered wig, after all.”

  “And it has the added advantage that a servant will be in a particularly excellent position to discover how a lady truly behaves,” Worth added, shoving his long dark hair off his forehead with his fingers. “I’d wager she’s at her best when addressing a potential bridegroom and at her worst when addressing a servant. God knows, I’ve seen it time and again from my mother.”

  “You’re both truly mad, you know that?” Lucas replied. He was becoming genuinely alarmed. Did his friends actually believe this madness would work? They couldn’t possibly.

  “I dunno,” Clayton replied, tugging at his cravat. “But it sounds like quite a lark to me. I’m perfectly willing to offer my upcoming house party as a venue for such an experiment.”

  “You’ve gone mad too, then,” Lucas declared. Bloody hell. He’d lost his final ally to madness.

  “Think about it,” Bell said, turning his attention to Lucas. “It has the potential to give you precisely what you want. An unencumbered look at the latest crop of debutantes behaving precisely how they would when they don’t know you are watching.”

  Lucas narrowed his eyes on the marquess. “It’s positively alarming that you don’t see the problem with this plan.”

  Bell shrugged. “What problem? The risk is not too great. If anyone recognizes you, we’ll simply ask that person to play along. No doubt they’ll enjoy the game too.”

  “What if I find a lady I fancy?” Lucas replied. “Am I supposed to simply rip off my livery and declare myself an earl and expect she’ll fall madly in love with me?”

  “Not at all,” Bell said. “I’m merely suggesting that you get to know these young ladies on the basis of how they treat servants. I’ve no doubt the best-natured ones will be kind and pleasant. Once you have a few candidates, you will know who to court next Season.”

  Lucas shook his head slowly. He pulled his mug back toward his chest. Perhaps more ale would cause this entire line of reasoning to make more sense. “You’re suggesting that I choose a future bride on the basis of how she treats a footman?”

  Bell arched a brow. “How did Lady Emily treat servants?” His words were slow and
deliberate.

  Lucas clenched his jaw. Damn Bell. The man always knew precisely what to say. Unwanted memories flashed through Lucas’s brain. Memories of the beautiful, accomplished Lady Emily snapping at her maid for bringing her lukewarm tea and dismissing a footman for catching the train of her gown in the coach door when he shut it.

  “I see by the look on your face that you recognize my point,” Bell drawled.

  Lucas considered it for a moment. Perhaps it was the four mugs of ale he’d consumed, but suddenly the entire plan was starting to sound…good to him. Not just good, but reasonable and helpful. He’d been trying to think of a way to enter the marriage mart without having to endure the ladies who were only after his money and his title. One encounter with such a woman was enough to last a lifetime. By God, his friend may well have just stumbled upon the perfect plan!

  “I’m willing to do it with you,” Bell tossed out casually with another shrug.

  “What?” Worth’s black eyebrows snapped together over his dark-blue eyes. “Why would you do it?”

  Bell straightened his shoulders and settled back into his chair. “Because I’ve narrowed down my hunt for the Bidassoa traitor to one of three possibilities.”

  “The man you’ve been hunting for the Home Office?” Worth clarified, lowering his voice.

  “Precisely the one,” Bell replied. “And if Clayton here will invite those three men to the house party, I will also pretend to be a servant to watch them.”

  Worth tossed back his head and laughed. “I should have known you had another motive all along, Bell. His Majesty’s work is never far from your mind. Even when we’re drinking.”

  Bell’s grin widened. “Why shouldn’t we use the opportunity for two useful pursuits instead of one? I’ll admit, I was already thinking about this plan before Lucas informed us of his search for a wife, but if it helps both of us, all the better, I say. We will truly have to behave as servants, however. We’ll have to wait on the guests and do all the tasks servants must do.”

  “Hmm. I do quite like the idea of spying going on under my roof.” Clayton took another long draught of ale. “Gives the whole affair a bit of intrigue. And since I haven’t been a soldier or served His Majesty otherwise, I feel it’s my duty to say yes to this ruse. Not to mention my love of an experiment. Will you do it, Lucas?”

  Lucas hefted his mug to his mouth and drained it. Then he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Now that Bell’s doing it with me, how can I refuse?”

  Worth accepted yet another new mug of ale from the barmaid and flipped a coin into the air for her tip. He gave her an outrageously flirtatious grin before turning his attention back to the conversation. “I, for one, am so interested in seeing such a situation play out, not only will I attend to watch the spectacle, I will also settle a large sum on the outcome as to whether you two can pull this off. Care to bet me?” He gave them both his most competitive stare.

  Bell rolled his eyes. “Everything’s a bet with you, Worth.”

  “Perhaps, but you must admit, this is a particularly tempting bet.” Worth lifted his chin toward the marquess. “Five hundred pounds say you are both outed by a keen-eyed mama within a sennight.”

  “I’ll take that bet!” Clayton declared, pointing a finger in the air. “You’ll be attending as a guest, I presume, Worthington.”

  Lucas’s snort of laughter interrupted Worth’s reply. “Of course he’s attending as a guest. Our mate Worth here could never pass for a footman.” He shook his head sympathetically toward the duke. “You couldn’t last one night serving others, I’m afraid.”

  Worth’s nostrils flared. He gathered himself up and straightened his shoulders. “I take offense to that. If you two sops can do it, surely I can.”

  Clayton blew air into his cheeks and shook his head, not quite meeting Worth’s gaze. “Hmm. I’m not exactly certain I agree with that, old chap.”

  Worth crossed his arms over his chest and glared at his friend. “You truly don’t think I could do it?”

  “No,” Clayton admitted, looking slightly sheepish. “Not if you actually have to fill the role of a servant and do real chores. No.”

  Worth’s gaze swung to Bell. “You don’t think I can do it either?” He almost looked hurt.

  Bell shook his head. “Not a chance. Apologies, Your Grace, but you’re far too used to being waited upon to wait on anyone else.”

  “But that’s how I know how to do it properly,” Worth shot back, a disgruntled expression on his face.

  Lucas snorted. “I’m afraid seeing one serve and actually serving are two entirely different things.”

  Worth’s eyes widened. “You’re a bloody earl for Christ’s sake. Why do you think you can serve?”

  “I may be an earl but I’m no stranger to hard work. I spent years in the Navy doing chores like picking oakum and deworming hardtack. And those two tasks were pleasant compared to some of my other tasks,” Lucas replied.

  Worth slapped a palm on the tabletop. The mugs bounced. “Fine. One thousand pounds says I can make it through the entire fortnight as a servant too. Or at least I can last longer than either of you.”

  “Now who is being mad?” Clayton asked, waggling his eyebrows at Worth.

  “I’m quite serious.” Worth’s jaw was locked. “One thousand pounds, gentlemen. Who will take the bet?”

  “I will,” all three called in unison.

  Chapter One

  Miss Frances Wharton winced when her mother came hurrying into the breakfast room. Mama had a smile on her face, which meant she’d received what she called “good news,” or more correctly, the opposite of the news Frances wanted to hear. Frances shut her copy of The Taming of the Shrew and pushed it behind a potted flower. Mama was always complaining that she read too much.

  “I’ve just come from Lady Cranberry’s house,” Mama declared. “She has confirmed that Sir Reginald Francis will be attending the Claytons’ country house party next week.”

  Frances exchanged a look with her younger sister who sat across from her. Abigail was only sixteen years old and had not yet come out, while Frances was eighteen and had just made her debut this Season. Her mother had set her sights on Sir Reginald Francis for her. Frances had no idea why. The man might be a knight, but he was also a loud, pompous ass. Not to mention his surname was Francis. She couldn’t imagine a life in which she was named Frances Francis. It presented so many issues.

  “I’m not feeling particularly well, Mama. I’m not certain I can attend the Claytons’ house party.” Frances pressed the back of her hand to her forehead in as dramatic a gesture as she could manage. She’d never been much for dramatics, but usually Mama seemed to appreciate them.

  “Nonsense,” Mama replied, clearly unmoved this time. “You are healthy as a horse, but even if you’d come down with the plague, I’d have the servants carry you to the house party.”

  Frances gave her mother a side-wise glance paired with a frown.

  “I wish I could attend,” Abigail said with a long, dramatic sigh. She too placed the back of her hand against her forehead. Now, her sister always had a flare for the dramatic. Somehow Abigail’s dramatics seemed so much more believable than her own. Frances made a mental note to ask her sister how to be both more dramatic and more believable at it.

  “You’ve yet to make your debut,” Mother replied to Abigail.

  “I know,” Abigail moaned, emphasizing her woe.

  Another mental note. Moan more.

  “But I would so love to attend a country house party filled with handsome gentlemen,” Abigail continued.

  “Filled with handsome gentlemen and Sir Reginald Francis,” Frances mumbled.

  Mama shot Frances a look that clearly indicated she did not find her daughter’s jest amusing in the least. “I fail to comprehend your objection to Sir Reginald,” Mama said, pointing her nose in the air.

  Frances crossed her arms over her chest and drummed her fingertips against the opposite elbows. “Let
’s see. He’s twice my age.”

  “Forty is hardly ancient.” Mama’s nose remained aloft.

  “He’s pompous,” Frances continued, still drumming her fingers.

  Mama waived her handkerchief in the air. “All men with titles are pompous. Your father was when I met him.”

  “He’s entirely uninteresting,” Frances continued, scratching her cheek.

  “I don’t know why you say that. He’s perfectly interesting to me,” Mama insisted.

  Frances arched a brow. “He spent the better part of an hour telling me about a game of whist he played four years ago. A hand he lost, by the by. And not a particularly compelling hand.”

  “Oh, Frances, you’re so particular.” Mama gave a long-suffering sigh and pressed her handkerchief to her throat. “You must remember,” her voice dropped to a whisper as if they were not alone in their own drawing room, shabby though it might be. “You don’t have much of a dowry and while I love you, you’re hardly a diamond of the first water.”

  “Thank you for the encouragement, Mama,” Frances replied, stifling her urge to laugh at her mother’s egregiousness.

  “I’m quite serious,” Mama continued, “Sir Reginald has shown interest. His may be the best marriage offer you get.”

  “If reciting a four-year-old tale about a card game is showing interest, I suppose you’re right, Mama, but I already told you, I’m perfectly happy for you to give my dowry to Abigail to ensure she makes a good match.”

  Papa’s penchant for gambling paired with his proclivity for losing had caused the family great financial distress of late, but Frances couldn’t understand why her mother wouldn’t be practical and double Abigail’s dowry instead. It only made sense. Apparently, her mother didn’t appreciate sense.

  Mama waived her handkerchief in the air again. “That is madness.”

  “It is not,” Frances replied. “Abigail is actually interested in finding a husband. With both of our dowries together, she might make a decent match. I don’t want a husband.” They’d had this argument at least a half dozen times, and her mother always dismissed it. It drove Frances mad. Mama had no concept that a young woman might actually sincerely have no desire to marry.