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

  Mama shook her head. “Stop saying such ludicrous things. I would have the doctor pay you a visit if we had the money for such extravagances.”

  Frances sighed. She would not win this argument. As far as Mama was concerned, making a decent match was the only thing in the world worth thinking about. Sonless, Lady Winfield spent far too much of her time worrying over her two daughters’ futures and their choices of husbands. It wasn’t news to Frances that she was not exactly the most highly sought-after debutante of the Season. In addition to her father merely being a baron, and her lack of a decent dowry, she’d spent far too much time this past Season sitting with the other wallflowers. When a potential suitor did ask her to dance, she quickly frightened him off by talking at length about her plans to work with the magistrates to convince Parliament to change the poor laws. At present, she had her cap set firmly against the awful Employment Bill that would be up for vote as soon as Parliament reconvened in the autumn.

  Frances had been barely more than a decade old when her father had taken her for a walk in Hyde Park and they’d seen a group of poor people protesting outside a politician’s house. The small crowd had been angry and sweaty and carrying pitchforks. They were yelling about their treatment under the law. Her father had tried to hurry her past the scene, but she’d insisted upon stopping and listening.

  She’d been horrified by what she’d heard. None of the crowd’s complaints seemed to be outrageous demands. She’d vowed that day that when she came of age, she’d do anything and everything she could to help them. As a debutante, she had few opportunities to change policies but what she did have, upon occasion, was the attention of some of the most influential members of Parliament’s House of Lords. During dances at ton balls, she’d been known to say things such as, “Did you know, Lord Sharton, that often the poor are forced to pay fines they cannot afford and are thrown back in prison where there is no hope of them ever paying them?” or “Lord Abemarle, are you aware that poor prisoners are tried for their lives with no counsel whatsoever? How can we say we live in a civilized Society when such a thing is true?”

  Often her dancing partner would get a look on his face equivalent to a hare caught in a trap and hurry her back to the sidelines the moment the dance was through, never to call upon her again.

  Mama had warned Frances countless times to stop being so unpleasant. That was the word she liked to use for Frances’s little ‘outbursts,’ but Frances refused to stop. Searching for a husband held little appeal to her, but while she had the ear of some of the most powerful men in Parliament she might as well make herself useful. She’d continued to be ‘unpleasant’ throughout the Season until nearly every eligible chap in the ton all but ran from her when they saw her coming.

  Sir Reginald Francis, it turned out, had been out of the country for most of the Season. He was also wealthy, according to Mama, so wealthy he apparently was willing to overlook her pitiful dowry. That was why Mama held out hope for a match with him and why Mama was so eager to cart her off to Lord Clayton’s house party.

  “You must promise me you’ll be pleasant,” Mama continued, wagging a finger at Frances.

  “When am I unpleasant?” Frances winked at Abigail behind their mother’s back.

  “You know I’m referring to your outbursts, dear,” Mama replied, dabbing at her forehead with her handkerchief.

  Frances shrugged. “I simply don’t see why I should be forced to take the first offer I receive.”

  “The first offer is usually the best offer, dear,” Mama said. “Besides, to date you’ve had no offers, so I hardly think it matters in this case. I’ve heard from several people who know him well that Sir Reginald isn’t put off by young ladies who speak up about politics and such.” Mama pressed her handkerchief to her lips this time, her eyebrows dipped in worry over her gray eyes. “I can only hope that’s true.”

  Frances frowned. She might believe such a thing was true of Sir Reginald if she hadn’t already met him. The auspicious occasion had been last week at the final party of the Season. He’d talked nonstop about himself. Mama had watched her closely during their introductions and had immediately interrupted Frances when she’d attempted to bring up the Employment Bill, that hideous piece of legislation that some equally horrible member of the House of Lords was backing. A Lord Kendall. The votes were close according to Frances’s sources, which was mainly the newspaper coupled with her pressing her ear against her father’s study door when his friends came to visit and talk about politics. The vote had been put off, however, until the next session of Parliament and Frances had no intention of keeping quiet on the matter whenever she found herself in the company of a peer. And if she ever crossed paths with the hideous Lord Kendall, she fully intended to give him an earful.

  “I can only hope Sir Reginald doesn’t bore me to tears with talk about a faro game from a decade ago,” Frances said, sighing.

  Mama rolled her eyes. “Regardless, we’re leaving for Devon on Friday.” She turned toward the door. “I’m off to ask Albina to begin packing the trunks. Prepare yourself, and no talking about politics.” Her mother turned back sharply to face her. “Do you understand me, Frances Regina Thurgood Wharton?”

  Frances pointed a finger in the air. “The Employment Bill isn’t necessarily polit—”

  “No talking about bills. Or the poor. Or Employment. Or anything of the sort.” Mama huffed.

  “Fine.” Frances briefly considered crossing her fingers behind her back, but that would be dishonest, and she was honest. Sometimes to a fault. “Very well, I promise not to discuss it. At least not with Sir Reginald.”

  “Or any eligible gentleman of the ton,” Mama finished, arching a disapproving brow at her.

  Frances posted her fists on her hips. “Very well. Or any eligible gentlemen of the ton,” she parroted back.

  “Excellent. We might just get you married off yet.” Mama smiled, picked up her burgundy silk skirts, and sailed from the room.

  The door had barely shut behind their mother when Abigail turned bright blinking gray eyes toward Frances and asked quite seriously, “What are you planning to do, Frannie? You weren’t crossing your fingers, I saw you. Oh, were you crossing your toes?”

  Frances couldn’t help her grin. Her sister knew 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 th
e 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 much more comfortable around horses than people.”

  “Not to worry,” Clayton assured Lucas. “He’ll have to deal with the guests even as a groomsman. We do quite a bit of riding during my house parties.”

  “See there,” Worth replied smugly, straightening his shoulders.

  “I still say you won’t be able to do it,” Bell said as the tailor measured his inseam.

  “I’m flattered by your faith in me, Bell,” Worth shot back. The tailor’s assistant was measuring his shoulders. “No padding,” Worth told the man. “I don’t need it.”

  “Very well,” Lucas replied. “But I intend to visit the stables from time to time to see how you’re getting on.”

  “Please do,” Worth replied.

  “I think I have everything I need, my lord.” The tailor stood, gathering his scraps of materials and the string he’d used to measure. The assistant fell in line by his side.

  “Thank you, Mr. Kirby,” Clayton replied. “The butler will see you both out.”

  The tailors left the room and Clayton rang for Mrs. Cotswold, the housekeeper. The formidable lady arrived within moments. She wore a dark gown that swept the floor, a perfectly starched white apron, and a ring of keys that was attached to her waist by a belt. Clayton had already informed them that Mrs. Cotswold was the housekeeper at his estate. He’d sent for her ahead of the house party to assist his friends.

  When the housekeeper entered the room, all three prospective servants stood up straight. They were queued in order of height, in front of her. She walked along the line of them and then turned to face her employer. “I’m not at all certain about this, my lord.”

  “I understand it’s going to be difficult to think of them as servants, Mrs. Cotswold,” Clayton began, “but as I’ve said, I give you and the other servants leave to treat them no differently than one of your own for the next fortnight.”

  “That’s not my concern,” the lady replied, her mouth tight. “The fact is, I’m not certain any of them are up to the task. The duties of a servant are many and varied and the hours are long and can be quite taxing.”

  Clayton pressed his lips together. He looked as if he were struggling to keep from laughing. “I understand perfectly, Mrs. Cotswold. They’ve all agreed to do the best they can. Haven’t you, gentlemen?”

  All three dutifully nodded.

  Lucas stepped forward. “I’d like to thank you for taking time from your busy schedule to help us, Mrs. Cotswold. I promise to take the instruction quite seriously. I will be as fine a footman as I possibly can.”

  Mrs. Cotswold inclined her head to him. “Thank you, my lord. I appreciate that.”

  “And I’ve already begun my study of the tasks of a valet,” Bell said. “I spoke at length with my man over the last few days. He’s informed me that watching over the candles is a large part of his work. I never knew.”

  “The candles are only a portion of it, my lord,” Mrs. Cotswold said, shaking her head slowly. She still looked highly dubious.

  “I’m ready to learn,” Bell replied, bowing to the austere woman.

  Mrs. Cotswold turned to Worth next. He looked as if he were trying to squelch a smile. “What about you, Your Grace?” Her brow was arched, and she looked nothing but skeptical.

  “All I can say in defense of myself is that I have quite a large sum of money riding on this and I hate to lose bets,” Worth replied, staring directly over her head toward the mantelpiece.

  “You’ve bet on this?” Mrs. Cotswold asked, her eyebrow inching even higher.

  “Yes.” Worth remained as still as a statue.

  Mrs. Cotswold’s shoulders relaxed the slightest bit. “Well, then, why didn’t you say so? I’ve little doubt you’ll be the best footman of the lot, Your Grace.”

  Worth cleared his throat. “Groomsman.”

  “Oh, so you won’t be in the house?” the housekeeper clarified.

  “No.” Still standing at attention, Worth lifted his chin.

  “That’s probably for the best,” Mrs. Cotswold replied. She turned away from them and all four of the men exchanged laughing glances. None of them dared to utter a sound, however, as the housekeeper turned toward them once more, her hands folded behind her back and said, “We shall begin with the basics.”

  “Which are?” Lucas asked.

  “How to clean silver,” Mrs. Cotswold replied, eyeing each of them in turn as if looking for any objections to that particular task.

  The three future servants nodded in unison.

  “What else?” Bell asked.

  “For you?” Mrs. Cotswold replied. “How to welcome guests and valet them properly including how to see to a gentlemen’s clothing and boots.”

  Bell nodded. “Of course.”

  “And?” Lucas prompted.

  “For a footman? How to trim the lamps and properly wait upon the dinner table,” Mrs. Cotswold replied.

  “I suppose I should just totter off to the mews then,” Worth said, already heading for the door.

  “Not so quickly, Rhys,” Mrs. Cotswold said.

  Worth froze, a look of utter surprise stalled on his features.

  The barest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of the housekeeper’s lips. “You do realize servants are often called by their Christian names?”

  Worth cleared his throat and shook off his astonishment. If a housekeeper calling him by his first name wasn�
�t enough to stop him, apparently her admonishment was. “Of course,” he replied, turning back to face her and inclining his head. “But why wouldn’t I be trained in the mews?”

  “In due time,” Mrs. Cotswold replied, “but first there are things you’ll need to learn from me.”

  “Such as?” Worth arched a brow.

  “Such as how to put rugs around a lady’s legs,” the housekeeper replied with nary a pause, “which you may be called upon to do if our guests partake of a ride in a coach.”

  Worth frowned. “It’s August.”

  Mrs. Cotswold nodded. “Some ladies are quite cold even in August.”

  “Very well.” Worth sighed. “Anything else?”

  “Yes. A great many things. Such as…how not to appear as if you’re listening to your master’s conversations.” She gave them all a tight smile. “Shall we begin?”

  Chapter Three

  Viscount Clayton’s Country Estate, Devon, August 1814

  Frances stepped out of the carriage at Clayton Manor and breathed a sigh of relief. No one else was in the vicinity. She might be able to make it to her rooms without an uncomfortable encounter with Sir Reginald. Albina, their maid, had already been carted away to join the other lady’s maids. Poor Albina was serving as a cook’s helper, a housemaid, and a lady’s maid at this point. The money to pay for a full staff of servants had long ago been gambled away by Papa.

  “Lady Winfield,” said Lady Clayton, their beautiful hostess, who stood by the front door to greet them. “I’m so pleased you and your lovely daughter could join us.”

  Frances smiled at Lady Clayton and executed a short curtsy for the woman. Lady Clayton was young and lovely and seemed ever so nice. They’d met during the events of the Season and developed an instant liking.