Except that he wasn’t mad—she knew that perfectly well. He simply didn’t care what anyone at the table thought, which was almost more shocking than madness itself.
“You’re dismissed, Madame Camille,” he said, watching her with that odd light in his eyes. “But I shall wish to confer with you as soon as possible. Tonight might be difficult, but by tomorrow my guests will make their inevitable departure and you’ll be more rested.”
There was an immediate babble of protest. Mrs. Griffiths announced her ability to monitor the menus in a tone far different from her previous failing accents; the young man was asserting that he and his sister weren’t demanded elsewhere at the moment; the young woman was whining to the viscount; the vicar was looking across at his wife with a certain resignation; and Sophie wanted to clap her hands over her ears and scream for them all to be quiet.
Alexander Griffiths’s voice silenced everyone. “You must look to your health in this time of grief, Mama,” he said, and there was no missing the cynicism in his voice. “And Lady Christabel, you and your brother have been too generous in keeping us company in this house of mourning, but I know you’ll be relieved to be on your way.”
“No such thing, my lord,” Lady Christabel said with a false laugh. “I wish to provide succor to you in this time of need.”
Alexander Griffiths let his slow, insolent gaze slide down Lady Christabel’s fashionably flat front, then lifted his lids to look at Sophie’s more generous curves. No one in the room could miss such a blatant, wordless insult.
Lady Christabel’s face turned crimson, her brother began to bluster, and even Sophie could feel the heat rise in her cheeks.
There was nothing she could do, and her presence only made the situation worse. “If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Griffiths, my lord, I still have work to see to.” Before anyone could grant her permission, she simply slipped past Dickens’s back, through the butler’s pantry, and down the curving stairs into the kitchens.
She hadn’t been upstairs that long, but the place was already spotless. Prunella met her as she reached the bottom of the stairs and led her into the kitchen. The staff met her with a round
of enthusiastic applause, and for a moment Sophie felt almost tearful. The fulsome compliments of those idiots upstairs meant nothing. This was the real tribute.
She applauded them in return, and Prunella brought her to the table, where a blessedly fresh pot of tea and the final two vol-au-vent swans awaited her. “You’ve done a right fine job, miss,” Prunella said heartily. “We all agree, and we’ll follow you wherever you lead us. Not to worry about any trouble from hereabouts. We’ll be more than happy to see you safe.”
Sophie was sinking gratefully into the chair—her feet and her back were suddenly aching, now that the excitement had died down, and she looked up into Prunella’s eyes. What was this now? First the viscount making odd suggestions, and now the kitchen staff was hinting at knowledge they could not have. Not a single one of them was from the area; none of them had ever worked in the house during the thirty years the Russell family had been in residence. No one could know.
She had no choice but to let it go. She was far too weary to figure it out. She hadn’t even had time to unpack, and right now all she wanted was a hot bath and the chance to crawl into bed. “You are all very kind,” she said, and this time she meant it.
Dickens had reappeared. “The party has disbanded, and there will be no need to bring tea and coffee for the ladies, nor port for the gentlemen. I can say with certainty that the Lady Christabel and Lord Frederic will be leaving in the morning, which means Mrs. Griffiths will soon go back to having a tray in her room and our meals should be a great deal simpler. Thank you, Madame Camille, for a truly inspired dinner. The rest of you, you’re finished for the evening.”
Sophie had taken her first sip of the tea, perfectly brewed, as she listened to Dickens. The rest of them were finished for the evening? What did that mean for her?
Dickens waited until the last of the staff departed, even giving Prunella a meaningful eye as she hovered protectively.
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” Prunella announced stubbornly as she headed for the stairs that would lead her up to the attics. “And don’t let Mr. Dickens tell you anything different.”
Sophie braced herself. What next, she thought wearily.
Dickens waited until Prunella disappeared. “His lordship wishes to see you in the library at half past eleven.” The butler made it sound like the voice of God had decreed it.
“I don’t think so.” She drained her tea, then poured herself another cup.
“I will show you—I beg your pardon?” Dickens blinked at her and her arrant blasphemy.
She took another sip from the tea, then reached for one of the swans. “I said I don’t think so. I am weary, and I intend to go straight to my bed once I finish my tea. I expect tomorrow will be a long day, and I have no intention of lengthening this one.”
“But his lordship—”
“Can go hang,” Sophie said ruthlessly.
“Madame Camille!”
“Mr. Dickens,” she replied in a civil tone. “Please tell his lordship that I’ll be happy to wait on him in the morning at any time he requires. But right now I need my rest.”
Dickens didn’t look happy, but he knew an unshakable decision when he heard it. “Yes, madame,” he said.
She felt a smile curve her mouth. “Come along, Mr. Dickens, how bad will it be? It’s not your fault I’m being a recalcitrant female—he won’t blame you.”
The butler didn’t appear any too certain of that fact. “Yes, madame,” he said again. “We usually put out breakfast at nine in the morning, but with the Forresters leaving we might provide earlier trays. I doubt they’ll want to sit at table with his lordship again.”
“It got that much worse after I left?” she said sympathetically.