Annette Blair - Scandalous Brides

Pearl had to admire Hettie’s command, putting the man in his place without betraying them. She herself would have botched it, but Hettie knew this world as Pearl did not—yet.

The footman dipped his head respectfully, rather to Pearl’s surprise. “No, nothin’ like that, ma’am. Just some extra brass, is all. Lord Mountheath be hiring on extra help for the evening. So if you’ve the night off and wishing a bit on the side…”

“Just a moment,” said Hettie, and pulled Pearl aside. “Well, my lady?” she whispered. “It’s a chance to put your plan to the test—but it’s risky.”

Risky indeed! Pearl herself was expected at Lady Mountheath’s ridotto tonight, and nearly everyone she knew who was currently in Town was likely to be there.

“Do you think it would be possible for me to work only in the kitchens, or somewhere else out of sight of the guests?” She’d never liked the Mountheaths, and suspected their servants would like them even less. If she really wanted to see firsthand the hardships of the working class, this seemed a heaven-sent chance.

“I’m sure they can find you a dirty job somewhere—Purdy.” The twinkle in Hettie’s eyes told her that her abigail expected her to back down, which only stiffened her resolve.

“I’ll do it,” Pearl said with a determined nod. “Though I’d very much prefer it not involve chamber pots,” she added hastily, hoping she would not live to regret this mad, if noble, scheme.

Hettie turned back to the footman. “What positions are they hiring for?”

An hour later, Pearl found herself in the Mountheaths’ kitchens, transferring tray after tray of tiny pastries from the enormous oven to glittering crystal platters. This wasn’t turning out at all as she’d expected, she decided, as she burned her fingers for the third time. Kitchen maids did not wear gloves, of course—which she now realized was foolish. Surely they needed them far more than did any lady in a drawing room.

In addition to her lofty social goals, Pearl had wished to discover how people might respond to her without the aura of the Duke of Oakshire surrounding her. So far, she was simply being ignored. She burned her fingers yet again, this time more severely. With a yelp, she dropped the hot tray, scattering its dainties over the kitchen floor. Muttering an apology, trying to ignore the mutterings of “clumsy wench,” she knelt to sweep up the ruined pastries.

“Here, I’ll help you with that.”

Glancing up in surprise at the masculine voice, she found herself face to face with one of the serving men. Though his brown hair and regular features were not much out of the ordinary way, there was something compelling, even magnetic, about the intelligence—and intensity—of his dark, dark eyes.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “I’m… not normally so fumble fingered.”

He took her bare hand in his much larger one—also ungloved—and turned it over. An alarming tingle shot through her at his touch—perhaps the first time in her life a male hand had touched hers, skin to skin. She nearly snatched her hand away, a stinging rebuke for his impertinence on the tip of her tongue, but remembered just in time that the servant “Purdy” must not react the way Lady Pearl would.

“You should put something cool on that before it blisters.”His voice was rich, deep, and surprisingly cultured—not at all what she’d expected of a below-stairs servant. He held her gaze as securely as her hand, and something unfamiliar stirred deep within her.

Vainly, she reminded herself that this man was not of her class at all. “Thank you,” she repeated, gently disengaging her hand. “I’ll do that.”

She rose, but already he had whisked a damp dish towel from a nearby table. With a smile and a too-familiar twinkle in his eye, he wrapped it around her damaged fingers, reestablishing that disturbing flesh-to-flesh contact.

“‘Ere, now! None o’ that!” exclaimed the head cook’s assistant. Pearl released the serving man’s hand guiltily. “Back to work, both of you, if you’re wanting to get your shillin’ for the evening.” She thrust a filled tray into the man’s hands. “Take this out to the buffet tables, then hop it back here for another.”

With a ghost of a bow in Pearl’s direction, he complied, his eyes still twinkling.

Pearl watched him go, a curious frown pulling her brows together. No, he didn’t act like a servant at all. But then, what did she really know of how servants behaved toward each other?

“You there! Purdy! Get the rest of those crab puffs onto trays. We’re falling behind in here.”

With a start at her assumed name, Pearl quickly turned back to her task, taking more care for her fingers, which still seemed to tingle—though not from the burns. She filled tray after tray, gaining confidence in the task. This wasn’t so hard.

“More servers!” the butler called down the kitchen stairs. “We still need more servers out here.” He followed his words into the kitchen and glanced haughtily around at the hired drudges—a motley group, to be sure. “You there!”

Cautiously, Pearl glanced over her shoulder at the butler, to find him staring straight at her. “M-me?”

He gave a single, supercilious nod. “You appear the most presentable of this lot. You’ll do.” With a jerk of his head, he indicated that she should follow him.

Pearl froze. She couldn’t go out there! If she were recognized, the scandal would be… well, more than she cared to imagine. Wildly, she glanced around the kitchen for Hettie, but she was nowhere to be seen.

“This instant, missie, if you please.” Pearl had met royalty who exuded less authority than this man. Mechanically, she moved to obey, hoping a solution might magically present itself.

“Clear away the empty trays and bottles from the buffet tables and bring them back here,” he said carefully, having apparently decided she was a half-wit. “Mrs. Mann will tell you what to do next. And you won’t need this.” Before she could stop him, he whipped off the kerchief she’d been wearing to conceal her hair.

Again she stopped, but by now the attention of the entire kitchen was focused on her, so she meekly followed the butler up the stairs. Emerging at the top, she quickly surveyed the glittering ballroom, thronged with people, nearly every one of whom knew her. She should have quit on the spot rather than risk this, she realized belatedly. What was a shilling, after all? A single button on one of her fine gowns was worth more than that.

She kept her head down, avoiding eye contact, as Hettie had taught her. And, amazingly, no one seemed to notice her. The eyes of the noble assemblage slid over her as though she were invisible.

In the midst of her relief, she felt a sudden pang. Did she regard servants—not counting Hettie, of course—in this same dismissive way? She’d never thought about it before.

Pearl reached the buffet table without incident and began stacking trays, trying to cause as little clatter as possible, hoping to avoid notice. So far, so good. As soon as she returned to the kitchens, she would find Hettie and leave.

She placed a final tray atop the stack, added a few empty bottles, and headed back the way she had come.

Head down, she saw no faces, only feet. Even so, she had to pass near one all-too-familiar pair: her stepmother’s, in the new gold-laced slippers she had exhibited with pride just last week. How had Obelia explained Pearl’s absence tonight? she wondered.

Please, please , she chanted silently to herself as she slipped past. Her incoherent prayer apparently successful, she neared the edge of the room and the safety of the kitchens. She had almost reached the door at the top of the stairs when a feminine voice accosted her.