How to Tame Your Duke(8)

But this was different. Emilie was dressed not in pearls and silk, but  in padded black broadcloth and curling whiskers. The eyes turned in her  direction brimmed not with awe, but with an impertinent and even hostile  curiosity. She recognized one face: the maid from this morning,  thin-cheeked and wide-eyed. She was the only one smiling.

"Why, good morning, sir! Ye nearly missed yer breakfast, nobbut like I warned ye."

"I beg your pardon," Emilie said. "I am unfamiliar with the plan of the house."

Somebody tittered. An older woman, to the right of the empty seat at the  head of the table, set down her spoon and dabbed at the corner of her  mouth. "Good morning, Mr. Grimsby. I am Mrs. Needle, the housekeeper.  Ye're welcome here, of course, though I'm sure Lucy will be happy to  bring you a tray in t'morning, if that's yer preference. Ye may take  Lionel's place at t'left. He's serving upstairs at t'moment."                       
       
           



       

Lionel, who sat to the left of the butler's seat: No doubt he was the  head footman, and now busy anticipating Ashland's wishes in the  breakfast room. Emilie ran her gaze once more around the table, more  carefully this time, taking note. After all, servants were just as  conscious of rank and precedence as their masters, and the appearance of  a tutor had likely disturbed everything. Tutors and governesses  occupied that liminal space between stairs, neither servant nor lord, of  the educated class and yet a household employee. Hence the offer of a  breakfast tray, which would make things easier for all concerned.  Lionel, whose place she'd usurped, would be delighted.

But here she was. She couldn't turn tail and run.

Emilie walked around the table, head high, and pulled out Lionel's  chair. His place was already set with bowl, plate, fork, knife, and  spoon. She sat down and nodded at Lucy, who sat on the opposite side,  several places down. "May I trouble you for the toast, Miss Lucy?" she  asked.

Lucy smiled. Her eyelashes swept down. "Why, of course, Mr. Grimsby."

Emilie ate quietly, head bowed slightly to her plate, doing her best to  be invisible in the heavy silence. The clatter of cutlery began to  resume. Someone asked a low question; someone answered a bit more  loudly. Emilie drank her tea.

"Ooh, Lucy," said one of the maids, "they've another story in t'paper  today about them lost princesses in Germany. Pictures and owt."

The tea made an immediate detour down Emilie's windpipe.

"Ooh, have they?" exclaimed Lucy. "What do they look like? Are they beautiful? Have they got them tiaras on?"

"Yes, great big ones, and t'great blue sashes across their chests. I  thought t'oldest one were t' prettiest. She's got lovely curling hair,  just like yers. They do say . . ."

"I say, are ye all right, Mr. Grimsby?" asked Lucy.

"Quite all right," Emilie gasped, between spasms.

"Have ye heard about t'princesses, Mr. Grimsby? It's t'most terrifying story."

"No, I haven't. Mrs. Needle, may I trouble you"-cough, cough-"for the teapot?"

Mrs. Needle poured Emilie a solicitous cup. "Small sips, Mr. Grimsby. That's it."

"It's nobbut some little kingdom in Germany, Mr. Grimsby, and t'king . . ."

"T'prince, Lucy," said the other maid knowingly. "It ain't never a  kingdom, it's a prin-ci-pality. Ruled by a prince. That's what t'paper  said."

Lucy sighed. "Them Germans. Anyroad, t'prince died a pair of month ago,  out hunting, shot dead with his poor son-in-law, t'one what was just  married to his oldest daughter. And a week after, when they was supposed  to crown t'oldest daughter as ruler-the prince never having no sons  what might take over-they had all gone missing. Every one. Even t'Royal  Governess." She leaned forward and said it with capital letters.

Emilie cleared her throat at last. "How shocking."

"And do you know what t'morning post do say today?" The other maid  bounced in her chair. "They think t'princesses came to England!"

"England! Oh, Jane!" said Lucy.

"Whatever for?" whispered Emilie.

"Why, because their mother were English, seems like. She were t'sister of t'Duke of Olympia," said Jane.

A single sigh drew forth around the table. Emilie spotted a pot of  marmalade near her teacup and snaked her hand around the china to snare  it.

"His Grace knows t'Duke of Olympia. Great friends, they are," said one  of the lesser footmen, down the table. "Thieves ain't in it."

"Imagine," said Lucy dreamily, fingering her teacup. "Imagine if them  princesses was to be hiding right here in t'village. Imagine if we was  to be standing next to them at t'shops."

"Nonsense," said Mrs. Needle. "I doubt a gaggle of fine princesses could  find their way to Yorkshire on a map. Anyroad, they'd be in disguise,  in course."

Emilie's marmalade spilled onto the tablecloth.

Lucy snapped her fingers. "I could spot a princess in disguise, just like that."

"You couldn't," said Jane.

"I could. It's sommat in t'way she looks and talks," said Lucy. "She couldn't never fool me."

Emilie dabbed furiously at the marmalade.

"Twaddle. Ye've never met a princess in yer life, Lucy Mudge."

"I saw that Princess Alexandra in London once't, didn't I?"

Jane laughed. "From how many street away?"                       
       
           



       

"Don't matter. I could tell."

"Ye couldn't."

"I could!"

"Lucy," said Mrs. Needle, "have ye tidied up the schoolroom yet? I'm  sure t'gentlemen are being to need it this morning. Isn't that right,  Mr. Grimsby?"

Emilie folded her marmalade-smeared napkin next to her plate. Her face was still warm. "Yes, madam, if it's convenient."

A suppressed laugh from the female side of the table.

"That'll be enough, Lucy," said Mrs. Needle.

"Well, it ain't as though t'young master is being to be up for hours yet . . ."

"That be enowt, Lucy," Mrs. Needle said again. "You will lay a fire in  t'schoolroom directly after breakfast and give t'room a thorough  cleaning."

"Oh, as to that, Mrs. Needle," said Lucy, "I'm happy to make owt ready for Mr. Grimsby."

Emilie looked up in surprise. Were Lucy's eyelashes actually fluttering? At her?

"I'm sure she is," said Jane petulantly.

"Lucy's duties are never yer concern, Jane." Mrs. Needle drank her tea.

"I never do mind serving Mr. Grimsby mysen," Lucy said. "Even though I  were up while all hour last night, waiting for His Grace and his  lordship, and I'm being to be up again tonight . . ."

"That will be all, Lucy." Mrs. Needle's voice was sharp.

". . . and t'Lord knows how late His Grace will be out this time . . ."

"Lucy."

A footman coughed next to Emilie's left shoulder. Someone's chair  scraped lightly against the wooden floor. Emilie glanced up through her  eyelashes and watched Lucy finger the handle of her knife, her lips  pursed in a dainty pout. She mumbled something deep in her throat.

"What was that, Lucy?" snapped Mrs. Needle.

Lucy looked up. "I said, nobbut what I blame t'poor man."

"His Grace is not a man, Lucy. He is a duke." Mrs. Needle reached for the teapot and refreshed her cup. "Ye may be excused."

"Aye, ma'am." Lucy rose, gathered her empty plate and teacup, and left the room.

Mrs. Needle picked up the sugar tongs and selected a lump. Her fingers  were clean and round tipped, the nails trimmed nearly to the quick. "Ye  will pardon us, Mr. Grimsby. We've all served together since His Grace  first came to live here, and many afore. It makes us all a little  overfamiliar."

"Not at all, madam. I quite understand."

Footsteps thumped down the nearby stairs, and a moment later the  black-and-white figure of Simpson the butler filled the doorway with  correctness. "His Grace has finished breakfast," he announced, and the  maids picked up their teacups in unison and drained them.

Mrs. Needle wiped her mouth and stood. "Girls, clear t'breakfast room.  Jane, ye may set another place for Lionel. Mr. Simpson, how is His Grace  this morning?" There was something oddly warm and solicitous in her  voice.

Emilie had finished her tea. Her breakfast sat in lumps in her belly.  From the corner of her eye, she watched Simpson approach, saw his gaze  rest for an instant on the spot of marmalade on the tablecloth next to  her plate.

"His Grace is well enough," said Simpson, sitting down at the head of  the table with a flip of his tails. He reached for his teacup and said,  without preamble, in his crackling voice, "Mr. Grimsby, when it's  convenient, you may attend His Grace in the study. One of the footmen  will show you the way."