With her tray once again laden, she made another round through the common room. Her smile was not as bright this time, but she still collected some coins from the jolly patrons.
On her next return trip to the kitchen, Mr. Davies ran her to ground. “Get the food down the hall for the gentlemen now,” he said. His voice was still clipped, but his relaxed posture indicated that he felt better about the state of the common room. The grumbles had given way to convivial laughter as neighbors broke bread with one another.
Isabelle loaded down a wheeled cart for the patrons in the private dining room. She felt not the least bit concerned about encountering someone who might know her. First of all, though Marshall had introduced her to a few of his friends, she had encountered only a tiny portion of the haute ton. Those she had not met would have known her only by name, not on sight, and Isabelle used a false name here. Further, if by some remote chance there was someone she’d met in that dining room, she understood the way the privileged class operated. A nobleman might pay attention to the servants in his own house, but he never took notice of the servants in someone else’s home, much less a simple serving girl in a country inn. Her position was the perfect disguise.
She filled a covered serving dish with her beef stew and set a ladle alongside. A roasted chicken, along with an assortment of roasted vegetables, asparagus in crème sauce, two loaves of bread, fresh butter, and a slab of cheese also made their way to the tray, along with a bottle of Madeira, another of port, and a decanter of brandy. She then found room for the dishes, utensils, and glasses the meal required, and rolled the heavy cart down the hall.
The noise of the common room faded as she moved toward the dining room. She knocked on the door, waited for the perfunctory, “Enter,” opened the door, and pushed in the cart. Warm air rolled out. While the dining room afforded the upper class the privacy they demanded, there were drawbacks to the enclosed space — namely its oppressive stuffiness. The dishes on the cart tinkled and rattled against each other, a sound that had been previously drowned out by the multitude of voices.
Two men sat close together at the far end of the gleaming table, their heads bent over maps and other papers.
One had a commanding air that captured her attention at once. Broad shoulders, straight back, black hair, a firm jaw, and strong nose. He did not so much as look in her direction, but Isabelle instantly recognized the chiseled profile.
Marshall.
Shock numbed her face and limbs, while her heart launched into a panicked gallop. Her fists tightened around the cart handle, white knuckles threatening to burst through her skin.
What was he doing here? Stay calm, she ordered herself. She took in great gulps of air, and concentrated on acting like a serving girl. Her position was her disguise, she reminded herself.
Marshall’s companion, a ginger-haired fellow Isabelle did not recognize, groaned when she came in. “Finally! We’re famished. I thought we were being starved out.”
“Apologies, m’lord,” Isabelle said. It was a wonder she could talk with her heart in her throat. “There’s a dreadful crush of people wanting supper tonight.” She forced her limbs into motion, lifting the dishes from the cart to set the near end of the table for two.
“Still, it was bloody inconsiderate of you to leave us neglected.” The man’s lips pursed in a petulant, effeminate fashion.
“Give over, Hornsby,” Marshall said in a flat tone. “Mr. Davies told us there would be a wait.”
A flash of tenderness unexpectedly tugged at her heart at the sound of his voice. He was tired, she realized. She remembered that tone in his voice after he’d spent many hours in the greenhouse with his plants or working at his desk.
As quickly as she detected the sensation, she fought to squash it out. He didn’t need or deserve her pity. It was idiotic to feel badly for the pampered duke, while she — thanks to his wrongful divorce — worked long hours in a hot, steamy kitchen to survive.
Isabelle kept her face lowered and turned away from the men as much as possible. Still, she identified Marshall’s movements by sound. That Hornsby person flailed around. He sounded messy. By contrast, Marshall made careful, deliberate motions. She heard the tap of a stack of papers being made neat, followed by the light, smooth scrape of his chair moving back from the table. His even footsteps came her way. Her heart pounded, and she dropped the ladle onto the table. She winced at the clatter.
“Something smells delicious,” Marshall said.
Isabelle paused. Should she say anything? No, she decided. Probably not. Servants shouldn’t engage in conversation with their betters.