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Her gaze met his in the glass. “I have decided to hold a dinner party, perhaps Thursday next? That gives us almost a week.” She gave a final pat to her curls and turned back to him, tilting her head to one side, her strong, black eyebrows arched upward. “Think you are up to it, or would you prefer I wait until you are more familiar with the running of this house?”

He blinked, wondering how to respond. Her glance and tone held a mixture of inquiry and amusement—and just a hint of challenge. Or was he reading too much into them?

He realized she was awaiting his opinion. “Thursday? As you wish, my lady,” he replied with a slight dip of head, as he deemed a proper butler would.

She gave a slight laugh. “At least I can be assured the silver will be at its best.”

“The silver? The silver, yes, of course. Indeed.” What a dunderhead she must take him for. How did one behave as a butler? Staid and dignified, like Rumford, he imagined. His own conduct fell far short. Poor old Rumford had only had a few days to take Rees through his paces.

Lady Wexham placed a slim forefinger to her slightly pursed lips, emphasizing their pretty bow and crimson shade. “I shall discuss the dinner party with you and Mrs. Finlay when we get together this morning. Will you let her know?”

He stepped back from her, sensing dismissal. “Yes, my lady. At the usual time?” One of the duties of butler and housekeeper, he’d quickly come to learn, was a meeting each morning with the mistress of the house to go over her day.

She smiled in reply—a devastating smile that always left Rees weak in the knees. Was that how she wangled state secrets from highly placed officials? “Yes. I shall be in the morning room as soon as I change out of this outfit.”

“Very well. We shall await your convenience.”

“Thank you, Mr. MacKinnon.” Unlike most employers, she always addressed him by “mister,” which he found oddly respectful. He’d fully expected to be ordered hither and thither as “MacKinnon.” It had made it more difficult to dislike this suspected traitor.

She walked around him, and he quickly backed out of her way as she headed for the staircase.

Under the guise of placing her hat and riding crop on the side table for the odious lady’s maid to pick up later, Rees watched Lady Wexham ascend the stairs from his vantage near the mirror. Her every movement was graceful. Was it because she was French by birth? Or was it simply because she was the daughter of a marquis and the widow of an earl?

When she disappeared from sight, Rees caught his own reflection in the glass so lately occupied by Lady Wexham’s image. Did he really look so forbidding? He made a conscious effort to ease the frown from his forehead.

But it did nothing to alter the knot of disgust in his chest at the
appearance he presented. How he hated this uniform of butler! He must be grateful that a butler was not obliged to wear knee breeches and powder his hair the way footmen must—although Lady Wexham did not require the latter of those in her employ. According to Tom, Lady Wexham said it reminded her too forcibly of why the French had revolted.

No, Rees brought his thoughts back to his own appearance. A gentleman would never wear black trousers with his black coat unless it was for evening wear. Neither would he wrap a black neck cloth around his shirt collar. Although the black, long-tailed coat and pants and the starched white shirt were finely cut, they were the distinguishing features of a manservant. They set him apart from any gentleman walking past the bow windows that fronted this large terrace house in Mayfair.

A gentleman’s neckwear was bleached white, with an occasional spotted or printed one, especially if the gentleman considered himself a sporting man. His waistcoats ranged from the snowiest white to every hue of the rainbow, of the finest cloth and silk thread. And his pantaloons or breeches were buff or fawn colored.

But black was the color of service.

Rees would rather go back to the baggy trousers and striped jersey of a simple sailor in His Majesty’s navy than sport this frieze coat provided for him by Rumford.

If his mother or sister should ever chance to see him—heaven forbid!

Thankfully, they were safely tucked away in a village far enough from London that they rarely came to town. He was not at liberty to tell anyone of the double life he was leading. It would only cause disbelief and anguish to his poor widowed mother if she thought Rees’s father had toiled so long and hard to provide his son with a gentleman’s upbringing to see him now working as a butler, no matter how fashionable the establishment. No, his mother’s patriotism would not extend so far.

Rees turned away from the mirror. It would do no good to chafe at
his circumstances. He was here for a reason, and see it to its conclusion he must.

Céline faced her butler and housekeeper across the small round table in the breakfast room, a notepad in front of her. “I have compiled a list of twenty, including myself. I shall send the invitations out today.”

“Very good, my lady.” Mrs. Finlay was keeping her own list of what must be done in preparation for the dinner party. Céline knew she could trust her. She had proven an excellent housekeeper since the day Céline as a young bride had first met her.

Céline laid down her gold pencil. “I shall discuss the menu with Gaspard as soon as we finish here. By the by, I shall not be dining in this evening. I’m expected at Marlborough House for dinner and then shall be attending the opera.”

Mrs. Finlay made a note. “I shall inform Gaspard.” She glanced at MacKinnon. “You will let Jacob know to have the carriage ready.”

“The rest of the servants may have the evening off as soon as I leave,” Céline told her butler. “You, too, for that matter.”

“But the door—”

Céline waved aside his concern. “The groom will take care of that.” She tapped her pencil against her notepaper. “For the dinner party, I think the blue Sèvres service?”

“Yes, my lady.” Mrs. Finlay made another notation.

Céline turned her attention back to her new butler. If only old Mr. Rumford hadn’t taken that fall. He’d be out six weeks, at least, the physician had told him. But he’d insisted that his nephew, Harrison MacKinnon, was up to the task.

He’s been footman at Telford House in Derbyshire these last eight years, and now he’s been made under-butler. It’s a large estate, my lady, with upward of a hundred servants, so he can be spared,
her old butler had written her.
The butler and I are old friends. He wouldn’t begrudge lending me Harry for a few weeks.

She hadn’t the heart to refuse old Rumford, and a few days later,
his nephew had arrived. Thus far, she conceded, Mr. MacKinnon had proven satisfactory—unobtrusive and efficient, keeping away unwanted callers. She’d had no complaints from the staff, either—excluding Valentine, who was rarely pleased with anyone.

This dinner party would test his mettle. “I will look over the wines with you directly we finish here,” she told him now. Would he be like the typical Englishman, knowing only port and brandy?

“I am at your service.”

There was something vaguely unsettling about the man’s gray eyes. Too steady in the way he regarded her even after they’d both finished speaking. It wasn’t insolent by any means, just observant. It made her think he saw more than she cared to let the world see.

He was certainly good-looking—and much too young to be a butler. He could be anywhere from twenty-eight to thirty-two, she estimated, tilting her head and studying him. He had a full head of dark brown hair and well-proportioned features from a wide forehead to a determined-looking chin.

Most butlers were in their fifties or sixties, attaining their situation after decades in service.

But perhaps this man’s relative youth and looks would be an asset, if they impressed her guests and caused them to overlook any shortcomings. Then again, he wasn’t a footman, hired as much for his figure as for his abilities. A butler must be discreet, dignified, and most of all, trustworthy. She trusted him only because she trusted Rumford.

She sighed inwardly. As long as her temporary butler didn’t commit some unforgivable blunder as mangling the names of her guests or botching the precedence of those entering the dining room.

She spoke to Mrs. Finlay. “We shall expect the guests here between half past seven and eight. We will gather in the drawing room.” She addressed MacKinnon. “You may announce dinner at eight. If Lord Castlereagh accepts, he will accompany me to the dining room. We may put Lady Castlereagh with the Tory, Huskisson.” She glanced down
at her list then back at MacKinnon. “And the Countess Wentworth can be escorted by her husband the earl . . . then Colonel Percy with his wife, and perhaps Wilberforce with his wife across from his fellow Whig, Lord Althorp. That should provide for some lively debate on both politics and morals.

“And my sister-in-law, Lady Agatha, we’ll need someone to escort her. We’ll round out the list with the Duc de Berry. I believe he’s in town,” she added to herself, then more briskly to the butler, “but I shall review the final list with you when I receive their replies.”

“Yes, my lady.”

She discussed a few more things with him concerning the table arrangements and silver to be used then pushed away from the table. “Very well. I shall go over the menu with Gaspard. We shall order some pheasant from Wexham Hall.” At least the new earl didn’t begrudge her the bounty from the estate.

Mrs. Finlay collected her notes and stood. “Very good, my lady. The steward shall be glad to send a brace or two, I’m sure.”

“They will do well for the second course with a roast of lamb or beef. Perhaps some lobster or prawns and a soup for the first.” She turned to MacKinnon. “Would you care to accompany me to the wine cellar and we can make some preliminary selections?”

He rose and gave a slight nod. “As you wish, my lady.”

Despite his words, she couldn’t help sensing something behind those smoky gray eyes that belied the tone of utmost respect.

She just couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was.

Rees waited until Lady Wexham stood, then went to hold the door open for her. His thoughts were still wrapped around the fact that her guest list held a significant number of highly placed government officials and members of Parliament, including the foreign minister. If they indeed accepted her invitation to dinner, the Home Office had not exaggerated her influence.

He followed her down the hallway then preceded her down the
flight of stairs to the basement, collecting a branch of candles and tinderbox on his way down.

Before he could place the candelabra on the floor, Lady Wexham took it from him, while he dug in his pocket for his key ring.

“Thank you, my lady.”

“Do you know anything about wines?”

Her question took him off guard. He unlocked the door to the wine cellar, a room situated beside his sleeping quarters, taking a few seconds to compose his answer. “I have . . . a little knowledge of spirits.” Not quite the truth, not quite an untruth.

She stepped past him into the shadowy interior as he held the door open for her.

Stone walls and floor made the chamber noticeably cooler. Wooden shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling. Dark green and brown bottles filled them, their thick bottoms facing outward.

On his first day of employment, when he’d been shown around, he’d been astounded at the vast collection stored in the cellar. When he was handed its key, he wondered idly what was to be done in the event of someone breaking into its stores. Was he expected to defend the wine, whose value was incalculable since the blockade with France? But thus far, there had been no incidents and he’d become accustomed to selecting a bottle for the chef, who didn’t seem to be able to cook without wine.

Rees stepped in after Lady Wexham and left the door wide open behind him. He set the branch of candles on a table and proceeded to strike the tinder. When the room glowed with a soft radiance, he joined his employer where she stood in front of a rack.

“How are you finding it after a week?”

He was still nervous every time she addressed him, afraid he would betray by his words the fact that he was no butler. “I am getting my bearings, thank you, my lady.”

He made a pretense of examining a shelf of bottles, turning one slightly to the right, another to the left. He’d learned about wines
from working in his merchant father’s warehouses in Bristol when he was a youth.

“Has the staff been helpful to you?”

He watched her, without seeming to, out of the corner of his eye. She stood not more than a foot away from him in the confined area. “Yes, very helpful.”

“This is your first time as a full-fledged butler, is it not?”

What was she getting at? “Yes, my lady.”

“You needn’t ‘my lady’ me after every reply, you know.”

His fingers stopped in the act of rubbing off a bit of dust from a bottle. Was his ignorance of how to address the peerage so obvious? “I beg your pardon, my l—” He couldn’t help the warmth stealing into his cheeks.

She chuckled. “You probably feel the way I did when I was first married. I was very intimidated by so many servants. I had never lived in such a great household. And yet, at eighteen, as the new mistress, I was expected to assume responsibility for them all.”

Her confession surprised him. “Is that why you address me as ‘mister’ and not merely ‘MacKinnon’?”

Her eyes widened a fraction as if the question had caught her off guard. In the candlelight, her irises looked translucent, like an aged Calvados brandy. Then her lips quirked upward, perfectly delineated curves the color of pomegranate, a fruit he’d seen for the first time in Gibraltar, when his ship had been in port.

“Perhaps it is. A new endeavor can be terrifying.”

He cleared his throat, wondering if this was a typical conversation between a lady of the house and her butler. “You seem to have succeeded admirably.”

She gave a slight inclination of her head. “Thank you, sir. It has taken many years.”

They continued regarding each other for a few seconds longer until she said, “You have only been in the position for a week.”