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“Yes. The other servants have been very kind.”

“Even Monsieur Gaspard?”

His own lips crooked upward on one side. “He has not yet thrown any saucepans at me, at any rate. Only mutterings in French.”

“Oh, do you understand French?”

“No,” he said quickly. “No more than a word or two.” He must not lose the advantage of understanding the language while they had no knowledge of his ability.

“You are fortunate indeed, then, if that is all you have endured. Wait but a fortnight.”

“I shall hope to be agile enough to duck in time.”

Her clear laughter echoed in the stone enclosure.

Why was he finding it so easy to talk this way with her? He had never been one to engage in lighthearted repartee, least of all with so highborn a lady.

Her expression sobered. “But perhaps the size of your previous household makes this one small by comparison. Your uncle said you have worked your way up the ranks to under-butler. You must be used to many dinner parties and catering to a variety of guests.”

He hedged, choosing his words carefully. Whatever story he wove, he must remember its details in the future. Thankfully, he was a person mindful of details—one of the principal reasons he had been chosen for this task. “It was a large estate, but we saw few visitors. My employer was . . . a gentleman of advancing years who seldom entertained. Moreover, he and the . . . uh, mistress spent long periods of time absent from the household. It was not their—er—principal seat. That was in . . . Buckinghamshire.”

She lifted a brow. “Indeed? Whereabouts? I go frequently to the Aylesbury Vale area.”

Why had he chosen that county? He thought quickly of an area far removed from the area she mentioned. “It is near Beaconsfield.”

She nodded. “Hartwell House is near Aylesbury. Are you familiar with it? It is where the Comte de Provence resides.”

The Count of Provence, the self-appointed future king of France
should Bonaparte ever fall. “Very little. I myself have never been to Buckinghamshire.”

“My mother spends most of her time at Hartwell House. She forms part of the small French court which surrounds the count. It reminds her of how her life used to be in France.”

He was not sure how to read her tone. Ironic or sympathetic? “Yes, I understand, my lady.” Would Lady Wexham go to Hartwell while he was in this household? And if she did, how could he arrange to be taken along? As butler, he would be expected to remain behind, taking care of the house in its mistress’s absence.

She pursed her fine lips. “Still, you seem much too young to be a butler. I hope my dinner party will not rattle you.”

He thought of the guest list. Would anyone recognize him? Important members of government frequently came through the Foreign Office, where he had worked a number of years until being loaned to the Home Office for this spying assignment. Rees shook aside his worries, doubting anyone would recognize a lowly clerk as a butler in a West End residence.

Lady Wexham turned her attention back to the rack of bottles. “Well, I suppose we should put our minds to the upcoming dinner party. Your footmen will wonder what is keeping you.”

He brought his thoughts back to the present. “You said you wished for shellfish and soup for the first courses?”

“Yes. I shall see what Gaspard finds at Billingsgate when he goes, then a joint of lamb, one of beef or veal, and the pheasant for the second course, accompanied by vegetables and aspics.” She tapped a finger against her lips. “Asparagus would be nice this time of year, and then fruit and jellies or perhaps a trifle to finish.”

He was perusing the bottles as she spoke and now removed one at his eye level. “May I suggest a 1771 Château Margaux claret with the lamb?” He took out his handkerchief and rubbed the dust from the bottle’s label before placing it before her. “And perhaps a Calon-Ségur with the beef and veal, 1784. Both excellent years and ready to uncork if your guests merit such wines.” His eyes met hers.

She arched her dark eyebrows as she took the first bottle from him. “Lord Castlereagh I should think does. The man has traveled widely and appreciates a good French wine.”

Rees removed another bottle from its cradle on a higher shelf, thanking himself that he had inspected the cellars when he’d first come on the job. “There are some good Pavillon Blancs for the pheasant and fish.”

“You seem to know more of French wines than you let on, unlike most of your countrymen,” she added with a low chuckle that skittered over his nerve endings like a silken cloth.

His gaze continued perusing the racks, pretending nonchalance as he berated himself for showing off. “The butler at my . . . other place of employment taught me.”

“I shan’t deny I was doubtful when your uncle recommended you, but I see I was wrong . . . at least when it comes to selecting wines,” she said in an amused tone.

He thought it prudent to make no reply. Instead he handed down another bottle, taking the first from her. “Madeira to begin with and let’s see . . . some Armagnac and port for the gentlemen after dinner. Unless, of course, you prefer exclusively French cognac.” He met her gaze once more.

“The Portuguese make a fine brandy.” She took the bottle from him. “Just because I was born across the Channel does not mean I think only French products are superior.”

“You were fortunate to stock your cellars so well before the blockade.” Or did she patronize the smugglers’ trade?

“My late husband the earl had the foresight to arrange imports from Bordeaux and Bourgogne during the short peace.” Her lips twitched. “I think he must have brought over a boatload before the blockade was resumed.”

“A wise gentleman.” His mind couldn’t help calculating. The countess had not been married to the old earl then but had been a young lady in Paris during those nine months of the Peace of Amiens.
What had she been doing there? The question had intrigued him when he’d first read her file, and did so now as he gazed into her beguiling eyes.

“He was wise in certain things.” Her words seemed to contain more than the mere surface meaning. She handed the bottle back and rubbed her fingertips.

He quickly proffered his handkerchief. “Excuse the dust.”

She wiped her hands off with the white cloth. “That is quite all right. Thank you,” she said, returning it. “I see that I can leave the selection of wines safely in your capable hands. You may confer with Gaspard on the final choices.”

He inclined his head.

“Good. Make sure you request the proper service from Mrs. Finlay the day before the dinner party. She will have the kitchen maids wash everything before your footmen lay the table. You can give her any silver that needs washing.”

“Yes, my lady.” Whatever brief moment of informality had transpired between them was clearly over and she had returned to her brisk tone of mistress of the house.

“You may rest assured, my lady, that everything will be ready for your guests. I will be on hand to receive them and have them shown up to the drawing room. We will announce dinner as soon as everyone has arrived and make certain all covers are removed with as little encumbrance to your guests as possible.”

“Excellent. I will make an inspection of the dining room before they arrive.”

“Very well.” He sounded like the perfect butler. Perhaps he would even end up fooling himself.

Her gaze rested on him once more. “If this dinner party goes off well, I shall be forever in your debt.”

Once again her words arrested his attention as if they were speaking on two different levels. Was there more behind them than a simple exchange between butler and mistress?

Before he could analyze it further, Lady Wexham backed away from him and exited the cellar, leaving a variety of impressions in her wake.

Rees stood, a bottle in his hand, breathing in the faint scent of roses on the air, a welcome antidote to the damp smell of mortar permeating the small cellar.

A lady being gracious to her new butler, or a French spy suspecting any new person in her household of being a counterspy?

He looked down at the bottle he was still holding in his hands, realizing how easy it was going to be to let something slip and give himself away.

Part of it was pride—a good part, he admitted to himself, disliking intensely this lowly role he must play for the duration of his sojourn in this house. He should have shown himself ignorant of wines. Thankfully, she seemed to accept his explanation.

As a Christian man, he didn’t like untruths, but this assignment would involve nothing but untruths, so he’d better steel himself to weaving them. He’d always heard that the closer one stuck to the truth, the more believable one’s lies. Well, he would put that theory to the test in the coming days or weeks.

He thought about Lady Wexham’s dinner party—with a guest list of distinguished individuals from the highest levels of government. This was exactly the kind of social event Rees was here to witness, to keep his eyes and ears open for any whisper of just what Lady Wexham’s game was. Where did her true sympathies lie, with the Comte de Provence, who lived in exile just outside London, and who soon might be the new king of France—or with Napoleon Bonaparte, who still held the vast majority of Europe in his grasp and was Britain’s greatest foe?

If Lady Wexham was guilty of any treason to the British government, Rees would find out, cost him whatever dignity it might.

4

L
ater that day Céline scowled at her maid through the dressing table mirror. “Careful, my hair is attached to my scalp.”

Valentine’s reply was to grasp a hank of her locks and pull the brush even harder.

“Ouch!”

Valentine ignored her exclamation. With firm, dexterous motions she took up Céline’s hair and twisted it into a knot atop her head and proceeded immediately to stick pins into it. “If you want to look presentable this evening, you must pay the price.”

Céline yawned. “Another tedious dinner. Though I have heard favorable things about the opera
Artaxerxes
.” The mention of the dinner she was attending reminded her of the one she was planning.

She glanced at Valentine’s reflection in the mirror. “What do you think of Mr. MacKinnon?”

Valentine snorted. “He is no butler.”

The statement brought her up short, forcing her to remember the strange way he’d made her feel in the narrow confines of the wine cellar. She’d pushed aside the sensations as soon as she’d left the cellar, preferring not to dwell on them.

Céline raised her eyebrows now at her maid. “No butler? Why, what has he done?”

“What hasn’t he done?” she scoffed. “He is too young to know anything of heading a house of consequence.”

Céline relaxed at Valentine’s words, seeing the woman had no unusual qualms about the new servant. “Well, we had no choice in the matter really. I couldn’t refuse Rumford’s offer. He felt so badly already, I didn’t want to add to his burden.”

“Bah! He should not have forced you to take a family member in his place. I’m sure we could have done well without a stranger coming in.”

“We didn’t know how long Rumford would be laid up. It is no light matter, to fall like that at his age. If he weren’t so far away, I would pay him a visit, but his sister assured me he is receiving the best of care.”

“To go to Yorkshire on holiday! He had no business going so far.”

“He cannot help it if his family lives there. If you had your way, none of the servants would ever have a holiday or visit their relatives, eh?”

“They don’t know how good they have it with you as their mistress—and they take full advantage!” She ran the comb through the hairbrush to clean it out and placed the two back on the dresser. “If you didn’t have me to look after your interests, they would have long since robbed you of all the earl left you.”

Céline laughed aloud at that. “That would take some doing.”

Valentine curled a ringlet of Céline’s hair around her finger. “Still, it is not right to travel so far. What if I were to demand to go to France?”

“Well, it would hardly be practical with the blockade. If we weren’t at war, I should by no means forbid you to return to France for a visit.”

Valentine merely sniffed and continued fiddling with Céline’s coiffure. “There, that should do. Is Lady Agatha accompanying you tonight?”

Céline made a face at the mention of the late earl’s spinster sister who lived with her. “Yes, she’ll probably complain of the food and then chatter without pause through the opera.”

“Why do you continue to suffer that woman under your roof?”

Céline sighed, often wondering at the same thing herself. “Because she has nowhere else to go.”

Valentine snorted. “No one else would take her in!”

Céline rose and smoothed the ivory-colored gown. A square emerald glinted in a pearl choker at her throat. Valentine handed her a pair of ivory kid gloves. Céline pulled them on and walked to the pier glass, preferring not to discuss her sister-in-law. Agatha was her cross to bear, as she called it privately. At least she no longer had to suffer the earl.

She gave herself a final inspection in the long glass, pinching her cheeks. “I am not so pale now, am I?”

“No, you have achieved a bit of color since this morning.”

She touched the thin strand of pearls interwoven in her hair. “Will I do?”

Valentine fussed some more with the skirt of her gown. Finally, she stepped back and nodded abruptly. “You’ll do. The color becomes you.”

“Yes, Madame Delantre has the right touch.”

“I still think you should have found a replacement for Rumford through an agency.”

Céline blinked at the sudden return to the topic of butler. Her hand went to the choker at her neck, touching the stone. “An agency? Dear me, no. Not when Mr. MacKinnon comes so highly recommended by his uncle. If he shouldn’t live up to the task, he knows he’ll have to answer to him. So, I am sorry, Valentine, but you will have to put aside your prejudices for a few weeks.”