A valet?Hmm.Dorset cast a second glance over the man and recognized the dress of a servant with ease. Had he not been so bloody preoccupied with thoughts of Clementine, Dorset would have undoubtedly taken note from the first. But even so, the resemblance between the earl and his valet was remarkable.
“You look like Carnlough,” he said, studying the man. “And a fair bit like Lady Angeline as well.”
Indeed, the resemblance was almost…dare he suggest it…familial. Dorset was nothing if not observant, and he did not think he was wrong about this. It was entirely possible that the man professing himself to be a servant was in fact a by-blow.
“Frank Crymble, at your service, my lord.” The valet dipped into a proper bow.
And still, there was something about him that did not quite ring clear or true as a bell. Moreover, there was the matter of the fellow neglecting to take the servants’ stair.
But who was he to make a quibble over such a lack of circumspection? Had he not just spent the better part of two hours flitting about the gardens with Clementine, kissing her until they were both breathless, only to break into the library of their host and hostess as if they were no better than common footpads?
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Crymble,” he said, feeling awkward and suddenly as if his sins were somehow written upon his face. “I am Dorset.”
Thank heavens Clementine did not resort to coloring her lips as some of the women he had known in the past had. His mouth would have been smeared with the stuff.
“I will leave you to your evening, my lord. Forgive the interruption.”
Crymble seemed a bit nervous. Certainly eager to go. But Dorset was suddenly reminded of the child thief who had made off with his prized hat.
“Before you go, I must beg a question of you. Do you know anything of a towheaded lad? He has stolen my hat and refuses to return it, but the boy is as slippery as an eel. No one can seem to catch him, and no one seems to know who he belongs to. I presume he is the child of one of the domestics here at Fangfoss Manor.”
“A wee rascal who has been going about thieving from the guests?” The man frowned as he appeared to ponder Dorset’s words. “Fangfoss Manor is one of the most orderly homes I have experienced. I cannot believe Lord and Lady Fangfoss would countenance the child of someone in service running wild all over the house, making mischief.”
“Indeed.” Disappointment laced through Dorset. It would seem the mystery would not be solved this evening, and nor would he be reunited with his hat any time soon. “I trust that if you do see the lad in question, you will let me or my man Winston know, Crymble?”
The valet nodded. “Of course, my lord. I will be certain to look for the lad in question, and I would be more than happy to put in a word below stairs as well.”
Now that he thought on it, Dorset ought to have simply asked Winston to make some inquiries regarding the boy. But if Carnlough’s valet was willing to ask, he supposed it made little difference.
“Thank you, Crymble.” A likeable fellow, Dorset decided. And most definitely possessing O’Shea blood. The resemblance was undeniable.
They parted ways, and Dorset’s mind returned to Clementine once more. Thoughts of her and the memory of her lips beneath his chased him like a ghost back to his chamber.
Egads.
He was becoming besotted with her. This would never do. Perhaps the only answer to his dilemma was to end their feigned betrothal sooner rather than later and to leave the house party with as much haste as possible.
Chapter 7
Clementine assembled each of her five friends in her chamber that morning prior to breakfast. There was not enough seating for six, even with the comfortable sitting area by the hearth, which left her on her feet wringing her hands, Charity sprawled indecently upon the bed with complete disregard for the wrinkles to her gown, Angeline and Olive sharing a settee, and Melanie and Raina on separate chairs.
“This feels just like our old days at Twittingham Academy,” Angeline said, beaming in that sweetly angelic fashion only she possessed.
How like dear, sweet Angeline to be unaware of the tension in the room.
“Except then, we met to ward off our ennui,” Olive observed.
“Or exchange books we werenae meant to be reading,” Raina added.
“And hide from Miss Julia,” Melanie pointed out.
“This morning has a different air,” Charity said, her voice dry. “Tiny, you look as if you are about to tell us something dreadful. Out with it, if you please.”
Clementine took a deep breath.
“I am going to have to cry off my engagement to Lord Dorset,” she announced.
Angeline frowned. “I thought you were not truly betrothed.”
