It was intimidating, to say the least, and for a moment she'd forgotten that she was angry with Kit and clung to his arm.
Dinner was served à la russe, which meant that the footmen served them one course at a time.
There was a bewildering array of forks and knives. Even though she'd spent hours polishing cutlery in the Cullpepper household, that didn't mean she necessarily knew when to use what.
The soup was simple. One ate soup with a spoon. Fair enough.
But when the footman placed a silver plate with escargots in front of her, she was entirely out of her depth.
The silver tongs lying next to her plate looked ominous. She'd spent time cleaning them when she was a maid. But how on earth did one use them to eat?
Her eyes drifted to Kit.
He sat there, handsome as sin, tall and broad-shouldered at the head of the table, a perfect gentleman of fashion from head to toe. The black cloth of his evening suit stretched across his shoulders, and his snow-white cravat was intricately tied.
She'd never seen him like this, but it suited him, the fashion.
He also looked like a stranger. His clean-cut jaw was slightly grim, his face immobile, as if carved from marble.
He was an aristocrat from head to toe, the Marquess of Atherton through and through. He'd wrapped himself in an aloof aura of haughty boredom and arrogance.
Mira scoffed.
That famous coldness of which everyone spoke. Did they not see it? It was just an act.
He'd always been an excellent actor, though he'd tended to excel in the silly, clownish roles.
The image of a lanky Kit in women's clothes during one of the guises arose from the depths of her memory. That day he'd dressed as a washerwoman, walked up to her, and bowed crookedly. "My lady, will you dance?" he'd crooned in a falsetto voice that had everyone in stitches.
He was playing a role, nothing more. A role he'd learned to perfect over the years.
It did not impress Mira in the least.
The real Kit was somewhere underneath, the Kit she'd known all her life.
And Mira was the only person in the room who understood he was merely playacting.
Not that it mattered.
Not that she cared.
She was still very, very angry.
She stared darkly at the escargot as the cogs in her brain went round, piecing all the puzzle pieces together one by one.
She'd known, of course, that his mother had been a gentleman's daughter. His father had been a clergyman who'd died when Kit was young, and that he'd had no one left in his family. Mira knew, because after Kit had disappeared, she'd tried to find his mother's relatives with little success.
Well, she'd been mistaken.
Evidently there must have been family somewhere. An old, crotchety marquess far away in the family line without a direct heir, for one.
And Kit, quite unexpectedly, had come into the inheritance of a marquessate.
A blacksmith who became a marquess. It really was truly a most incredible story.
"Is the food not to your liking?" said a voice to her right. It was Aldingbourne attempting to make conversation. "These escargots in garlic sauce are really quite delicious, and I recommend that you at least try them."
"Very well." Mira picked up the tongs and stared at them. What was she to do with this contraption? If she ever wanted to get through this torturous supper, she had to figure out how to eat these things.
