That was when the sinking feeling began. It connected, then, why Juliet was so skilled at parrying Agatha. The flattery, the appeasement, the distractions—she had done it her entire life. She managed her father’s emotions with the same skill and poise with which she thwarted Agatha.
She hadn’t faltered in the slightest. White lies and half-truths fell from her lips without so much as a blink. It would be alarming if I didn’t recognize the skill’s necessity. Even Hugh took note, eyes wide and unblinking, fork dangling limply from his hand.
She maintained the peace with ease, right up until it was time to separate after dinner. Unfortunately, my plate clanged when I stood, reminding Agatha of my existence.
“Shouldn’t you be in the kitchens now, Michael?”
I had worried over that. Unlike during our weekly dinners, I had no escape route in the country.
“What do you mean?” Juliet’s question lost the easy, bell-like tone she had adopted earlier. Instead, it was harsh, brokering no argument.
“Michael likes to hide in the kitchens with the servants after supper and thinks we do not notice,” Hugh answered in a bitter tone.
I suppose my efforts hadn’t been as surreptitious as I’d thought. Honestly, I would quite like to escape to the kitchens now. Tom offered me nothing more than an apologetic shrug.
“Well, I do love to reminisce,” I added.
“What do you mean?” Juliet repeated more forcefully.
Agatha didn’t deign to answer her, instead directing her vitriol to me. “You should still be taking your meals down there.”
Juliet searched between us. It would have been comical. If only the reason for it was not an understanding that I would rather she not have.
“He ate with the servants? But he was a ward.”
“It’s better than the street where he belongs.”
I didn’t have a retort for that, not today. Instead, I rose without ceremony and strode toward the kitchens with feigned ease. What I never expected was the chair scraping across the floor, the quick, delicate footsteps that rushed after me, the tiny hand that brushed mine. Just like that, an entire afternoon’s practice in resistance melted away at her touch. I grabbed her hand and pulled her with me toward the kitchens.
The room was over-hot with the oven fires. The long table at the far end was occupied by Anna, Mrs. Hudson, Mary, and Stevens. They maintained their relaxed stance, waving me over. When they saw Juliet beyond my shoulder, they jumped to attention. Sheepish at the response, she urged them back down.
Mrs. Hudson began her usual fussing, pulling out a plate of lemon tarts from heaven knew where and setting them in front of an empty place for me. Sitting down, I loosened my cravat before tucking in.
“How did I know we’d be seeing you tonight?” Anna threw in my direction.
“No idea. After all, I’m the most unpredictable of men.”
“Your guest is a bit of a surprise. Do you like lemon tarts, Lady Juliet?”
“I do. I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Not at all.” I could hear the lie in Anna’s voice, but it was a kindly meant fib. “Am I to assume dinner was a disaster?”
“Oh, it was delightful as always.”
Stevens pulled a deck of cards from a pocket, dealing to me for a game of cribbage. When Juliet leaned forward with interest, he dealt her in as well. The others were content to watch, and Mary hopped up to fetch something.
With a forced casual cheer, Anna asked, “How is Augie?”
It took a good bit of effort to restrain a chuckle. “Underpaid and overworked.”
“You should do something about that,” Anna retorted.
Mary returned with glasses and beer and poured one for all present.
“I would, but then I would actually have to run my club instead of allowing him to do it for me. Then where would we be?”
“You would be substantially less wealthy,” Anna answered.
