“Yes, my lord?”
“Thank you. For coming back to me.”
Her smile was radiant. “It’s been my greatest privilege, watching you become the man your parents raised you to be. Now go win that girl’s heart properly.”
He stepped into the corridor, the comforting scent of lavender clinging to his coat. Please, God, let Mrs. Ellsworth be right.
*
James was headedto the drawing room for a brandy when he spotted Mr. Isherwood hovering near the base of the stairs like a bird of prey, silver tray clutched against his chest and that hard expression he wore when the household accounts didn’t balance.
“My lord.” The butler’s voice could have cut glass. “A word, if you please.”
James wiped his palms on his already-stained waistcoat, notinghow Isherwood’s gaze followed the movement with barely concealed horror. “What can I help you with, Isherwood?”
“I’ve been made aware that you’ve taken your meals in the kitchen.” Each word dropped like a stone. “With the staff.”
“Indeed I have,” James said. “They are my favorite times of the day.”
Isherwood’s fingers tightened on the tray’s edge. “My lord, in my previous positions, I observed that the most successful households maintain clear distinctions between master and servant. It is not merely tradition—it is necessity. Now that Mrs. Ellsworth and I have hired appropriate staff, you must transition to a more formal dining experience.”
“Because I’m too good to eat with people who actually work for a living?”
“Because respect flows downward from the master.” Isherwood stepped closer, his voice dropping to an urgent whisper. “The moment you blur those lines, my lord, the moment you become just another man sharing a pint and a laugh, you lose the authority to lead them. And they need leading.”
James felt his jaw clench. For weeks now, the kitchen had been his sanctuary—the only place in this echoing mausoleum where laughter came easily and no one expected him to have answers he didn’t possess. “So I should what, exactly? Eat alone in that tomb of a dining room while perfectly good company sits twenty feet away?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. “Because that’s what lords do.”
“No. I won’t do it.”
“In every great house I’ve served, my lord, the master who maintained proper distance was the one whose staff remained loyal, whose household ran smoothly, whose reputation remained unblemished.” The butler’s voice grew more insistent. “Mrs. Fairfax and her sister are guests, my lord, however helpful they’ve been with the restoration. But if you continue treating them as equals, the staff will begin to seethem as such. And when word spreads to the village? God help us then.”
James went very still. “What about the village?”
“People talk, my lord. About the pretty young ladies living under your roof. About how familiar you’ve all become.”
The implication stung. James’s hands curled into fists. “You’re suggesting I’m somehow hurting their reputations? But I’m sponsoring Cecily for the Season.”
“I’m suggesting that propriety exists for a reason.” Isherwood met his eyes steadily. “One dinner, my lord. Tonight. In the dining room, as your position demands. Let me show you that being the master of this house doesn’t have to mean being alone in it.”
James stared at him for a long moment, hearing the desperation beneath the butler’s formal tone. Finally, he nodded once, sharp and bitter. “But I shall be alone.”
“My lord?”
“Fine. I will do as you ask. For one night. As a test.”
“Very good, my lord.” Isherwood’s shoulders sagged slightly with relief.
On the other hand, James died a little inside at the thought of being apart from the people who had become his family. Especially Georgie.
*
The dining roomsprawled before him like a mausoleum dressed for company. Every surface gleamed—silver so polished it threw back distorted reflections of his face, bone china that caught the candlelight like captured moonbeams, crystal that sang when the evening breeze stirred the curtains. The mahogany table stretched endlessly in both directions, a dark sea with James marooned at its center.
Digby had trussed him up properly—forest green coat that fit likearmor, linen so starched it could stand on its own, hair tamed with enough pomade to build a small sculpture. He looked like the oil paintings lining the corridor. Dead men in expensive clothes.
The first course arrived with ceremony that would have impressed visiting royalty. Footmen glided in and out like ghosts, their practiced silence more oppressive than shouting. James lifted his spoon, solid silver, heavy as a weapon, and tasted Mrs. Honeycutt’s bisque.
