After several days of wracking his brain, he’d finally happened across an idea for his second noble deed somewhere in a far corner. The idea was so obvious he could’ve kicked himself for not having thought it sooner. Ever since, he’d been itching to tell Miss Birdwell—in person.
Any excuse to see her, really.
He understood that much.
And as a desperate mind was wont to do, it hatched another idea.
How easily he could deliver the details for his second noble deed while she shared the evening meal in the kitchen with the other servants in the Bretagne household. Everyone had to eat, didn’t they?
This afternoon, it had seemed like the perfect plan.
But now, his hand hanging in mid-air, he wasn’t so sure.
A thought had come to him—one he should’ve considered earlier.
He kept inserting himself into her life.
At the masquerade when he’d claimed a dance…a month later, when he’d jumped into her carriage and spent the afternoon with her…even the idea for his noble deed at Hope House had sprung from her words.
And now, here he was, invading her evening meal.
But it had been a week, and he had this news to deliver—and he wanted to see her.
It was that brightness that sparked off the woman. She lived with such purpose and intention.
Purpose and intention.
He’d never known that interior spark—and having been a dedicated wastrel and rake didn’t signify.
Except he knew why he kept inserting himself into her life.
Aye, there was Papa’s ring that bound them.
But it was something else that had him here tonight, desperate for a glimpse of her.
He wanted some of her light for himself.
Right.
He released his hand and gave it permission to rap out three firm knocks.
His days as a rake had prepared him for entering through a side kitchen door. He’d done so under the cover of night on many an occasion. Generally, servants liked a rake.
Enlivened their gossip.
The door cracked a few inches open, and around solid oak peeked a house maid. He opened his mouth to deliver a greeting, but she craned her neck around to the room behind her and called out, “It’s Lord Rhys Osborne.”
A vertical line formed between his eyebrows. “You know who I am?”
The maid looked as if she were about to answer when a woman of greater size and authority took her place in the now fully open doorway. With her assured, direct gaze and the ring of keys hanging from her belt, it wasn’t difficult to guess she was the housekeeper. “We’re servants in a great household, Lord Rhys,” said the formidable woman. “We know the names of all who enter.”
That was him told.
The woman stood aside and allowed him entry into the kitchen aglow with candlelight and warmth from the ovens. At the far end of the long, low-ceilinged room sat the other servants gathered around a large rectangular table. As he’d suspected, they were taking their evening meal.
He scanned the heads for blonde curls—and found none.
“Now,” said the housekeeper, “may we assist you in some way, Lord Rhys?” The woman was asking him very politely what in the blazes he was doing here.
