“There is a war on the Peninsula, Miss Notley,” the old curmudgeon replied. “In case you were unaware.”
She bit her cheek to keep from saying the rude words that were on the tip of her tongue; instead, she said, “I’m quite aware, Mr. Wilson, thank ye. My eldest brother be there at present.”
“Your brother is in the military?” Nicholas, who sat across from Mr. Wilson and had been doing his part to ask the man questions, directed this question to her.
Until that moment, they’d barely glanced each other’s way all evening. She wondered if he’d been doing his best to keep from looking at her just as she’d been doing her best to keep from looking at him. She’d already had one glass of wine too many, which was dangerous. She shouldn’t drink to excess, but nerves had got the better of her. Sitting across from Nicholas had her on edge. Memories of what he’d done to her body last night kept flashing across her mind at themostinopportune time. If that wasn’t enough, sitting next to Mr. Lamppost had put the nail in the coffin of her intention to remain sober.
She lifted her wine glass and cleared her throat, forcing herself to meet Nicholas’s gaze. “Yes, my eldest brother be an officer in the army.”
“An officer?” Nicholas lifted his brows, obviously impressed.
“Yes—heearnedhis commission, though,” she clarified.
“Of course,” Nicholas replied, nodding.
The other servants nodded too. Their class knew that the son of a nobleman often paid his way into the upper ranks of the military, while a poor man with no connections had to earn it.
“Hats off to him for his service,” Nicholas continued.
Mr. Wilson grumbled under his breath.
Marianne allowed the footman serving the table to fill her wine glass once more. She glanced over at Nicholas. He certainly looked uncomfortable. Good. He deserved it. No doubt he was wondering if she intended to inform the entire table that he was also called ‘Bell’ and was ‘playacting’ at being a valet. She had every intention of allowing him to continue to squirm. But she had noticed something about him—something shecouldask in front of everyone.
“You’re not drinking tonight, Mr. Baxter?” She took a sip from her own wine glass as she waited for his reply.
“I don’t drink.” The reply was simple, yet curt, and she could sense underlying control in his tone. It was obviously a subject he didn’t want to discuss further.
He turned his attention immediately to Mr. Wilson. “Wilson, you said you and Lord Cunningham don’t normally travel often. Does he ever ask you to do other tasks, such as, say write his letters?”
Mr. Wilson glowered at Nicholas from beneath bushy brows. “At times.” That was apparently all the man intended to say on the subject.
“I once worked for a man who could barely write his name. How is Lord Cunningham when it comes to his letters?” Nicholas continued.
Marianne watched him closely. This was clearly more than a simple inquiry as to Lord Cunningham’s habit. Nicholas was interested for a reason. She could tell.
“Lord Copperpot writes his own letters from wot I understand,” she interjected.
Nicholas inclined his head toward her, but looked slightly bothered that she’d kept Wilson from answering. “He’s yet to ask me to write anything for him, but I can’t speak to his behavior with Mr. Broughton.”
“I doubt Mr. Broughton was asked ta write anythin’, either,” she replied with a tight smile.
Nicholas ignored her comment and returned his attention to Wilson. “Does Lord Cunningham pay you extra to write his letters?”
“Why ye so interested in what I write for me master?” Wilson said in a gruff voice, eyeing Nicholas with a scowl on his face.
“Just interested in what sort of work we’re each asked to do,” Nicholas said. He turned his attention to Mr. Broomsley, Lord Hightower’s valet, who sat at the far end of the table. “What about you, Mr. Broomsley, do you write letters for Hightower?”
“No,” Mr. Broomsley replied jovially. “His lordship prefers to write himself. Can’t say I’ve ever written a letter for him, now that I think upon it.”
“Well, I say the more they do for themselves, the better,” Mrs. Wimbley interjected. The woman had rallied herself from her bed to attend the dinner.
“Come now,” Mrs. Cotswold scolded. “That’s hardly any way ta talk. If they did things fer themselves, we’d be out o’ jobs, now wouldn’t we?”
Marianne didn’t miss the glance the older woman exchanged with Nicholas. Did Mrs. Cotswold know that Nicholas was only ‘playacting’ at being a valet? That was interesting.
The dinner soon ended, and the servants trailed back to their rooms. Due to the copious amount of wine she’d consumed, Marianne fell asleep nearly immediately upon hitting the mattress. She awoke in what felt like the middle of the night to a soft knocking on her door.
She sat up and put her hand to her forehead. She was no longer bottle-nipped but she certainly shouldn’t have had so much wine. Ugh.
