“Hisdaughter?” Basingstoke’s face darkened. “What the devil are you up to, Grantham?”
“Not a blessed thing, I assure you.” Nothing that wasn’t for the girl’s own good, at any rate. “Miss St. Claire’s house is in disarray, so I invited her to stay at Grantham Lodge. I’m merely doing her a favor.”
Montford crossed his arms over his chest. “And what house would that be, Grantham?”
Max sighed. Only a duke would dare to question another duke, which was why it was exceedingly unfortunate that Montford and Basingstoke were his best friends. Nothing good ever came of three dukes in one house. “Hammond Court.”
Silence. Finally, Basingstoke cleared his throat. “I repeat, Grantham. What the devil are you up to?”
“Nothing you need worry yourselves about.”
Basingstoke’s eyes narrowed. “Grantham—”
“Might we delay this discussion until a later time? I’ve some business to attend to.” It wasn’t a lie. He did have business—rather important business—and Dunwitty had already vanished up the stairs.
His friends glanced at each other, then Montford gave a curt nod, his lips tight. “Very well, Grantham, but I warn you. We’ll have it out of you one way or another.”
With one last threatening scowl, his friends marched up the stairs after their wives.
Max retreated to the study, seated himself behind his desk, and rang the bell. A few minutes later, Monk appeared. “Your Grace?”
“Fetch Lord Dunwitty to my study, Monk. I need to have a word with him.”
“Of course, Your Grace. Right away.”
* * *
There was really only one place where a lady who was determined to hide from a houseful of aristocrats could go.
The kitchens. Aristocrats weren’t known for frequenting the kitchens.
So, while Mrs. Watson and the housemaids were occupied with herding the guests up the stairs, Rose took the opportunity to slip through the crowd. Fortunately, the duke was busy with the Dukes of Basingstoke and Montford and didn’t see her disappear down the back staircase.
Imposing gentlemen, those dukes. Very, er . . . ducal, and both of them extraordinarily handsome. Neither were as striking as the Duke of Grantham, but there was no denying they were pleasing to look at. It hardly seemed fair. Didn’t dukes have enough advantages without being handsome, as well?
The kitchen was deserted. That was rare enough, but everyone was occupied with the guests, and the kitchen boy had likely slipped outside so he might see all the grand horses and carriages.
She had it all to herself, so she may as well do something useful. She’d already furnished Mrs. Watson with some very nice iced tea cakes for afternoon tea, but perhaps a baked custard for supper wouldn’t go amiss.
She’d laid out her ingredients, and the pretty etched-glass custard cups, and was just fetching the eggs from the cook’s pantry when a deep voice startled her. “Miss St. Claire?”
She jumped, and one of the eggs she was transferring to a bowl slipped from her fingers and landed on the floor. The shell cracked, and yellow yolk oozed out. “Drat.”
“I do beg your pardon.” A fair-haired young man was peeking around the edge of the pantry door. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
She glanced up from the mess and into a pair of velvety brown eyes. He was one of the duke’s guests—she’d caught a glimpse of him when she’d come down the stairs—but they hadn’t been properly introduced, and she didn’t know his name.
He’d remembered hers, though, which was surprising.
“I . . . it’s quite all right.” She took up a cloth from the table and quickly wiped up the mess, dropping the broken shells into the bowl. “Have you lost your way?”
What in the world was he doing down here, otherwise?
“Oh, no. I came in search of James, the footman who showed me to my bedchamber. He dropped this.”
He held up a gold button, and she recognized it as one from the footmen’s livery.
“I thought I might return it to him.” He sauntered closer, his brown eyes fixed on her face with a look she couldn’t quite read, but that nonetheless made heat flood her cheeks.
