Page 52 of The Courtship Dance

She might run into the duke, but she had taken herself firmly in hand after the Haversley soiree. She was sure that she had exorcised the demon of jealousy from herself. It had been just a momentary emotion, after all, and reason would overcome it. Besides, it was quite likely that Rochford would not even be at home.

He was not, as it turned out, and she told herself that things had worked out perfectly. Cranston looked rather surprised to see her, though he hid it well, only his light blue eyes revealing a hint of curiosity at finding Francesca and her maid standing in the entryway of Lilles House. When she explained that she was there to consult with him on the duke’s upcoming ball, his carefully polite expression vanished, and he beamed, the first time Francesca could ever remember seeing him do so.

“My lady, of course. I would be more than happy to assist you. I have seating charts, as well as plans for the ballroom.”

“Excellent,” Francesca said, her eyes lighting up. Such efficiency would make Fenton jealous, she thought. “If there is a table where we could sit…?”

“Naturally. If her ladyship would not mind, there is the table in the servants’ hall, where I do most of my planning. Or, um, the library might be more suitable.”

“The table in the servants’ hall sounds just the thing.”

So while Maisie went off for a bit of tea and gossip with the Lilles House housekeeper, having earned that woman’s friendship the last time they were there by praising Callie, Francesca settled down at the table in the servants’ dining hall, one of Cranston’s drawings of the large ballroom spread out on the table before her.

The dining area was a cozy place, separated by a short hall from the kitchen, and while there was the clanging of pots and pans and the usual bustle of a working kitchen, the sound was muffled enough that it provided only a low background noise. Cranston solicitously brought her a cup of tea and a pot for refills, as well as a small plate of biscuits, then stood a little behind her and to the side.

“Do sit down, Cranston,” she told him, indicating the chair beside her.

“Very kind of you, my lady, but…”

She knew that he was a stickler for correct procedure in every detail, but she was also aware that the older man had grown increasingly stiff in his knees over the past few years. She was well-versed in dealing with aging servants.

“Please do,” she insisted. “It will be much easier for us to talk. I shan’t have to crane my head around to see you that way.”

“Of course, my lady, if you wish it.”

The butler sat down beside Francesca, though he remained poised on the edge of the seat, as though ready to spring up at any moment, and he kept his chair slightly behind hers.

“Here is the preliminary list of guests,” she told him, laying a sheet of paper on the table. “I thought you might look over it and see if I have by chance missed someone who ought to be on it or put someone there who would be quite wrong.”

“I am sure your opinions are absolutely correct,” Cranston assured her, though he set the list aside for later viewing.

Francesca took up a pencil and began to describe her ideas for the decorations, marking them on his map of the ballroom. Cranston nodded approvingly, jotting down notes on a piece of paper as he went.

They moved on to the refreshments, which meant that the cook had to be brought in on the discussion, as well. The cook, obviously another Lilles retainer who had been there for many years, was a rotund woman with iron-gray hair and the beefy arms of one who had spent her life kneading bread and stirring soups. As possessive of her territory as most cooks Francesca knew, she came into the room with a slightly wary expression on her face. It did not take long, however, for Francesca’s charm to work its usual magic, and soon she, too, was nodding and agreeing to all Francesca’s suggestions.

“Well, well,” came a cultured male voice from the doorway. “Are you poaching my servants, Lady Haughston? Should I take umbrage?”

All three of the occupants of the room swiveled around to the door, where the duke was leaning against the frame, a smile starting on his lips.

“I should love to, I can assure you, but then I would have to face the wrath of my own staff,” Francesca replied, smiling back at him.

It occurred to her, as it had the other day when she was here, that had she married him years ago, this scene would have been a common occurrence. How many times would she have looked up to see him standing in a doorway, watching her?

“Then I can only assume that you are here laying plans for the ball,” Rochford went on.

“Yes. Would you like to hear where I intend to put the decorations?”

“Come show me instead,” he suggested. “Then perhaps we could have tea, if you would like.”

“That would be lovely,” Francesca answered honestly.

“Excellent. Cranston, tea in the morning room, I think. Twenty minutes?”

Cranston nodded, and he and the cook quickly disappeared into the kitchen. Rochford turned to Francesca, offering her his arm, and they walked back through the long hallway to the foyer, then along the even longer gallery to the large ballroom.

“I thought it would make sense to show Cranston where the decorations should go,” Francesca said, thinking that Rochford might wonder why she had come to his house to talk to Cranston instead of the other way around. “But he had plans of the ballroom, with everything marked, so I was able to jot it all down for him there.”

“He is a wonder of organization. I have little doubt that he has the layout of every room in this house, with each stick of furniture marked in its place. Nothing escapes Cranston’s attention. No doubt he was ecstatic at having someone who takes an interest in decoration and menus. I fear that he finds me hopelessly lacking when it comes to such things. I am sure he feels the loss of Callie deeply.”