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Oliver couldn’t bear it any longer. He needed a moment to breathe. His eyes fell to the doorway again.

Once more, he caught Clara looking at him.

Once more, his heart stamped its form against his chest.

Clara wasn’t someone he could marry. She was a maid, even if she hadn’t always been. But she could provide a distraction. Not physically—she’d made it perfectly clear she didn’t want him lessening her intellect in that regard—but teasing her and getting a rise out of her would satisfy him enough to surely have the energy to see out the evening.

With quick thoughts, he filtered through ways he could reasonably excuse himself from dinner for a moment, then discovered his dish of soup had yet to be taken away from him.

Blessed white soup, indeed.

“I simply cannot have this removed from me without taking another bite,” he said in between Miss Bowles taking a breath.

As he did so, he allowed a small drop of it to dribble off the spoon and onto his cravat.

“Oh, dear,” he said, a little too dramatically. “I’m afraid I’ve made a mess of my cravat.”

“What? I cannot see where,” Miss Bowles said, narrowing her eyes.

“Just there. Yes, it shall surely stain. I must change swiftly if I am to make a good impression on her ladyship. Do excuse me.”

“I assure you, sir,” Miss Bowles continued, “I cannot even see a single spot.”

“Well, I’m sure her ladyship will. I shall be but a moment. Entertain Mr. Prescott if you must with your talks of orangeries. I’m certain he will enjoy it.”

But Mr. Wesley Prescott’s eyes were on Millie.

Interesting.

Oliver didn’t have time to unpack the realization. He leaned forward past Miss Bowles in a most impolite manner to get his friend’s attention.

“Mr. Prescott?”

Mr. Prescott tore his gaze from Millie, then faced Oliver.

“I must leave to change my cravat. Do see to Miss Bowles while I am away.”

Mr. Prescott appeared utterly horrified at the notion, but he swiftly replaced the expression with humble obliging. “Of course.”

“Ask her about orangeries,” Oliver continued, half-standing from his chair as he made for his retreat. “The conversation is riveting.”

Mr. Prescott smiled weakly at Miss Bowles—who looked just as disappointed at the prospect of speaking with him—then stared daggers after Oliver.

Oliver merely grinned and left the table, casting a quick glance at Millie, who gave him a curious look. He gave a mischievous grin, then left the room in between the footmen to ensure his movements went as unnoticed as possible.

Only Clara and one more maid remained in the corridor, the others having left when the footmen retrieved their trays.

Perfect timing.

He smiled at them both, Clara’s eyes wide, but he walked past them with a significant look in her direction before walking around the corner.

Now to enact his plan and pray that it would work.

Eleven

Clara finally handed her heavy tray over to the footman John—the last of the maids to do so—then stretched out her arms in the silence of the empty corridor as she made for the servants’ stairs.

She’d been tasked with the other maids to help carry the service that night. Mrs. Wintle had found her writing a letter to another solicitor on her bed and had very sternly criticized the action.