George snorted, a hard, angry sound. “A footman? You presume that I, the son of a Duke, will work as a footman? I, who when asked to make my own way in Italy, chose to work in government rather than degrade myself in such a way? I thank you, but no.”
“If you do, your mother and brother will accept you back home. It’s only for a period of a few weeks.” Sweat beaded on his uncle’s brow, and he mopped at it with the same handkerchief. George began walking up the hill, knowing his pace was too fast for the portly gentleman beside him, but not able to bring himself to care.
“A few weeks?” he asked with a bitter laugh. “Or perhaps a further three years will go by.”
“After three weeks, I will myself fetch you and bring you home,” his uncle promised.
The sunlight, which when George had arrived, had seemed to herald new beginnings and good things, now jarred, promising to give him a headache. There was no way he could cooperate with such a scheme, and surely no way his mother or brother expected him to.
He was a gentleman, born and bred, whoever his mother may be—no one had given him a clear indication of his mother’s identity. She was a maid his father had seduced, bedded, and sent away. He, for whatever reason he could hardly fathom, had been allowed to stay. With the upmost reluctance from the former Duke’s wife, who, despite the fact he had called her ‘Mother’ since he could remember, had despised him.
This was her doing, he was certain of it. And if he was certain of another thing, it was that he would not play along.
“This is humiliating in the extreme,” he said. “No matter the situation of your birth.”
“If your father had not taken you in as you had, this may have been all you could have aspired to.”
“No,” George said scornfully. “If my father had not taken me into his Manor, he would at least have paid for my education. I would have been a physician, perhaps, or a solicitor. Respectable positions, even if they are not as well regarded as other occupations. I wouldnothave been a footman.”
His uncle’s face deepened in color from the exertion. “And you will not be a footman for long.”
George had two options and three guineas. He could use those to take the stagecoach to London and stay there for a limited time as he searched for occupation, with no guarantee that he would immediately find one that was any better than the position he was being offered. And would no doubt be for a longer duration.
Or he could accept this position, knowing it had been arranged by a higher power, and would therefore be safe from instant dismissal if he refused to cooperate.
“Very well,” he said. “I accept your terms. Three weeks, or I will leave of my own volition.”
His uncle smiled, a little nervously, and George gave him a wolf’s smile in return. His mother might think to humiliate him, and his brother might be so weak-minded as to let her will prevail, but there would be no breaking his spirit.
* * *
George’s new employment was for the Marquess of Averley, a gentleman he knew a little about. Ten years between them was not a long time in the scheme of things. But considering he had been in Italy the past three, with little knowledge of London Society beyond the news he occasionally received, it was not surprising he was not entirely up to date with his new employer’s business.
That, as he soon learned, was going to change.
Upon arriving at the house, he was given a livery, told to conduct himself as befitted a house as old as the Marquess’, and his uncle—the coward—left shortly thereafter. And George, who had no intention of working as a footman when it was so far beneath his station, embarked on the most determined flirt of his life.
“Well, Maisie,” he said, catching the plump maid about the waist as she passed him. If Old Foley, the butler, caught them, there’d be Hell to pay, but George cared little for Hell when he was already there. “What right have you to look so pretty?”
Maisie flushed as he tugged her closer. “George, we ought not—what if someone hears us?”
“Bennett is busy cleaning shoes, Monsieur Badeaux is terrifying the kitchen maids, and Follet is tasting the wine.” He leaned in. “And you, my sweet, are precisely where I want you.”
Maisie giggled but submitted to his kisses. When he’d arrived, he’d sought her out first. The other maid, Jenny, was being determinedly courted by the butcher’s son, and Charlotte, the head maid, was five-and-thirty and past her prime.
Maisie, a plump little armful at one-and-twenty, had precisely the coloring he loved, with blonde hair hidden under her cap and large green eyes. She was also coquettish and flirtatious, all too ready to receive his advances.
“Don’t you have work to do?” she asked breathlessly when they emerged again for air. “The new Marchioness will be arriving soon, and—”
“Why should I care a fig about the new Marchioness?” he demanded, looking down at her. “Who cares which lady the Marquess marries?”
Maisie’s eyes widened. “Why, because it was such a scandal.”
George chewed his lip as he looked down at the pretty face before him. Talking about scandals was the last thing on his mind, but if there was one thing he had learned since working below stairs, it was that servants kneweverything. If there was a scandal, the servants would know of it. And when he re-emerged into Society, wouldn’t it be wonderful if he was up to date with theon-dits?
“What scandal?” he asked, twirling a strand of her blonde hair around his fingers. It wasn’t quite the shade of sunshine he preferred, reminding him more of straw than of gold.
“Only that the Marquess is marryingLady Scarlet Jameson,” Maisie said in a hushed whisper.
