.
Reuben released the tension in his hands as he watched Frederick leave Rachel’s side. He’d been in Frederick’s presence a dozen or so times, and only once, during his pinning ceremony and at the king’s urging, did Frederick ever acknowledge him.
Frederick was also a member of the Order of the Garter Star, having gained it when he was just on the cusp of becoming a man. He was only twenty-six, but was close to his uncle the king, and cousin. The claim was that Frederick helped the king through his spell of madness, but Reuben doubted a pampered gentleman like the prince would ever lift a finger to do anything for someone else.
How wonderful it would be if Frederick turned out to be the assassin. He was the son of a noble Frenchwoman, after all. Reuben smiled at the thought, even though he knew it to be wrong. The likelihood that Frederick would commit a crime was low. Unlike his father, the Duke of Yall, he was not a soldier, but a dandy.
Who seemed to enjoy agitating Reuben to no end.
He watched Rachel dance with Lord Stephen for a moment, saw the way the man stood far too close— especially considering he was engaged— and left the ballroom.
He shouldn’t have taunted Rachel the way he had in the gallery, yet he hadn’t been able to help himself. She was alluring, even though she was most innocently dressed woman in the room. She wore a lily-white gown, yet still managed to draw him in like a siren bathed in nothing but sunlight.
He stopped in the middle of descending the back stairway that would take him away from the crowds, and frowned. When had his thoughts of Rachel turned so dark? He had no place wanting a girl like her. No, woman like her, he corrected. For she was a woman. He only called her ‘Little Rachel’ as a way to remind himself of the past, to remember where he’d come from, so he’d never think himself good enough for her.
Lord Castell was a good candidate for her. He was younger than Reuben, and more blue blooded than most. He was the sort of man he’d always envisioned her with.
And yet, the very thought made him want to hit a wall until his knuckles bled.
What a violent thought. That alone, proved his worthlessness. She was too good for him, a man who barely made enough to provide all the trappings that a lady like her deserved, or was used to.
He’d been her footman. He knew exactly how much Rachel would cost, and even if Reuben saved every coin he received, he’d likely never have enough to afford her.
He had made some investments with Christmas’ help over the years, investments that had paid well, but no amount of money, not even his title, could change the circumstances of his birth.
He’d never force that on her, either.
He continued downstairs, and heard two people speaking in French. Servants. He hadn’t known the language growing up, since he’d never had formal education, but while at war, he’d picked it up with ease.
And the words the servants spoke were familiar.
He listened and heard a female say, “She renounced her beliefs for her husband, but wouldn’t have had to under Napoleon.”
He narrowed his eyes. He knew exactly what the woman meant. The Catholic Church had at one time held power over not only the French, but the English, as well. English laws now forbid a gentleman from being a member of the House of Lords, if his wife was Catholic. One of Napoleon's moves to bring stability to France had been to allow religious freedom. Reuben imagined that more than one Englishman— or woman— would have enjoyed such a law coming to England.
He silenced his thoughts, and waited to hear the voice of whoever the woman had spoken to.
A second woman sighed. “That is love,” she replied to her friend in English, though her French accent was heavy. “Though from what you’ve told me about your lady’s husband, that love is not well deserved.”
“Oh, yes,” the first woman said. “Never has there been a more unfaithful husband. Why, he’s tried to lure me into his room on more than one occasion.”
Her friend gasped. “No.”
“Oui! Another servant girl fell for him and was dismissed posthaste.”
Her friend tsked. “Pity how handsome he is. No man broods better than an Englishman. Even at his age, I would have found it hard to say no if I were you.”
The first woman laughed. “Anaïs, you find it hard to tell any man no.”
Anaïs giggled. “Oui! Quite true.”
Reuben had no clue who the women spoke of, but it seemed they were purposefully avoiding names. It was the way of servants at times. Just like the papers, you never knew who your words would upset.
He pushed through the door, and both women squealed.
It was the ladies’ private chamber, which was empty, except for the two women he’d heard.
They both looked up at him from where they sat leaning over a cape. A needle and thread were in the hand of one. She was clearly a lady’s maid. Or more likely, both were servants of a lady. It was common for wealthy ladies to hire a French lady’s maid. Having one spoke of their wealth.
One woman, the one clutching the cap, smiled at him, brazenly. “Hello, sir. Might I be of service to you?” She was the one who’d spoken last. Anaïs.
Reuben turned to the only other woman in the room. “I need to deliver a message to your lady, but I can’t seem to find her. I was hoping you could help me.”
Her eyes widened and she smiled, before she passed the needle to her friend, and stood. “Of course, my lord.” She curtsied low and straightened her skirts as she stood back up. Both women were pretty, and dressed well, another sign that they’d been procured by wealthy families.
“I am Marie,” she purred as she walked toward him. “And you, sir?” She’d need his name in order to introduce him to her ladyship.
“Lord Eastridge.”
She stiffened at the name, a sign that either she’d heard whispers about him, or had heard his name mentioned by the lady who employed her. Then she put on another smile. “Perhaps it would be better if I delivered your message, my lord.”
Was she trying to keep him away from the woman?
“No, it is a message I must deliver, myself.”
Marie hesitated, but then nodded and said, “This way.”
They returned upstairs and Marie asked, “How did you know I worked for Lady Yall?” She swayed her hips, in a way that he thought she meant to make hypnotic, though his thoughts would not allow him to even take it in.
Reuben hadn’t known who Marie worked for, until that very moment. He’s simply known that whomever Marie worked for was someone who seemed to sympathize with Napoleon. In jest, he’d already suspected Lady Yall, but were his earlier suspicious accurate, or was he simply hoping something was there, that wasn’t?
Religion was a fine reason to move against a king. Could Lady Yall truly be trying to start her own crusade? Did she think herself Joan of Arc? He tried to slow his thoughts down, so he could think clearly. There was no way that Lord Yall would have put Reuben on this assignment if he’d thought his wife the culprit. Reuben knew this.
Though, Marie had hinted that Yall was unfaithful… Perhaps the duke didn’t know everything that was going on in his house.
They climbed the stairs and walked back down the hall that led into the ballroom. Reuben trained his eyes on Marie, in an effort not to look for Rachel.
Marie led him across the room, and straight to a group of the most powerful ladies of London, a class of women who rarely spoke to Reuben. Though with most of them being married, and other half spinsters or widows, they’d have little reason to. Their daughters, on the other hand, did speak to him whenever he made himself available.
Marie whispered into Lady Yall’s ear, and the woman stiffened before she turned around and met Reuben’s eyes.
He took note that there was disdain in that gaze, and he noticed not for the first time, that Lady Yall was nearly half the age of her husband. It was likely she’d been no more than fifteen when she’d married Lord Frederick. She was beautiful, with blue eyes, pale hair, and a dainty nose that sat over a full mouth. That Yall would stray from her spoke poorly of his intelligence.
He approached her and gave her his most flourishing bow, one he reserved for occasions such as this. When he rose, he found her stunned, and held out his hand. “Lady Yall.”
The woman sighed deeply, and slowly offered his hand to him to be kissed.
A gentleman was only to kiss the air above the knuckles, but when one wished to flirt…
He allowed his lips to brush her gloved hand. Barely.
She colored and tried to take back her hand.
“A dance?” he asked, not releasing the delicate fingers in his hold.
She held his gaze and then her fingers tightened.