HOW ON EARTH HAD FREDERICK thought being a footman was anything easy?

He’d always assumed it entailed some degree of balance with which to carry platters of food and an ability to fit into the measurements of the previous footman’s uniform.

Apparently there was much, much more to it, and Frederick was not excelling at it.

He might have mastered cerebral tasks, but being in service required an abundance of additional skills he’d never thought to appreciate.

His feet ached at the end of the day.

But it didn’t matter.

The chief problem with being a footman remained that his duties took him into the main house, and far from the kitchen.

He would see Celia.

“You’re smiling a lot, considering it’s your first day,” the butler said.

Frederick straightened.

Perhaps privacy was a word that did not apply to servants.

“I am grateful to have this position,” he said stiltedly.

“See that you improve,” the butler said. “Your work today merited no pride.”

The harsh sentiment stung him.

What would it be like if he depended on the butler’s reaction as a gauge of the steadiness of his income?

He focused on Celia.

Soon he would see her. He rounded the corner, feeling the rough tile beneath his feet. Wooden beams crossed the ceiling, and he lowered his torso. Whatever improvements had been made to the upstairs section of the house had not been applied uniformly.

But when he returned to the kitchen, she was gone.

“Where is Celia?” he asked.

The butler frowned. “I wonder at your ability at determining her name with such speed, given your proclivity otherwise toward incompetence.”

Frederick was thankful he didn’t have the various scientific articles he’d published with him, lest he be unable to resist the urge to wave them at the butler’s face. Not brandishing his invention of waterproof fabric took sufficient fortitude. He’d taken the frockcoat Celia had made with him, though some of the other fabric had disappeared with Celia’s things.

“I must insist there be absolutely no fraternizing with maids,” the butler continued. “You are here to work.”

“Er—yes.”

“I hope I do not need to remind you how easy it is for me to dismiss you.”

“No,” Frederick said quickly.

He needed to see Celia. Losing his position would hardly abet that task.

He glanced around. “So what happens now?”

“Bed,” Charlie, one of the footmen said. “Follow me.”

Frederick followed Charlie up the creaking stairs, carrying a tallow candle that emitted a pungent smell. The rest of the house was adorned with art. Paintings and art lined the corridors, displaying the English countryside and European capitals, Roman goddesses and rococo flourishes. These walls were unadorned, unless one counted the paint peeling from them.

It occurred to Frederick he didn’t know what the servants’ quarters in his own estate looked like. Were the walls painted? Were they maintained?

He swallowed hard.

He didn’t know.

He’d lived there nearly all his life, but he’d never visited the servants’ quarters.

They reached the third floor, and Frederick bent his head to avoid the ceiling. The corridor was narrow, and he followed Charlie to a tiny room. He’d visited it to change into his footman’s uniform, but the room was colder now. Wind swept in from the window, and the streets remained noisy, even at this hour, with the sound of clomping horses and wheels crunching over cobblestones.

He sank into the bed eagerly, only to be met with a prickly sensation. Hay spilled from the comforter, and the sheets were rough against his touch. Something seemed to shuffle in the corner of the room.

Vermin.

He closed his eyes.

Tomorrow he would speak with Celia.

It was a comfort to know he was in the same building as Celia.

But it would have been more of a comfort if they’d spoken.

*

THE NEXT DAY HE ENTERED the kitchen. It thronged with maids, cooks, footmen and the ever-scowling butler.

No matter.

Celia was at the sink, her back turned to him, oblivious to his presence.

She should have fallen into his arms when she’d seen him.

But she’d seemed more confused, and he’d wanted to hold her and tell her she didn’t need to do that work anymore.

He supposed it hadn’t helped he’d been in a footman’s uniform when they’d spoken or that he’d been introduced as a Mr. Durham.

Tonight, after the dinner party, he would tell her.

In the meantime he would continue to work.

A doorbell sounded, and he crept on the steps.

He’d been proud of his ability to avoid Lady Fitzroy, ducking behind doors and paying inordinate attention to the ceiling and walls whenever she appeared.

He wondered how long it might take her to recognize him.

People didn’t tend to look at footmen, only noticing if some work was done incorrectly.

“Admiral Fitzroy,” the butler announced in a lofty voice. “Please go into the parlor.

Frederick crept down more stairs.

So Admiral Fitzroy was one of the dinner guests. Frederick could damage his reputation irrevocably if people discovered he’d been posing as a footman.

It was the sort of thing people didn’t do.

It was illuminating to see how the household was run. He’d always supposed the mistress of the house ran it completely, but he saw how much work the housekeeper and cook did in managing their staff and ensuring the household and kitchen ran efficiently.

He admired Celia’s dream to become a housekeeper. He’d laughed when she’d first mentioned her dream, but he realized now how much ambition she’d had to possess such a dream.

It would be so easy to think her life horrible, her burden too large. She could so easily resent Lady Fitzroy more, but she didn’t.

She was sweet and good natured to everyone.

He’d loved her before, but now he’d witnessed her in her working environment, his love had only filled.

He couldn’t wait to speak with her.

Even if Admiral Fitzroy was upstairs with Lady Fitzroy.

Even if it would make far more sense to be quiet, and wait until the kitchen was less busy and when the house was devoid of potentially curious aristocrats.

He entered the kitchen.

Celia was so beautiful, even when her back was toward him.

Even when she was completely consumed in her work.

He strode toward her.

“Mr. Durham,” the butler said. “We are not chatting with the maids now—”

Frederick flickered his hand impatiently at the butler.

Some of the servants looked at him curiously.

He was a footman, and higher on the social chain than Celia, even if she was the daughter of an earl.

“We are ready to serve the fish course,” the butler said. “If you could please take the platter, Mr. Durham.”

Frederick was not going to be taking any platters anywhere and he continued to stride toward Celia.