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Rather, he kept remembering how Mrs. Swinton’s perfectly shaped lips had curled into a smile, and how her eyes had crinkled at the corners. How had the Duchess persuaded such a gem to act as her companion? If her garments were any indication, Mrs. Swinton was a widow. From her age, and the lack of wear on her widow’s weeds, a fairly recent one at that.

As he watched the last dish go out of the kitchen in the hands of the chattering maids, he wondered if she would come to the kitchen often. She did not look like the midnight snacking sort of person, but the Duchess often liked a little something after hours and would send her companion to select a tidbit or two.

Mayson had quickly learned to keep small refreshments on hand for the Duchess’ midnight appetite. After a consultation with her physician, he had been leaning more toward fruit compotes or blancmange, rather than the heavier desserts the Duchess truly favored. So far, either Her Grace had not caught on, or she was allowing him to steer her midnight snack selections.

Mayson sighed, remembering the times when he had gone to the kitchen and made dishes to tempt his father in his last days. But the Grim Reaper would visit any household, and mere skill with a spoon could not defeat him.

Tonight’s snack for the Dowager was a simple fruit pudding with a light syrup, and a topping of fresh, sliced strawberries from the estate’s hot house. Easy to digest, and unlikely to upset an aging tummy, while still delighting the taste buds of a food connoisseur. With it tucked neatly into a special cupboard, Mayson turned his attention toward cleaning up, setting the bread sponge for morning, and generally ending the day in the kitchen.

The potboy cheerfully helped him with wrestling the large, copper-bottomed pots to the washing drain, an innovation installed by the late Duke of Tolware. The maids came back to take the remains of the dishes that had already been served up to the servants’ dining hall for their dinner. Everything was normal. Everything was as it should be. But something kept pulling at him.

Was it a pair of sparkling green eyes? Was it the quiet dignity that the new companion wore about her like a mantle? Was it some niggling unease caused by the kitchen maids nattering about murder?

More likely, a touch of indigestion from too much tasting, Mayson thought to himself.

Just then the butler entered. “Mr. Rudge,” he said ponderously, “The Duchess would like for you to come up to receive thanks for your dinner preparations.”

Hastily, Mayson whipped off the stained, spattered apron that showed too clearly the effects of the evening’s labors. Just as quickly, he put on a clean one. He then doffed the sweat-stained skull cap that kept his hair out of the food, and the food out of his hair, replacing it with a pristinely starched chef’s hat that was kept for just this purpose.

Looking the absolute best that a professional cook at the end of a long, hot meal preparation can possibly look, he went up to receive formal accolades and thanks.

As he stood in the dining room door, in his proper place for such events, he noted that Mrs. Swinton wore a slightly dressier version of the gown she had worn earlier. This one displayed her fair shoulders, as was proper for dining in company, but still covered her bosom more than adequately and was modestly understated.

With effort, he wrenched his attention away from her, and gave the Duchess a proper bow, murmuring his thanks for the appreciation.

Back downstairs, he took his seat at the servants’ table, about midway down the side of it. He ranked somewhat below the butler and housekeeper, but higher than the other kitchen workers. The head stableman sat across from him, shoulder to shoulder with the head gardener.

The meal was eaten in reverent silence, except for the occasional,“Please pass...”and the clatter of cutlery against china. When the dessert was finished, the butler rose and said, “Excellent as always, Mr. Rudge. You are a treasure.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wilson,” Mayson replied. “It is my pleasure to be of service.”

The night staff began clearing the table. As he passed Mayson while clearing the table, the potboy nudged him and said, “She’s a looker, ain’t she?”

Mayson frowned at him.

“Miz Swinton,” the young man said. “She’s quite a looker.”

Mayson stared at him for just long enough to make the youngster squirm. “Mrs. Swinton is an attractive lady, and far above your station. Do not forget yourself, Jemmy.”

The young man flushed. “I din’ mean nothin’ by it, Mr. Rudge. But she’s, as you say, attractive. An’ more’n that, she’s nice.”

Mayson let his attitude soften. “Yes, she is. And therefore all the more deserving of respect, don’t you think?”

“Yessir, Mr. Rudge. I’ll remember.”

Mayson gazed thoughtfully after the lad as he staggered off toward the kitchen under his load of dishes.

He said no more than what you were thinking. She is lovely, and she is nice. But you are only a cook, and she is a companion. She is above your station, too.

Mayson sighed. Sometimes it was difficult to make it through a day in good order. He began to scrape and stack dishes, doing his part of the clearing up. Was this how his life was to be now? Always the same?

Chapter 4

Darrius sat at the head of the dinner table, with his intended on his left and his mother on his right. Mrs. Swinton sat between Blanche Notley and her mother, Lady Carletane, while Lord Carletane, Miss Notley’s father, sat across the table from them.

The table is sadly out of balance, he thought sourly.I should have invited some other guests, but this is my mother’s house, not mine.

“Oh, my very dear,” the Duchess gushed to Blanche, “I am so glad you could visit with us today. Darrius had the gardener bring the most delicious treat from the estate’s very own hothouse.”