“An excellently rational point. I do believe there’s hope for you yet.” Bell grinned at him.
“I’m certain you’ve heard,” Lucas drawled. He was lying diagonally across the mattress, still fully clothed as a footman, save for the wig and jacket he’d discarded in the dining room.
“Heard that you made a preposterous scene in the dining room earlier? Or heard whether you’re betrothed to Miss Wharton?”
“I am decidedly not betrothed to Miss Wharton, and I did make a preposterous scene in the dining room earlier.”
“Is it true that you threw your wig in the soup?” Bell sighed. “Seems overly dramatic to me, but what do I know? Spies tend to like things quiet and drama-free.”
“Yes, well, you’re the one who suggested I serve dinner tonight,” Lucas pointed out.
Bell rested one booted foot atop the opposite knee. “True. But I had no idea the soup would suffer.”
“Who gives a toss about the soup?” Lucas bit out.
“Clearly not you,” Bell retorted, “but I digress. I’ve come to ask you what you plan to do next.”
Lucas frowned at the ceiling. “What do you mean, what do I plan to do next?”
Another sigh from Bell. “I’m no matchmaker, but even I can tell that your courtship with Miss Wharton appears to be going poorly at the moment.”
“She hates me.”
“Hmm.” Bell tapped his cheek. “Perhaps poorly wasn’t a strong enough word then.”
“I cannot blame her for hating me.” Lucas lifted his palms to rub his eyes. “But she wouldn’t even give me the chance to explain.”
“‘Love is your master, for he masters you. And he that is so yoked by a fool, Methinks, should not be chronicled for wise,’” Bell recited with a flourish of his hand.
Lucas rolled his eyes. “Spare me your Shakespeare quotations at a time like this.”
“On the contrary, I believe a time like this is the perfect opportunity to quote Shakespeare. But my question still stands, what do you plan to do next?” Bell folded his hands together in front of him and blinked at Lucas as if expectantly waiting.
Lucas dropped his forearm across his brow. “I plan to bloody well get the hell out of here tomorrow morning. That’s what I plan to do next.”
“Quit?” Bell’s voice held a note of surprise. “That doesn’t sound like a Navy man to me.”
Lucas arched a brow and glared at him. “There is a difference between quitting and admitting obvious defeat. Refusal to do the latter can result in accusations of delusion.”
“Given the right circumstances, we all suffer from delusion from time to time. I still say that’s not an excuse to quit.”
Lucas pushed himself up on his elbows to glare at Bell. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me? She hates me. She told me she never wants to see my face again.”
Bell plucked nonchalantly at his sleeve. “Perhaps you should write to her then.”
“She’s marrying Sir Reginald. She told me I’m an arrogant horse’s arse.”
Bell scratched behind one ear. “None of this sounds particularly promising, I agree. But where there is a will, there is also a way.”
“Not any more. I tried. I served dinner. I stood up on the bloody sideboard for Christ’s sake.”
“I heard about that, too. I did like that touch. I’ve no doubt it added an air of the theatre. By the by, my thanks for making my and Worth’s future more difficult. No doubt every guest in this house will be searching the servants’ quarters for noblemen now.”
“You’ll both be fine,” Lucas replied.
Bell blinked again. “How could you possibly know that?”
“For one thing, they’ll never suspect there’s more than one of us being this mad, and for another, you’re limited to Lord Copperpot’s bedchamber for the most part and Worth is out hiding in stables.”
Bell shrugged. “You do have a point.”
“I wish you luck, my friend. Between you and Worth, may the best man win.”
Resting his elbow on one of the arms of the chair, Bell propped his chin on his fist. “Never thought I’d see the day when I had to call you a quitter, Kendall.”
“It’s over,” Lucas’s voice rose. “The entire bloody dining room knows I was pretending to be a footman.”
“Not quit the bet, you dolt, I mean quit your attempt to win over Miss Wharton.”
Lucas grabbed a nearby pillow and hurled it toward Bell. “Damn it, Bell, get out of here and leave me in peace.”
The pillow fell to the floor short of his chair. Bell hadn’t flinched and he continued to blink at him. “I still say you should—”
“I should what?” Lucas’s voice shook with anger. “I’ve tried everything I can. You’re talking to the wrong person. Perhaps you should try speaking to Miss Wharton. She’s the one refusing to hear me out.” He grabbed a second pillow and pulled it over his head. “Now, good night!”
Chapter Thirty-Three
When the door to the library opened the next morning, Frances couldn’t keep her traitorous heart from wishing for just one moment that it was Lucas. It was wrong of her to have come to this room. This place held nothing but bad memories for her. But, as if her feet had a will of their own, they’d brought her directly here this morning. She’d pulled one of the chairs closer to the windows and was sitting, staring out into the gardens, her pink shawl wrapped over her shoulders. Dark thunder clouds roiled outside. A horrible storm was brewing.
The familiar creak of the door made her turn with a start, her heart thumping faster.
But it wasn’t Lucas.
Her pulse returned to its normal rhythm.
She blinked. In fact, it was the same valet who’d come looking for her to tell her her mother had turned her ankle. She eyed him with mistrust as he came to stand next to her.
He bowed to her. “Good morning, Miss Wharton. I thought I’d find you here.”
“Have you come to tell me my father has taken ill this time?” she prompted; her eyes still narrowed on the man.
“No. In fact, first, I would like to apologize for being dishonest with
