“Darlyrede House was stolen from my father. As his heir, it is my duty to reclaim it.”
“Is that just so?” Paget challenged. “And you can prove your legitimacy? Present at your own conception, were you?” He twittered at his own joke.
“Aye,” Padraig answered solemnly. “Shortly thereafter, I reckon.”
There were a handful of sniffling snickers.
“Friends, Master Boyd, please,” Hargrave intervened, the look of pleading on his face infuriating, considering it could only be he who had set this event in motion. “Allow me to finish.”
Adolphus Paget gave a bow toward the lord’s table. “Forgive me for the interruption, Lord Hargrave. I could not help but come to your defense.” He sat.
Hargrave laid his hand upon his breast and gave him an understanding nod before addressing the crowd once more, his posture totally at ease after such a scene. “As I said, I have welcomed Master Boyd into my home until such a time that our king shall give his judgment as to whose right it is to claim the title of Baron Annesley. And so I vow before you all—friends, family, valued servants, and Master Boyd, himself: my household and I shall fully cooperate with any inquiry set forth by Henry or by his servant, Sir Lucan Montague. I am prepared to accept his ruling without question and without gall. If I am decided against… well, so be it. I shall assist with Darlyrede House’s transition in any way I can.”
He looked directly at Padraig now and raised his cup. “May the best man win.” There was a bold glint in his eyes, cold, cunning. He swept his chalice toward the crowd. “To Darlyrede.”
The answering huzzahs did much to mask the excited twittering of the guests, but Iris was so rattled that she was late picking up her cup and practically missed the toast to the estate’s success. Lucan caught her eye for a fleeting moment, and she could see the solemn concern reflected in her brother’s face.
At her side, Padraig sat and returned his chalice to the tabletop, where it was promptly attended to by the cupbearer. Music filled the hall then, as the string of servants began to snake through the maze of tables depositing the platters and chargers laden with food.
“Nae awkward at all,” he muttered grimly.
“Perhaps, yes. But you handled yourself very well.”
He turned his head to look into her eyes and, as usual, his gaze held more words than were released from his lips. “I had a good teacher.”
“No,” Iris argued quietly, fussing with her napkin while her stomach flipped at his direct, honest attention. If there was a single word that could be used to describe the man at her side, perhaps it was honest. And perhaps it prompted Iris’s own transparency of thought. “As your tutor, I would have strongly advised against what you did. That was entirely Padraig Boyd a moment ago. And I think it was perfect.”
His dark brows flinched toward each other in surprised curiosity. He leaned closer—perhaps only a fraction of an inch toward her—but Iris could sense him once more through the sensitive silk of her sleeve.
“Beryl—”
A platter clanged on the table between their places just then, startling them both from their concentration on each other and prompting them to sit upright as aproned servers swarmed about their table. The moment was gone, and it was likely just as well.
Iris blew a silent breath through her lips. She was forgetting herself. Which wasn’t unreasonable, as she was a lady who was playing a maid, who was playing a governess, who was playing a lady. It had nothing at all to do with Padraig Boyd, she told herself.
“Hargrave’s up to something,” Iris whispered after a woman set an empty platter each before her and Padraig. “That was all just a performance.”
Padraig huffed. “You suppose?” He picked up his eating knife, but Iris laid her hand on his wrist at once, staying him.
“What have I done now?”
“Naught,” she said distractedly. “But Cletus is—”
“Aye,” Padraig said, no little irritation in his voice. “I doona fancy having the slug slither across my dinner.”
“Sir Lucan insists,” Iris reminded him.
Padraig looked into her eyes and there was a sudden, hostile challenge there that Iris had never before glimpsed. “Do you always do what Sir Lucan demands?”
Three heartbeats passed. “No.”
“You had me fooled, then. Would that you regarded my wishes as dearly.”
Iris bristled, and she let her surprise blossom into perceived insult to cover the stew of feelings she could not immediately recognize. “Am I remiss in my duties to you, Master Boyd?”
“Nay,” he said abruptly and looked to her again, his eyes keen as ever even as his voice softened once more. “But it’s nae your duty I want more of.”
Padraig turned his head away and motioned the sullen, toady man toward the table while Iris cut away a portion of meat, then spooned a bit of the pretty barley and mushroom onto a small plate. She tried to ignore the fact that her hands were shaking, rattling the silver against the plate.
Cletus reached between them and took the dish, giving a sigh and an eye roll before picking up the food sloppily between his fingers and scooping it into his mouth. He tossed the soiled plate back onto the table with a clatter and then returned to his position against the wall, still chewing.
“Is that Lady Paget?” Padraig asked, changing the subject abruptly. His eyes flicked toward a stick-thin woman with steel-gray hair who sat at Lord Paget’s side.
“It must be,” Iris mused, and then cringed inwardly. He had her so flustered, she was forgetting herself.
“You doona know your old mistress?”
“I didn’t notice her before,” Iris stammered, feeling her cheeks heat.
Lie.
“Hmm. Perhaps sitting near me wasna the best of plans. She has been noticing you. I think she recognizes you.”
Iris’s gaze raised instinctively to the woman, and she found that, indeed,
