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  “That’s all right, miss.” With a bow, he departed.

  Left by herself, Margaret put her hands toward the heat and looked around the darkened room. The family’s coat of arms was mounted above the mantelpiece. Stylized dragons and lions rampant raged from the edges of a shield that bore symbols which described the family's connections clearly to someone who could understand them. Someone who knew what bars and chevrons meant. She was not one of those people.

  The complexity of the elaborate decoration both impressed and intimidated her. This family had a long and storied history with layers and layers of blue blood. Hers had some age to it but nothing like this.

  Compared to Lord Yawron, she was a peasant. Her father was a country squire in Cambridgeshire. She did not belong in an earl's home. This place was so far beyond her usual class that it boggled her mind.

  The flickering light danced across antique furniture. Tapestries, watercolors, and oil paintings faintly echoed some of the flames' glow. The room was large, however, and the firelight did not penetrate the corners and niches.

  The darkness was unnerving. The wind howled, moaned, and whistled through the ancient house as the storm continued to rage outside. Margaret’s stomach twisted and her fingers tingled with every flash of lightning and crash of thunder. Almost instinctively, she moved closer to the safety and warmth of the fire.

  “Ah, Miss Taylor, I am glad we could meet at last.”

  The sudden remark made her jump. She spun around. At that moment, lightning forked across the sky, illuminating the entire room for a moment.

  The new arrival was caught in the flash. He was tall and slender and wrapped in a long cloak with a wide hood. A second later, the blaze on the hearth was the only light, and she could see very little of him.

  The dark figure approached her apologetically. “I am sorry. I did not mean to startle you.”

  “The storm was so loud, I didn’t hear you come in.” Suddenly remembering to whom she was speaking, she dropped into a clumsy curtsy. “My lord.”

  “Please!” With a chuckle, the man reached out his long hand and helped her to her feet. “I get enough of that from the servants. I invited you here for some company. I wish for us to spend the evening as simply friends. Therefore, all formalities are waived for the entire night. You may call me Christopher.”

  He had a pleasant laugh, and his rich cultured voice spoke of a very expensive and thorough education. He displayed excellent manners. As fitted his original intended career, he possessed a military bearing and the air of an officer.

  Margaret definitely did not feel comfortable addressing an earl by his Christian name. Years of training would not be so easily overcome. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Please,” he corrected gently, “Christopher.”

  She bit her lip in thought. What harm would it cause to do as he asked? He wanted her to call him by his first name, so why not?

  Nodding, she replied, “Christopher.”

  “That is better.” He inclined his head regally.

  This man carried himself as one accustomed to being obeyed. Yet, there was a strange awkwardness to him. He did not seem certain about how to approach someone who was not a servant. He surely knew at one time, but that was fifteen years ago. Maybe he realized that times have changed.

  “Then it would only be fair if you called me Margaret.”

  “Margaret.” He spoke her name in agreement. When she smiled and nodded, he relaxed noticeably.

  “However,” she pointed out, “I think I’ll still use your title in front of the servants, for propriety’s sake.”

  “That would be reasonable, I suppose.”

  Keeping his face carefully hidden, he turned Margaret to the flickering light. He held her hands in his elegant fingers and stood still, watching her. It was like being stared at by an imposing stone monk.

  Under his unseen gaze, she shifted, feeling her face slowly flush. Heat rushed over her as she struggled not to squirm. Just when she felt she would have to turn away out of sheer embarrassment, he released her and stepped back.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, “Horribly bad form. I just wanted to look at you for a moment. I’d only seen you once, when you stopped outside the gates, you see. Very rude of me, all the same.”

  “From that one glance at a stranger through binoculars, from a distance of a quarter-mile, you decided to request that I come for dinner?” At his invitation, she sat on the settee near the fire.

  “It is not that far as the crow flies. Besides, few people come to this village,” he replied, casually sitting a respectable distance from her. “And the locals have avoided this place for years. I thought I might have a better chance at an affirmative if I invited an outsider rather than an old neighbor, don’t you know.”

  “Why? Is today a special occasion?”

  The door opened before the earl could answer. Brenlaw came in carrying champagne. Behind him came two maids with lighted candelabra in each hand and two footmen carrying fluted glasses. The little procession entered with perfect poise and almost militaristic precision.

  With practiced ease, the maids placed their burdens where the candles would illuminate the room while keeping their master’s face in shadow. Brenlaw placed the ice bucket on a side table and passed glasses to Lord Yawron and the puzzled Margaret. Brenlaw poured champagne for them.

  As the butler moved to leave, his lordship called him back, “Where do you think you’re off to, Brenlaw? You have to give the toast.”

  “Begging your lordship’s pardon, I thought, under the circumstances…”

  “Nonsense, Brenlaw. You’ve done the toast for thirty-three years, in one form or another. Just because I have company doesn’t get you out of your customary duty, you know. I’m sure Miss Taylor won’t mind if you stayed.”

  “Of course not,” Margaret replied firmly. She certainly didn’t want to break tradition on her first day.

  “Very well, my lord, miss.” Brenlaw turned to a footman, who produced another glass of cut crystal apparently from thin air, handed it to the butler, and followed the other servants out.

  Brenlaw poured a discreet amount of champagne for himself. Raising his glass, the manservant began the toast. “On this most auspicious occasion, we raise our glass to young Christopher Tobias, who has been a good lord to us these ten years. He came into this life, a delight to his parents and a gift to the world. When it seemed his story would end prematurely, God granted us a reprieve. His lordship has given us reason to be grateful for that every day since. Happy birthday, my lord, and may you have many more.”

  “H-happy birthday,” Margaret repeated, flustered. She processed the surprising information furiously, sipping the drink to hide her confusion and discomfort.

  She had been invited to his birthday dinner. She had not lived in the village for long at all, less than two months. They had never met before this night. Had he really thought there would be a better chance that she would come instead of his neighbors?

  Or was he protecting himself, making sure he would have been comfortable with whatever decision she made? If she had said no, he could be disappointed but not upset. A stranger said no. It would not be shocking or particularly devastating. If someone he knew most of his life refused, that would have hurt badly.

  After they took a sip, the earl rose and responded, “Thank you, Brenlaw, Miss Taylor. Thank you both very much. This is a particularly special day for me because, not only have I my trusted servants with me, but I also have the pleasure of the company of a beautiful and charming lady. I would like, if I may, to toast her health now. To my new friend, Miss Margaret Taylor.”

  They all drank again. The butler turned toward the door. His employer called to him again, “Brenlaw, where are you going?”

  “I must check on dinner, my lord.”

  “Good man—smart thinking.”

  “Oh, and, my lord?”

  “Yes?”

  Without showing any preference either way, he asked
, “Begging your pardon, my lord, but do you want the servants to eat in the kitchen?”

  “Ah. That, I think, is our guest’s decision.” He returned to his seat. “You see, Miss Taylor, since no one has been here in years, it was the practice for the servants to be present at my birthday dinner. It is a treat for them and some company for me, you understand.”

  “Of course.” She knew, from her conversation with Brenlaw, that at least a few of the servants regularly shared his meal. If he did not say anything, it was not her place to mention it. In some circles, especially the one he grew up in, to be “reduced” to eating with servants would have been extremely embarrassing.

  “Now you’re here and…”

  “If I might interrupt you, my lord? Since this is my first time at your house, and we have only just met, I think that the tradition should stand—for propriety’s sake, if for nothing else.”

  Brenlaw stifled a smile. She was clever! She knew that it would be easier for her to counter gossip if there was a room full of witnesses to attest to Miss Taylor and his lordship’s behavior.

  And she was kind too. She let the tradition stand, when she did not have to. He knew several women of his lordship's class who would have risked the scandal rather than share a table with servants.

  This remarkable woman continued, “Likewise, as a newcomer here, I would not want to upset custom on my first day.”

  “Thank you,” His lordship replied quietly, his tone infinitely relieved and grateful. He was not comfortable with the idea of breaking the tradition either. He was that kind of master, a good one. “Brenlaw, tell the others to lay the plates as usual plus one, with Miss Taylor next to me.”

  “Yes, my lord.” With a firm nod, Brenlaw glided serenely from the room.

  “Brenlaw seems happy,” Margaret commented, watching the older man fairly skip out the door. Or at least as close to it as he could achieve.

  “Yes. And a little smug, dash it.” He paused, turning toward her. “Thank you for being so understanding. I would have hated to tell these people, who have been so loyal and patient with me, that they could not come to this particular celebration.”

  “I would not have you do that.” Margaret gazed into the dark cowl for a moment, and then dropped her gaze. “They have a right to enjoy this far more than I have.”

  “Is something wrong?” He tensed, waiting for a bombshell to fall.

  “No. I just feel a bit like an interloper, crashing into a party without a gift.”

  “Nonsense.” The gentleman waved away her concerns with casual dismissal in his voice.

  “Did you instruct Brenlaw that, if he met me, he should not tell me about the importance of the date?”

  His lordship tensed again. He shifted a little, discomfort in every line of his body. “I may have suggested it. I did not want you to trouble yourself buying a present for someone you never met, that’s all.”

  “Oh?”

  He shrugged, adding, “And I thought it would seem strange that I invited you to my birthday feast based solely on a glance from a window.”

  “It would have. It rather does now, actually.”

  “Would knowing that I was inviting you to a celebration like this have altered your decision at all?”

  “I do not know. I certainly would have questioned Brenlaw about it a bit more.”

  “I wonder what he would have said,” he mused.

  “I am sure whatever was perfect for the occasion.” Margaret thought a moment. “Does my being here make the others uneasy?”

  He tilted his head. “Why? Do you feel like it does?”

  “Not from Brenlaw, but I know him. And he is trained not to let such things show, isn’t he? No, it’s more from the maids and the footmen. I felt they were discreetly sizing me up when they first came in.”

  “Well, you are worth a gander. And you can hardly blame them for being curious. You’re the first guest we’ve had here in fifteen years. For some of them, you’re the first since they began working here.”

  Margaret shook her head and shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps I’m the one that’s nervous. It’s just that I know how I'd feel in their position.”

  “How is that?” He sounded genuinely curious, as though she was giving him information he could never get himself.

  “They’ve worked here for years, some of them for most of their lives. For a long time, they only had you to look after. Then one day, a stranger is allowed in—an unknown, an alien. No one knows what she'll be like. Will she refuse them their customary celebration? Will she be arrogant, ignorant, gauche?”

  “They don’t have to be at the dinner, if they make you uncomfortable.”

  “But they do,” she insisted. “What they fear is that life is suddenly going to change. We must assure them it won’t. I want them at the celebration. I want to be one of your circle, not the one who breaks it.”

  He was silent for a moment. His hands fidgeted in his lap, an obvious nervous habit. Then he remarked quietly, “You are very considerate.”

  “I try to be. The truth is I’m simply someone whose circles were often broken.” A bell rang in the distance. “Does that mean dinner is ready?”

  “Yes.” He rose to his feet. “Come, I’ll escort you. We shall brave the servants’ gawks together.”

  “They say, ‘courage mounteth with occasion.’ I only hope my courage can follow suit,” Margaret remarked.

  “Extraordinary! Miss Taylor, I think you and I are going to get along famously.” They left the room arm-in-arm.

  Chapter 4

  As they walked through the passageway, Margaret noticed how carefully her companion prevented light from hitting his face. Disconcerted and trying desperately not to think about it, she asked, “What usually happens at these affairs?”

  “Oh, a lot of toasting and anecdotes.”

  “About your family?”

  “And the servants’ families as well. There’s one they tell about Brenlaw’s father and Mr. Logan senior, the present grocer’s father.”

  “I’d like to hear it.”

  “Oh, it comes up every year. Though I should warn you, it’s a bit vulgar in its humor.”

  “If I might be quite frank, Christopher, I don’t think there’s a story in the world crude enough to shock me.” She declared proudly, adding with an airy wave of her hand, “I’ve heard it all.”

  “I just thought I’d warn you.” There was a definite grin in his voice. He seemed to see her confidence as a challenge.

  When they stepped into the dining room, the servants, who were arranged around the large rectangular table, stood and turned to watch the new arrivals’ entrance. As the two continued their progress toward the head of the table, Margaret whispered, “Do they usually do this?”

  “I’m afraid so,” he replied wryly.

  “I feel like a goldfish in a bowl.”

  “And a very beautiful goldfish you are,” Lord Yawron replied, chuckling.

  “Thank you very much,” she grumbled.

  The pair reached their seats. The earl pulled out Margaret’s chair, and, when he had seen her safely seated, he sat at the head of the table. Soon as he took his seat, so did everyone else.

  His lordship spoke, “My good friends and loyal companions, this is Miss Margaret Taylor, a newcomer to the village. She has graciously accepted my invitation and asks that she be admitted as one of our company. She expects no special treatment above that of any guest in any house. She wishes this celebration to go on as it always has—that includes your story, Brenlaw.” There was a ripple of laughter. With the skill of an experienced raconteur, he waited before continuing. “So, let’s have ourselves a wonderful evening.”

  After a brief cheer and applause, the noise of normal conversations took over. Margaret looked around. She was seated with his lordship to her left and the elderly housekeeper, Mrs. Niles, to her right. Brenlaw sat directly across the table from their guest. The meal was excellent, with far more courses than she'd seen in
a long time.

  “We are so glad you could come, miss,” Mrs. Niles said. “I must confess that a lot of us were worried that the townsfolk might scare you off.”

  “Some of them tried. I don’t frighten easily.”

  “That’s good. And how are you liking the village?”

  “I like it very much. It isn't too isolated from London, it has a nice teahouse, and it's quiet, so I can get on with my work.”

  “Which is?”

  “I write, Mrs. Niles.”

  “Fiction, nonfiction?”

  “Nonfiction mostly, though I dabble in the other. I write for journals. You know, observances on life, literature and art, that kind of thing. I've even authored some political commentary. I'm currently working on a series about the last war.”

  “And are you thinking of writing this evening down?”

  “I don’t know yet. If I do, it will probably be called, ‘The Birthday Party that Surprised the Guest.’ ”

  “That’s right. His lordship didn’t want us to tell you. Of course, in some ways, he was quite right to do so. What woman would go to a birthday party for someone she’s never met, knowing she was the only guest invited?”

  “What woman would go to the house of someone she’s never met for any reason, knowing she was the only guest invited?”

  The older woman blinked in surprise and then smiled wryly. “I guess that’s true, miss. Then again, a writer must have curiosity, and this situation is very curious.”

  “Yes, it is. Still I feel uncomfortable not having a gift.”

  Niles looked at her employer and seemed pleased to find him engaged in conversation with his butler. Turning back to her companion, she explained gently, “Your company is the best present you could possibly give him. He was so sure you'd say no. Even after you said yes, he expected some disaster to hit. He paced and skipped, giddy and nervous at the same time. I haven't seen him like that in ages. He’s been so alone these past years; it was beautiful to watch his excitement. Quite a kid in a candy shop.”