His Grace, The Duke: Second Sons Book Two

Rosalie passed the rest of the morning flitting between the company of Mrs. Robbins and Burke and Renley. The men broke their fast with her before taking her on a quick tour of the downstairs rooms of Corbin House. After the tour, the trio split to attend to various errands—Burke to the gunsmith, Renley to his officer’s club, and Rosalie to a working luncheon with Mrs. Robbins in the parlor. It was simple fare—sliced cold ham and salad, tomato soup, and spiced apple tea.

The housekeeper proved herself more than equal to the task of planning a society soiree. Rosalie sat back, thoroughly impressed, as Mrs. Robbins walked her through a range of details from floral designs, to guest lists, to ordering carved ices. The woman had accomplished all this in less than a day!

“Of course, I will leave it to the family to settle on an overall style for the evening,” rushed Mrs. Robbins, shuffling a few stationary samples out of a messy folder.

“Lord James has asked me to tackle the particulars,” Rosalie replied, spreading some salted butter on a slice of toast. “If we leave it to him, it may have all the pomp of this luncheon.”

“Too true,” the housekeeper said with a snort. “Dinner and dancing perhaps? That’s always sure to please. Or a night of performances? We could bring in a troupe from the London ballet, or the opera—oh—the circus!”

Next to Mrs. Robbins, a maid feverishly took notes, nodding along.

“Hmm…” Rosalie was thinking fast. This event must serve the dual purpose of satisfying the duke’s desire for spectacle and provide enough space for mingling and conversation. For they needed the freedom to nudge Olivia in the direction of the eligible bachelors. “What if we dispensed with a formal dinner?” She glanced from Mrs. Robbins to the maid. “I doubt His Grace would much enjoy being stuck in a chair through both dinner and a performance. He’d rather mingle with his guests.”

“Oh yes, our master has always been a social butterfly,” Mrs. Robbins laughed.

“Perhaps we could have a sort of informal reception,” Rosalie offered. “To encourage a more celebratory atmosphere. No seated dinner. No endless rounds of courses and everyone stiffly waiting to turn.”

“Oh, what fun,” cooed the maid.

Mrs. Robbins leaned closer, giving her tea a stir. “And for the menu?”

Rosalie closed her eyes, picturing the night in her mind like a painting. “I’m imagining…footmen in the family livery weaving through the crowd, bright candlelight…trays of canapés and delicate French pastries.”

“Yes, fresh oysters,” said Mrs. Robbins, nodding at the maid to take note. “Scotch woodcock and pâté, caviar, quail’s egg quiche. And for the sweet course?”

Rosalie smiled. “An assortment of marzipan, sweet jellies and petit fours, flavored ices. I’m sure the pastry chef will know how to dazzle us. If the staff here is anything like that at Alcott, we will all be left in wonder at their culinary artistry.”

Mrs. Robbins was not the type to let compliments penetrate, not when she was focused on her task. She read over the maid’s shoulder, making sure it was all jotted down. “Mm…good, good. And for entertainment?”

Rosalie’s smile widened picturing James rubbing shoulders with jugglers and fire-eaters all evening. “I think I quite like your idea of performers. But let them mingle the crowd and entertain,” she added. “Nothing formal. But we should have a set of dances to close out the night.”

“Excellent,” said Mrs. Robbins, rattling her tea aside and rising from the table. “Come with me, Miss Harrow, and I shall have you appraise our choice of linens.”

The day carried on with Rosalie following in Mrs. Robbins’ wake. In the span of a few hours, she’d been taken on a full tour of the house, met the chef, and coordinated with the butler on selecting a set of rooms that would be opened for the party. All the while, the house buzzed with staff feverishly working to make the house ready for the impending arrival of the rest of the house party.

At half past five, Rosalie finally escaped Mrs. Robbins and went in search of her bonnet and pelisse. She was determined to walk the gardens before the gong was rung for dinner. She made her way to the main stairs in the front hall. One hand on the rail, she raised her foot.

“Arrrgh!”

Rosalie shrieked and darted out of the way as a footman balancing a massive vase of flowers tripped mid-step. He tumbled down the stairs and she watched the vase land on the steps, shattering into a thousand pieces.

CRASH.

The shards splintered everywhere, skittering down to slide across the marble floor. The poor footman grunted, a garden of fresh cut flowers covering him and the steps.

“Are you alright,” Rosalie cried, rushing forward. She had to climb a few steps to meet him. She dropped to her knees.

The footman sat up, wig askew, his livery soaked by the spilled water. “M’fine.”

She took him by the elbow, trying to help him up.

As soon as he put weight on his ankle, he yelped like a dog and dropped back to the stairs, pulling Rosalie down with him.

“What in heaven’s name?” called Mrs. Robbins, emerging from around the corner. “Oh—gracious me—”

Two more footmen materialized, taking stock of the damage with wide eyes. They quickly rushed forward to help.

“What happened?” Mrs. Robbins shrieked.

“He tripped,” Rosalie replied, hand still on his arm.

“Gracious,” Mrs. Robbins flustered. “You leave this to us, dear. You’ll be needing to get upstairs, yes? Just around the corner. Past the picture of the hounds is a servant stairwell.”

“I can help—”

“Nonsense,” the housekeeper cried, shooing Rosalie away.

The stairs were soon swarmed with the butler, two more footmen, and two maids all ready to tackle the mess. Heaving a sigh, Rosalie slipped away from all the commotion. She found the door to the servant’s stair easily enough. She didn’t make it two steps up the narrow stair before a slam from above told her someone else was in the stairwell. Heavy boots came spiraling down in a rush.

“Hello there,” she called, just as the occupant came round the corner. She gasped and stepped back along the wall, coming face to face with James.

His face was set in a scowl. “What is it with you and stairwells?”