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“My compliments to the cook and the vintner,” she said, and if it were possible, the smiles around the room widened.
“Mrs. Birks is responsible for the elder wine,” said Mr. Coburn. “Our cook is French.” This last was said with an absence of joy.
“He must, therefore, prefer to be addressed as chef?” Felicity asked and was answered with a pruney grimace and a violent wattling of the flesh beneath the butler’s chin.
“Monsieur Louveteau has been a welcome addition to Lowell Hall,” O’Mara said, and Coburn’s expression softened.
“It would appear that the entire staff is here,” Felicity said, smiling around at all, who appeared delighted to be standing in a circle around their table.
“Ours is an informal household,” said the duke, as the serving footmen removed the first course.
“I beg to differ. All these footmen…” she said. “I doubt the prince regent himself has as many attending at table.”
“This is not an ordinary occurrence, Miss Templeton, but one appropriate to the occasion,” said Bates. Four different footmen appeared and presented each diner with a filet of beef.
“Would your own family have adhered to such high style, Mr. Bates?” Felicity cut into her portion, which gave like butter to her knife.
“Somewhat, Miss Templeton,” the steward replied. “My father is the Earl of Rendall of Lincolnshire. I am the ninth of my family.”
“What a lively home that must have been,” Felicity said, with a wistful smile.
“It was,” said the duke. “I fostered with Mr. Bates’s family from the age of seven.”
“Fostering? That is an old-fashioned practice. And Miss O’Mara?” Felicity inquired. “Is your family as large?”
“It is.” O’Mara took rather a large draught of wine, earning a stern glance from the duke.
“Mine was not,” Felicity said. “I was the only child and was not close to our extended families for the majority of my life. My father and my mother’s brother were not on terms.” Felicity was never this familiar with her story and found it strange that she had no compunction in sharing, and before such a crowd. In fact, it was as though a wave of something wafted over her, something like sympathy and comfort. “And by your accent, I conclude you are not from these parts?”
“I am from Ireland.”
Felicity kept a look of interest on her face and waited for elaboration. There was none.
“Well.” She looked up at the duke, who had devoured his course with speed. “Your Grace? What of your family?”
Tension rippled through the group standing witness, and Felicity held the duke’s gaze as if it was the most important thing she’d ever done in life.
“I am the eldest. I have a sister.” The footmen who had served the current course cleared the places. “My parents are…my father passed the dukedom on.”
“I am sorry for your loss.”
The duke hesitated, then elucidated, “He deferred it during his lifetime.”
“Truly?” Felicity took another sip of the delicious wine. “I am by no means an expert on the laws of peerage, but is that permitted? I have never heard of such a thing.”
“We are a special case.”
“Interesting. May I ask, did the transfer require the services of a solicitor, Your Grace? I find I am in need of someone well-versed in unconventional procedures as regarding legacies—”
“You will have no need of the law going forward.” His voice dropped, low and rough, and Felicity bristled even as the cohort tensed.
O’Mara took a deep breath; this was the usual cue for Felicity to interrupt the intervention, but as everyone around her relaxed, she allowed it. It was unfair to the staff to involve them in concerns private to her and His Grace.
The original footmen—at least they appeared to be taking turns, rather than expanding to an infinite number of attendants—set down a breast of fowl, fragrant with rosemary. Had this meal been designed expressly to her preferences? Felicity glanced at the duke, who was watching her again.
“You mentioned your family seat,” he said.
“Yes. Templeton House, in Kent.”
