"No, not the black waistcoat." Byrne gestured impatiently to the open closet. "The blue."

"An actual colour," Fletcher said, all surprise.

"Aren't you the one always harping on about me wearing greys and blacks?"

"And browns. My personal least favorite. Sometimes I fear staring too long into your closet will send me into fits of melancholy," Fletcher droned, taking out the blue waistcoat and a darker blue dinner jacket to match. "But I have to wonder why you're so unusually fastidious tonight."

"Perhaps I'm finally taking in all your edicts about being dressed for success."

Fletcher gave him a suspicious grunt, "Then I have to wonder what success you are after tonight."

Fletcher could keep wondering. Byrne was not about to tell him about his intentions toward Miss Crewe. The man had already noted that Byrne asked after her too much and that was enough. Besides that, he never liked to discuss his plans until he felt secure that they might prove fruitful. 

He just hoped for better fruits tonight than he'd had this afternoon. He had not planned on finding her in the woods. And he certainly hadn't planned on kissing her.

After leaving Tony, he'd been after another ride before the rain came again, hoping it might clear his head. Having failed at coaxing Emir, the stubborn lout, he thought a walk might help. But it hadn't. He'd never been more muddled.

He'd not meant to come at her with such ire, but he'd just been so damned certain that Tony would be turned away. To find that hadn't happened put him in the very devil of a mood. He'd actually insulted her. He'd not meant to, but she seemed to take exception to it, particularly the word countrified.

Tony must have been more persuasive about his proposal than he'd expected, if she was truly considering it — or at least more persuasive than Byrne had been. There was no way he could compete against Tony's charm by being a beast. He should apologize. He'd lost his head with her in more ways than one.

He truly hadn't intended to kiss her. He'd gripped her arms, yes. Pulled her closer, of course. But he'd only meant to remind her of the attraction between them, something Tony could not give her no matter how reasonable his offer. He'd actually meant to tease her as he'd done this morning, when he'd been so certain she was just as tempted by him.

What he didn't expect was for her to kiss him.

That was when all hell broke loose.

She was a gently bred lady, not a light-skirted widow looking for a romp out in nature. Even if she had kissed him, he'd taken things too far. God, had he actually groped her breasts up against a tree in the middle of the woods?

No matter. Tonight, he would behave like the gentleman he strove to be. He would be himself again.

"I must say, I'm happy to see you take an interest in dressing properly for an evening in," Fletcher was saying. "But perhaps slippers would be better than—"

"No," Byrne cut in. He might be making an effort tonight, but he would not be donning slippers, stockings and knee breeches like some lordling at court. Some things were a step too far.

"Boots all day, boots all night," Fletcher muttered under his breath as he tied Byrne's cravat. "Going to supper, not a walk along the moors, but what do I know..."

Byrne barely heard, his mind still on Miss Crewe. First, he would apologize. Second, he would keep things light, perhaps even... flirtatious? He'd never been much for flirting, but he could try.

"... finding things to do out of the kitchen before Miss Crewe's maid cajoled me into letting her draw me in some ridiculous manner."

Byrne stilled. "What about Miss Crewe?"

Fletcher frowned. "I was not talking of Miss Crewe. I was talking of her her maid. Miss Finch has been sketching half the downstairs as royals and mythical creatures. The other servants might be susceptible to such frivolity, but I find it beneath me and I feel Mrs. Stern is in agreement, even if she has been allowing such nonsense." He sighed. "God only knows how this night will go without her guidance."

"We've all survived without Mrs. Stern on Friday evenings before."

"Not with a party such as this," Fletcher harrumphed.

"Mrs. Doyle runs a fine kitchen," Byrne said absently. "Now what about Miss Crewe?"

"Once again, it's her maid I'm speaking of," Fletcher said with one of his suspicious glances.

"That's what I meant," Byrne said. "What of her maid?"

Fletcher stared at him a moment before going on, "She's got everyone half-distracted. Higgins wasted an hour going to get one of those silly drawings framed, of all things. And with that dog still about and Mrs. Baddeley still abed..."

"I'm sure there's nothing to worry about," Byrne said. Though he was a bit concerned about Fletcher's continued objections to Miss Crewe's maid, that didn't mean the same should apply to Miss Crewe. Besides that, Fletcher disapproved of almost everyone. He couldn't even think about that now. "I'm distracted enough without you adding to it."

"Whatever for?" Fletcher inquired with narrowed eyes.

"Never you mind."

Fletcher huffed as he continued fooling with Byrne's cravat, "If I'd known simply embracing an old friend would cause you to shut me out of your confidence—"

"This has naught to do with Mr. Browning," Byrne groaned. "As long as he keeps away from me, I will tolerate his presence here. Now can we finish? Or will you still be tying that thing while everyone else is having dessert?"

"I am finished," Fletcher said, stepping back and eyeing him. "But, if you are still committed to looking your best, perhaps a trim might be in order. Your hair is getting unfashionably—"

"No," Byrne cut in, recalling the way Miss Crewe's hands had gripped his hair at the end. "Not tonight."

**********

Tonight's supper, Emilia noted, was at least, merrier than last night's.

Sir Anthony, in particular, seemed quite extraordinarily merry when they'd proceeded into the dining room. In fact, Emilia suspected he might be a trifle drunk, what with the way he kept changing his mind as to how they should be seated. He'd finally decided that they should all dine "en famille," and with less fuss and formal placement.

He made it clear he wanted "Miss Crewe" next to him, but Mary took the opportunity to sit at his right, the place of honor usually reserved for Lady Adele. When he caught Emilia's eyes and gestured to his left, Lord Swinton took the chair before he could say a word, expressing a desire to speak about invasive species of bugs plaguing Cambridgeshire. 

It was just as well for Emilia. She didn't fancy sitting across from Mary. 

Sir Anthony didn't seem happy about that. Mary didn't seem as happy with her seat either, not when Mr. Byrne ignored the chair she offered him and pulled one out for Emilia.

Emilia had little choice but to take it as she'd already begun to pull it out for herself in all the confusion. Really, she'd simply put her hand on the first chair she saw, not much caring where she sat as long as there was food to come. Still, she was rather surprised when Mr. Byrne took the chair to her left, especially after their encounter in the woods. The way he'd run off, he'd seemed almost embarrassed. She'd thought he might not even look in her direction all night. 

But he seemed to have no trouble now, giving her a warm and rather wolfish smile when she chanced a glance his way. He didn't seem the least bit embarrassed now. 

Her stomach clenched as she turned back to her empty place setting. She was simply starving, that was all. She hadn't had a bite since breakfast and, though her days at this party were not as full of rushing about as they would be back home, it hadn't lessened her appetite so far. She did worry it might, with Mr. Byrne at her side, after the events of the day — or just the one event. No, there were two events today. She kept nearly forgetting she'd entertained a proposal this morning, their kiss overshadowing all. Perhaps she would be too nervous to eat after all that.

Luckily for her, by the time the potato and leek soup came, her appetite returned in full force. She finished first, of course, staring around at the rest, still sipping at their spoons. Mr. Byrne placed his down, even though his bowl was only half empty. His hand seemed restless, drumming his spoon slightly on the table cloth, as he leaned just a little closer to her, though not as close as he'd been earlier.

"Miss C—"

"I say, Miss Crewe, you've won the soup race," Sir Anthony called from his seat.

Emilia forced a laugh. "It seems I always do."

"I shall defeat you, one of these days." Sir Anthony toasted her with his drink, though he wasn't looking at her. He was looking at Miss Marbury, seated at the other end of the table between Miss Poole and Lady Adele.

Miss Marbury had been a bit subdued before supper. Perhaps that was because she and Sir Anthony had been the only pair in the drawing room when Emilia had first come down. Their mutual dislike seemed even stronger than before. They had been across the room and very pointedly ignoring each other when she entered. 

Of course, Sir Anthony had put his charming host mask back on for her, especially, then was pointedly effusive once more and more guests had joined them. But Emilia had noted that Miss Marbury's gaze had strayed Sir Anthony's way often as people chattered before supper, waiting on Mr. Byrne, of all people.

He'd not often been late for supper. Emilia rather suspected Mr. Byrne was not often late for anything. He'd looked particularly fine in his dark blue...

Emilia tore her thoughts away from Mr. Byrne and put them back on Miss Marbury, who seemed much less subdued now. She'd dithered a bit when they'd come into the dining room, as if not certain where to put herself. But the other two ladies had quickly claimed her company. She seemed rather pleased, and it was little wonder why. They must be more pleasant to dine with than Mary Hartley.

Emilia slid her gaze to Mary, unable to help being gratified that she seemed so displeased with her place between Sir Anthony and Mrs. Fernside, who was chattering to Mrs. Garvey about Mrs. Baddeley's health. They were both quite relieved that her cold had not spread through the house, happily exchanging old war stories of the colds they themselves had barely survived.

Emilia wasn't certain what galled Mary more; being seated next to a chaperon, the fact that their host seemed to have little interest in speaking to her, that Emilia was seated beside Mr. Byrne, or perhaps all three.

Emilia did feel strange being beside Byrne herself, though she couldn't decide if the clenching in her stomach meant she was nervous, just a little bit thrilled, or very hungry. Perhaps, for her also, it was all three.

After returning Mopsy to the kitchen earlier, she'd floated back to her room in a daze, feeling almost drunk upon that kiss. The first had been surprising — one might even say shocking at the time — but also slow and sweet, almost hesitant. This kiss... She wasn't sure what to call it. It certainly wasn't hesitant nor slow, though it left her with a lingering sweetness. Even remembering it had her in tingles all over.

She barely had time to decide how she felt about it before she'd found Prudence, bouncing up from the bed and her many sketches, before claiming she had much to tell her.

"So very much has happened, I barely know where to start," Prudence had sighed.

Emilia could say the same, except she could only tell Prudence half of what had happened.

"First, allow me to say that, after much subterfuge and snooping, I have found that there are more secrets at this party than just ours."

That caught Emilia's attention. "What? Have you found anything useful on Mary or—"

"Oh, not her. Forget about her. I'm talking of something much more interesting." Prudence clasped her hands behind her back, pacing slowly back and forth, as if she were the hero in one of her mystery plays delivering a speech. "As you know, I always had my suspicions about the servants and the way they defer, rather than to Sir Anthony, to Mr.—"

"Byrne, yes." Was that all? "I actually know—"

"Kindly allow me to finish." Prudence held up a finger, looking quite excited to deliver her findings in the most dramatic possible way. She was worse than Charity sometimes. "You see, my drawing the servants was useful in gaining their favor, yes, but I had other motives, particularly with Mr. Higgins. I was able to gain access to his office, to his ledgers, in fact. Now, 'what can one find from a glance at ledgers?' you might ask. Quite a lot. I've always been more interested in Papa's work than Ernie is — though that's not difficult to do." She laughed. "But my knowledge of such things has helped me to deduce—"

"That Mr. Byrne is the person throwing this party," Emilia finished for her, since they truly didn't have time for the Miss Prudence's entire monologue.

Prudence scoffed loudly. "Well, you could have let me say it."

"We really do need to dress for supper," Emilia said, pulling a pale, lavender dress from the closet. Was it close enough to grey that Miss Hartley might not protest? It didn't matter. It was the plainest dress she had left that didn't need a wash.

"Very well, then." Prudence rushed to help her out of the morning dress. "But there's more. Every servant here is paid by—"

"By Mr. Byrne," Emilia finished for her again.

"Have you gained some sort of prophetic insight today?" Prudence sounded more frustrated than impressed.

"No. Sir Anthony himself told me."

Prudence gasped, "After I went to all the trouble of drawing the butler as a Roman soldier three times?"

"And that wasn't all he—"

Unfortunately, that was as far as they were able to get before Mary sailed in without so much as a knock, her dress over her arm, complaining about her necklines.

Emilia was grateful she, at least, allowed Prudence to finish doing up her dress before Mary complained about that, too.

"I'm sorry, but I've not time to fashion something out of a potato sack," Emilia said, too annoyed to curb her tongue. Would she ever get a moment alone with Miss Prudence today?

Mary rolled her eyes. "Well, I'm convinced a potato sack would be better for me than this." She held the dress to herself. "Why, you've only lowered it a half-inch."

"It was a full inch," Emilia said. "And I lowered it as much as fashion or decency will allow. Anything further would spoil the drape."

Mary's eyes drew into little slits. "Which are you calling me, indecent or unfashionable?"

Emilia was very tempted to say both, but Prudence stepped in with, "I think it very kind of Miss Finch to save us all from... spoiled draping."

Sometimes Emilia was mightily grateful for Prudence Crewe. She was quite skilled at saving her from the worst of Mary Hartley.

"I find it quite healthy," a voice said, bringing her back to the present as the the footmen began clearing the soup bowls away.

Emilia remembered young Mr. Browning was at her other side. Mr. Byrne hadn't seemed happy about that when he'd first sat down. He didn't seem any happier now, as Emilia noticed his fist clenching his spoon before she turned to Mr. Browning. "Pardon me. What's healthy?" She forced a smile. "I think I lost the conversation somewhere."

"Your appetite," Mr. Browning clarified.

"Oh, well... Thank you?"

"Was that wrong to say?" He reddened slightly, looking down. "I confess, I'm more comfortable at school than in society. Commenting on a lady's appetite is probably not—"

"Please don't be embarrassed, not with me," she cut in, her smile a bit less forced now. The poor lad looked mortified. "I think it's healthy as well. I've never been one to toy with my food when I could be eating it."

"My mentor, Doctor Allendale, is always concerned about reducing diets. He thinks young ladies are becoming far too susceptible to such trends."

"I think I remember Sir Anthony mentioning you were studying medicine last night. How very interesting."

"Er, not studying precisely. I'm not allowed... That is, I've not been given leave to..." He shook his head. "I hope to study medicine when I am finished at Cambridge, if my father can be convinced," he finished on a nervous laugh.

"I shouldn't think anyone's parents should need convincing of such a thing," Emilia said, genuinely surprised. "Is it not considered one of the most noble professions?"

"Not so much when one is the son of an actual noble." He sighed, giving her a sad sort of smile. "For now, my being Doctor Allendale's apprentice is unofficial, but I do very much hope that my father will eventually see how passionate I am about my calling."

"I hope that for you, too. People should always pursue work they feel passionately about." Well, rich people, that is. For her, security would be enough. Really, was there anyone who felt passionate about housekeeping? Miss Crewe's queries from yesterday still rather pricked at her mind. She'd never given much thought to what she felt passionate about. Really, being a lady's maid appealed to her far more than having charge of a whole house, as ladies didn't often ask their housekeepers to make and trim dresses. Perhaps that would be her hobby, should she have time for it.

"Miss Crewe," she heard lowly from her left. "You must allow me to—" Mr. Byrne stopped himself as the bowls and platters were placed on the table. The footmen seemed a bit confused, but Sir Anthony insisted dining en famille meant less formal service tonight.

Emilia did glance at Mr. Higgins, curious if the butler would be put out. Mr. Dawes back home never did enjoy a change in plans, but the man seemed quite distracted by the mirror above the wide serving cabinet, lifting his chin as he admired himself. Emilia hid a laugh, wondering if he was seeing himself as a Roman soldier. Miss Prudence had certainly wreaked her own sort of havoc downstairs.

Mr. Byrne took the large spoon before she could serve herself some brussels sprouts. "Allow me."

"All this fuss to serve me your most detested vegetable?" she quipped nervously.

"Better you than me," he said with a slight chuckle, leaning closer before his voice took on a lower, more serious tone. "I'd like to beg your pardon for earlier."

"We... should not discuss earlier. And you did that already," she whispered, blushing slightly, recalling his stuttered apology before he ran away.

"Still, a gentleman does not do such things without—"

"Is this where you propose to me again?" she hissed out. God, why was she joking about that? Didn't she want it to stop?

His voice lowered even more as he continued to serve her. "Would I be met with any more success if I tried?"

Emilia wasn't certain what to say to that. She should simply say no. Much like Sir Anthony, the only reason Byrne had proposed was because he thought she was Miss Prudence Crewe. Every word he said to her was meant for someone else. Well... except for the bit about her eyes. It's not as if she and Miss Crewe shared the same eye color or shape. Perhaps she could be a little flattered by that.

"Not answering, I see," he prodded as he filled his own plate.

"I am quite famished. I have not the strength to answer such... impertinent questions," she finished on a breath.

"Very well," he said, his voice almost playful. "I shall have mercy on you... for now."

*********************

More dinner party silliness to come!