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There was, however, extra quail intended for the servants’ supper, which Cook would forgive you for sacrificing if it saved the evening.
Mrs. Vale sat.
The room breathed again.
Twenty minutes later, she was telling Senator Bell that Newport kitchens were not what they used to be while eating quail with visible satisfaction.
You returned below stairs and found Cook waiting with murder in her eyes.
“The quail?” she asked.
“The quail saved your fish.”
Cook muttered something unholy and returned to her sauces.
After dinner, Edmund sent for you.
You entered his study at ten minutes past eleven. He stood by the fireplace, one hand resting on the mantel, still dressed for dinner, his expression unreadable.
“You invented an alternate course,” he said.
“Yes, my lord.”
“There was no alternate course.”
“No, my lord.”
“Mrs. Vale now believes herself specially accommodated.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“She has told three guests the quail was superior to the fish.”
“That is unfortunate for the fish.”
For one second, his mouth almost curved.
Almost.
Then he said, “You saved the dinner.”
“I prevented one woman from making herself the evening.”
“That is another way of saying it.”
You waited for dismissal.
Instead, he studied you.
“That was not in your report.”
“The incident occurred after Wednesday.”
“I mean the ability.”
You frowned slightly. “The ability?”
“To enter a room in crisis and change its direction without raising your voice.”
You looked toward the fire. Compliments were sometimes traps. Sometimes debts. Sometimes doors one should not walk through too quickly.
“It is a useful skill below stairs,” you said.
“And above.”
Your eyes returned to his.
The silence that followed had too much in it.
Then Briggs knocked and entered with letters, saving you from whatever the room was becoming.
“Forgive the interruption, my lord.”
Edmund’s gaze remained on you one beat longer than necessary. “Noted.”