Page 59 of The Grand Mistletoe Assembly
THE FOOTMAN’S MISTAKE BY EDIE CAY
Spice Level ??
Copyright © 2023 by Edie Cay.
All rights reserved.
CHAPTER 1
Ruby Jackson bit back a laugh. This place was flat ridiculous. The Drury Lane crowd had nothing on these people. Even theirclotheswere shiny—satins and silks, not to mention the bits and bobs hanging from ears and necks and fingers. She might have called herself after something precious and sparkly, but she’d never seen anything like the sea of finery in front of her. TheGrandMistletoe Assembly, indeed.
Corinthian John put his hand on her lower back and pushed her forward. To all the world, it seemed like a gentlemanly gesture, but Ruby knew when she was being told to hustle her arse. She couldn’t stand in the doorway forever, she supposed. Corinthian John’s wife had taken ill—probably another babe on the way was Ruby’s guess—and Bess Abbott told her to take this invitation and keep her mouth shut. It weren’t anything Ruby’d ever done before, nor heard of any of the other girls doing, but if her trainer told her it would be good for her career to go to a party where rich toffs ate good food and drank good wine and called it charity, then so be it.
Lady Andrepont, eyes forward, leaned past her husband, who flanked Ruby’s left side, and said, “If you were a male fighter, no one would bat an eyelash at your attendance here tonight. Remember that.”
Ruby squared her shoulders. That’s right. She wasn’t here as a young lady; she was here as a boxer with her sponsors. Corinthian John and Lady Andrepont were siblings, sharing a love of the Sweet Science. Ruby had watched Corinthian John fight all her life, had even hoped he was her father at one point. But there was no way they were kin—Ruby’s squarer face and darker coloring were in direct contrast to their narrow features, strawberry hair, and almost translucent blue eyes. People had told her she was pretty, and that boxing was a terrible idea as it would ruin her natural luck. But she was good with her fists, and it was hard to put the sport aside because a handful of people paid her a compliment.
Ruby didn’t have a formal education, though she could read. Her accent, Bess Abbott told her, was like broken glass, and it would do her no favors to speak. So, Ruby took it all in. Beauty was every which way, with glittering crystals and glass, a hall filled with candlelight and paintings. Lady Andrepont told her there would be an art auction, dancing, and most importantly, food. She trained so hard these days that her appetite was more akin to the tides—food coming in, but her hunger always surging out for more.
Following her sponsors, they entered a smaller room, full of toffs but not bursting like a newly-stuffed heavy bag as the main entrance hall had been. Two tall, liveried footmen placed trays of food on tables and removed empty ones. One gave her a look of recognition as he retreated. But Ruby didn’t care if the servants knew who she was. She could smell the mushrooms stuffed with cheese and breadcrumbs, and her mouth watered. While training, she wasn’t supposed to eat cheese, but oh, it wascheese. And tonight was a party, so it weren’t as if her training regime was that important.
She’d have to wait until she could politely maneuver herself to the food. If there was anything Ruby knew, it was patience. Waiting for an opening in her opponent’s guard.
In the meantime, her sponsors promised to introduce her to more members of the Fancy, backers of other bare-knuckled boxers, who might show up for her set-tos, wager on her, and help get her name in papers. But Ruby had another angle at this party—something she dared not share even with Lady Andrepont, kind and understanding though she was—for rumor held that Ruby’s father might be here, another fighter held aloft in the esteem of these fine folk. That is, if Ruby was correct about her father’s identity.
* * *
“That’s her,I’m telling you.” Max stupidly glanced over his shoulder on the servants’ stair, as if he could see through the walls and watch Ruby Jackson float through the anteroom.
Roger put his hands up in surrender. “I believe you. But we’ve a bunch more platters to bring up, and you know Mr. Hastings won’t take kindly if we drag our feet.”
Max rolled his shoulders and sighed. “Mr. Hastings always thinks I’m dragging my feet. Not my fault I’ve got these sleepy-looking eyes.”
Roger laughed. “Ain’t your eyes, mate. You’re slower than me grandmother. And she’s been dead three years.”
Max punched Roger in the shoulder as they reached the landing. The housekeeper, Mrs. Frances, tsked at them. Her tsks were as loud as a goose honking at St. James’s Park, but no matter. They knew what it meant—get to it, there’s a party on. What else did a footman do but haul things from the bottom of the house to the top and then back again?
They grabbed their next silver platters and headed back up the steps.
“I’m going to try to talk to her,” Max said.
“Are you mad?” Roger stopped short on the stairs, almost causing Max to spill his tray.
Thankfully he reacted quickly, and while the food slipped to the side, nothing slid off. “You think she won’t like me?”
“I think Mr. Hastings will have your hide for speaking to a guest.” Roger shook his head. “Daft bugger.”
“She’s a guest, yeah, but she ain’t a proper, proper guest. She ain’t a duchess or nothing. If I seen her in her shift, I can speak to her without an introduction.”
“And if she don’t like you, she’ll knock your domino box down your throat. Don’t you remember last week’s mill?”
Max and Roger were a pair, and Baron Gregory Stone—a friend of the Pearlers, a member of Parliament, and an unapologetic gambler—took them both to mills. It gave Stone protection and status to have the pair of them at his side, and it gave Max and Roger a chance to watch the fights. Ruby Jackson was currently the undefeated women’s fighter, though she didn’t have as many opponents as she would if she were a man. Some might say she wasn’t respectable, but Max didn’t care about that sort of thing. How was that any different from a girl who became a housemaid, or a seamstress? Why did it matter what kind of work you did, so long as you were good at it?
And Ruby Jackson was a stunner. Not just her rabbity-jabs, but she had what the Fancy calledbottom.That limitless reserve to take abuse and come back to dish it out. Something Max felt they had in common. The last time he’d seen her, she had a fat lip and a bloody nose. Her hair had been braided back, and in the low light of the basement, smelling of sweat and tallow, she’d smiled her triumph right at him. He’d felt her victory, like she had stared right into his very heart and shared it with him.
Roger was the daft one. Max would find a way to speak to Ruby Jackson tonight, no matter what Mr. Hastings would say.
* * *
