Page 64 of The Grand Mistletoe Assembly
Max’s mouth opened and closed, unable to speak.
To his eternal gratitude, Ruby Jackson turned around and recognized him. “Maximillian Vaughn,” she said.
This earned him a sharp look from Bess Abbott, and a curious one from the girl.
He bowed, feeling surprisingly clumsy for someone who bowed daily. “At your service. I’m sorry about the default tonight.”
“I would have won,” Ruby said.
“I know,” Max said. “I got Lord Stone to bet on you.”
Ruby stepped closer. “Did you bet on me?” Her hazel eyes swirled with all types of colors. Max didn’t know his art, but he knew regular-folk beauty, and she had it.
He nodded, his mouth completely dry.
She grimaced. “Sorry I couldn’t win you anything.”
“Next time,” he croaked.
Ruby gave him a faint smile, and a nod as if to dismiss him. But he didn’t want to be dismissed. He glanced at Bess Abbott, who was staring. A very large man with very large arms came and stood right beside her. Ah yes. He’d heard the gossip that Bess Abbott was in fact married. The man was a giant. He folded his dark arms, and Max got the point.
“Er, I must be off, but”—he took deep, steady breaths—“well, ah, would you allow me to call on you on Sunday afternoon? It’s my only time free.”
Bess Abbott scoffed, or maybe she coughed, or maybe she laughed. All Max could hear was a high-pitched droning sound in his ears as his entire body seemed to collapse in on itself.
“Sunday’s your free day too,” the girl said to Ruby.
Ruby glared at the girl, but then fixed her gaze on Max. She was considering it. “That’s all fine, then.” Ruby narrowed her eyes, as if he were a type not to be trusted. “Meet you at the Pig and Thistle in Paddington?”
“Paddington?” It wasn’t that far from Mayfair, but on his day off, every hour counted.
“Can’t manage Paddington?” Ruby taunted.
“I’ll be there.” Max gulped and backed away, his hands shaking. She’d said he could call on her.
CHAPTER 3
Ruby poured another draught and hollered at Miz Penny to bring out more pasties from the back. Whatever these people called ’em, Cornish pasties, not-Cornish-just-pasties, it didn’t matter. It was a steaming packet of meat and veg wrapped in a pie crust, and Miz Penny could crank them out, delicious and perfect, day in and day out.
Ruby sent the ale down the bar and pocketed the coin in her apron. She glanced at the prized clock over the mantel. Maximillian hadn’t set a time to visit, but every tavern knew when servants got their half-days. The crowd should be in soon. Ruby yanked at her dress under the apron, hoping everything was laying right. It was a new dress, or at least, new to her, from one of Lady Andrepont’s acquaintances. At least, that’s what she’d said, but Ruby would bet all her teeth that not another woman had ever worn this dress. It was perfectly tailored for her, and while it wasn’t satin or silk, it was a pretty woolen print in the same deep orange she’d loved so much on her ballgown.
Miz Penny floated out with a tray of pasties, steam venting from each half-circle of pie. To bite into one of these would scald a person from tongue to tummy. But these hungry fools would do it anyway. Miz Penny pushed off the hot food with her bare fingers and slid them into their appropriate slots for beef, rabbit, and chicken.
“The lad here yet?” she asked. Her fine white hair flew about her head as if it were an angel’s halo. She was never flustered, never out of breath. Over the years, she baked, chopped, served, and poured, and took all manner of coin and abuse. If only Ruby could learn the same even-temper.
Ruby eyed the door. “Not yet.”
Miz Penny wiped her greasy fingers on her stained apron. “He knows you train?”
Ruby told her he did, that he’d recognized her. It was flattering, really, if she thought about it.
“Then you’ve naught to worry. He’ll be along when he gets a hold of his nerves.” Miz Penny took her tray and headed back behind the curtain.
Ruby folded some old newspaper to hold the next few pasties ordered.
“Miss Jackson.”
Ruby glanced up, and even knowing he would be there, knowing he wanted to see her, he still surprised her. He was handsome, she could admit that. Especially now, when he wasn’t stiffly representing another household. He was himself, shoulders relaxed, dark hair softer, not slicked back with pomade, or worse, hidden under a wig.
