It was one of the servants.

Specifically, it was Sutton—her lady’s maid.

* * *

Later, Jeremy thought, he would look back on this evening and laugh. At the moment, he felt rather too shocked to do anything of the sort, even as the events around him devolved into farce.

Dinner had been a lengthy affair, as usual, the table groaning under the weight of numerous dishes making up each course. Jeremy—who was beginning to seriously wonder at the wisdom of allowing his housekeeper to be in charge of the seating arrangements—had found himself seated between Lady Helen and Diana, with Audley, Violet, and Penvale directly opposite. This arrangement seemed entirely to the latter three’s satisfaction, as they watched the ensuing conversation between Jeremy and his seatmates rather like spectators at a boxing match.

“Lady Helen,” Diana said sweetly as the soup course was cleared away, “are you finding your ankle much recovered?” This was, of course, a ludicrous breach of etiquette—Diana was meant to be talking to Jeremy, who was seated directly to her left; on his other side, Lady Helen was regaling Belfry with some sort of lengthy monologue. Jeremy noticed that Belfry was drinking rather deeply from his wineglass.

At Diana’s interruption, however, Lady Helen broke off her discussion with Belfry and slowly turned. She gave a sort of trembling sigh clearly meant to indicate long, noble suffering. “I am, Lady Templeton,” she said mournfully. She had to lean forward slightly to speak across Jeremy to Diana, and she placed a hand on his sleeve as she did so. Several hours earlier, this breach of propriety would have had him crawling under the table to escape; now, however, he merely watched her, wondering what, precisely, her plan was.

She turned to him, batting her eyelashes so heavily that he was tempted to ask her if she had something in her eye. “Lord Willingham, the strength of your arm undoubtedly played a role in my speedy recovery.”

Across the table, Jeremy saw Penvale choke on his Madeira.

“Oh, yes,” Diana agreed solemnly, leaning a bit forward as well. This movement, given the cut of her bodice, made it extremely difficult for Jeremy to keep his gaze fixed on the lady’s eyes, which were at the moment round and innocent. Given that her brother was seated directly opposite them, however, he did his best in this regard.

“Willingham can be quite solicitous when the fancy strikes him,” Diana continued; a more halfhearted endorsement of one’s chivalry Jeremy wasn’t sure he’d ever heard, but he had too many other concerns at the moment to take offense. “And of course…” She trailed off, pausing dramatically. Jeremy once again glanced at Penvale, Audley, and Violet, all of whom were watching Diana expectantly, appearing to be enjoying themselves thoroughly.

“… when Cupid’s arrow has struck, you cannot but expect him to spring into action to spare his delicate flower any discomfort.” Diana blinked rapidly, as though suppressing tears.

“Are you quite all right?” Jeremy asked politely, watching as she dabbed at her eyes with her napkin. It seemed a shame not to pay her the courtesy of playing along, now that she’d really gotten into the spirit of this performance.

“Merely touched,” she assured him with a watery smile.

“In the head?” he asked.

On his other side, Lady Helen gave a shrill sort of giggle, once more placing her hand on his sleeve, drawing his attention back to her. Was it his imagination, or had her nails dug into his arm? “Oh, Lord Willingham!” she said with slightly manic glee. “So droll! So frightfully droll!”

“Yes, frightful,” Jeremy agreed, nodding fervently. He picked up his fork, attempting to refocus on the food before him. It was difficult to concentrate on much of anything with Diana’s theatrics on one side and Lady Helen’s on the other.

Because he was now almost certain that Lady Helen’s behavior was indeed just that: an act. He had beaten a hasty retreat away from her door once he had realized just who she was tangled up with—and had tripped rather spectacularly, and sworn even more colorfully at an elevated volume, once he was a bit farther down the hallway. He hoped he’d been sufficiently noisy to interrupt the ladies and at least make them realize that the door was not shut before anyone else discovered them.

He felt oddly protective of Lady Helen’s secret; he had stumbled upon her by accident, she’d no notion that he knew, and it didn’t feel sporting to gossip about her like a mean-spirited dowager, even with his closest friends.

However, he could not stop thinking about what he’d seen. He was not shocked at the existence of sapphists, of course, but rather amazed that Lady Helen counted herself among them. What the devil was she doing, then, dangling after him? Was she trying to catch a rich husband and be done with it, so that she might continue liaising with her maid whenever she wished? He could not fault her for this, in truth; the world of the ton was a difficult place for any woman, much less one who wished for something beyond the bounds of a traditional family and home. But why did she behave so dreadfully? It had to be an act; he couldn’t countenance the idea of a servant carrying on with an aristocrat as insufferable as Lady Helen seemed, unless she was being compelled. And Sutton had looked exceptionally enthusiastic that afternoon.

Perhaps she planned to find herself in a compromising situation with an eligible man, but to have made herself so undesirable a companion that he would have little to do with her once they were wed? That would certainly give her plenty of time to make love to her maid instead. If that was her plan, he had better watch his step: just because he felt sympathy for her situation and somewhat admired her cunning didn’t mean he had any wish to make her the Marchioness of Willingham.