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lady.
    Her expression sobered. “But perhaps the size of your previous household makes this one small by comparison. Your uncle said you have worked your way up the ranks to under-butler. You must be used to many dinner parties and catering to a variety of guests.”
    He hedged, choosing his words carefully. Whatever story he wove, he must remember its details in the future. Thankfully, he was a person mindful of details—one of the principal reasons he had been chosen for this task. “It was a large estate, but we saw few visitors. My employer was . . . a gentleman of advancing years who seldom entertained. Moreover, he and the . . . uh, mistress spent long periods of time absent from the household. It was not their—er—principal seat. That was in . . . Buckinghamshire.”
    She lifted a brow. “Indeed? Whereabouts? I go frequently to the Aylesbury Vale area.”
    Why had he chosen that county? He thought quickly of an area far removed from the area she mentioned. “It is near Beaconsfield.”
    She nodded. “Hartwell House is near Aylesbury. Are you familiar with it? It is where the Comte de Provence resides.”
    The Count of Provence, the self-appointed future king of Franceshould Bonaparte ever fall. “Very little. I myself have never been to Buckinghamshire.”
    “My mother spends most of her time at Hartwell House. She forms part of the small French court which surrounds the count. It reminds her of how her life used to be in France.”
    He was not sure how to read her tone. Ironic or sympathetic? “Yes, I understand, my lady.” Would Lady Wexham go to Hartwell while he was in this household? And if she did, how could he arrange to be taken along? As butler, he would be expected to remain behind, taking care of the house in its mistress’s absence.
    She pursed her fine lips. “Still, you seem much too young to be a butler. I hope my dinner party will not rattle you.”
    He thought of the guest list. Would anyone recognize him? Important members of government frequently came through the Foreign Office, where he had worked a number of years until being loaned to the Home Office for this spying assignment. Rees shook aside his worries, doubting anyone would recognize a lowly clerk as a butler in a West End residence.
    Lady Wexham turned her attention back to the rack of bottles. “Well, I suppose we should put our minds to the upcoming dinner party. Your footmen will wonder what is keeping you.”
    He brought his thoughts back to the present. “You said you wished for shellfish and soup for the first courses?”
    “Yes. I shall see what Gaspard finds at Billingsgate when he goes, then a joint of lamb, one of beef or veal, and the pheasant for the second course, accompanied by vegetables and aspics.” She tapped a finger against her lips. “Asparagus would be nice this time of year, and then fruit and jellies or perhaps a trifle to finish.”
    He was perusing the bottles as she spoke and now removed one at his eye level. “May I suggest a 1771 Château Margaux claret with the lamb?” He took out his handkerchief and rubbed the dust from the bottle’s label before placing it before her. “And perhaps a Calon-Ségur with the beef and veal, 1784. Both excellent years and ready to uncork if your guests merit such wines.” His eyes met hers.

    She arched her dark eyebrows as she took the first bottle from him. “Lord Castlereagh I should think does. The man has traveled widely and appreciates a good French wine.”
    Rees removed another bottle from its cradle on a higher shelf, thanking himself that he had inspected the cellars when he’d first come on the job. “There are some good Pavillon Blancs for the pheasant and fish.”
    “You seem to know more of French wines than you let on, unlike most of your countrymen,” she added with a low chuckle that skittered over his nerve endings like a silken cloth.
    His gaze continued perusing the racks, pretending nonchalance as he berated himself for