Rowan entered the Steward's Room feeling much as she had on her first visit to Almack's-convinced that she would break all kinds of rules, most of them incomprehensible. On the other hand she was now twenty-four, and she had entertained the Duke of Wellington and virtually every notable at the Congress as her father's hostess. She ought to be able to manage Pug's Parlour, as irreverent lower servants everywhere referred to the rooms of the upper staff.

The evening dress she was wearing had once been hers, and had been passed to Alice, her own dresser, the year before. Now she had borrowed it back, noting that the heavy lace at neck and hem had gone-doubtless sold on as one of the dresser's perks-and had been replaced with a more modest braid. Alice had maintained the heavy moss-green silk in good order and had let in long sleeves in a fine gauze.

Worn with plain kid slippers and a simple pearl cross at her throat, the gown presented the picture of modestly respectable elegance, suitable for her position. Dressing to be inconspicuous was a new skill-one she had never had to master before, Rowan realised with an inner grin.

The Steward's Room was crowded, the guests' valets and dressers chattering away, all apparently known to each other. A tall man in a black swallowtail coat approached her. 'Good evening. I am Mr Evesham, Steward here. You will be Miss Maylin's dresser. Miss…?'

'Lawrence, Mr Evesham.' A curtsey was obviously called for. Rowan produced one graded nicely between an archdeacon and a baroness. It appeared to pass muster.

'Please come in, Miss Lawrence. Would you care to take a glass of ratafia?'

She would much prefer to drink the sherry the men appeared to be consuming, but discretion was the safer path. Glass in hand, Rowan began to make her way around the room, looking for someone to talk to. It was obviously ineligible to approach one of the men, a formidable dame who must be the housekeeper was in earnest conversation with the Steward and all the dressers were split amongst three groups, apparently graded by rank.

It was considerably more hierarchical than any Society gathering, she concluded, edging into the group she judged closest to her in the pecking order. They broke off their conversation and regarded her warily.

'Good evening. I am Miss Maylin's dresser, Daisy Lawrence.' It was enough to break the ice. She discovered that she was speaking to the dressers of Miss Lincoln, the Honourable Miss Trent and Miss Harrington. Rowan knew none of the ladies concerned, guessing they must have come out after her departure to Vienna.

'I have not been with Miss Maylin long,' she confided. 'This is the most impressive house party she has been invited to since I have been with her.'

'Or ever, I imagine,' Miss Browne, attendant upon Miss Lavenham, remarked rather cattily. 'We have never met your predecessor, at any rate. My mistress says she's been invited for Lord Danescroft to have a look at. Is that true?'

'I believe he may be interested. It would be a very eligible connection for her, would it not?'

'Eligible?' Miss Trent's dresser enquired sharply. 'With that scandal so recent? I should shudder to think my young lady so much as spoke to such a man.'

'Really?' Rowan produced a look of wide-eyed surprise. 'But surely it is only some wild rumour about an accident? Leaving that aside, surely there is no cause to object to the Earl?'

Miss Browne raised an eyebrow at her colleagues. 'One does wonder,' she murmured, 'what kind of establishment his lordship presides over. They do say-' she drew in a deep breath '-that his wife was having an affaire with his valet.'

'Well, either he condoned such a thing, in which case there cannot be any truth in the rumour that he murdered her, or he did not. I do not see,' Rowan observed tartly, 'that you can have it both ways. Either the man is utterly dissipated or he is a murderer.'

As she spoke she glanced across the room and found she was being watched by the cynical blue eyes of the Earl's current valet. He could not possibly have heard her, but some twinge of conscience had her adding, 'Or he could be completely innocent, of course.' She held Lucas's gaze as she spoke, then realised that her own eyebrows were raised haughtily, as though to depress presumption. Only that expression would be completely out of character for Daisy Lawrence.

Hastily she lowered her eyes, feeling quite as flustered as Miss Lawrence would be. She was still trying to work out why-guilty conscience, annoyance at her lapse from her part, or the effect of that cobalt stare?-when a cool voice behind her enquired, 'Gossiping, Miss Lawrence?'

How the devil did he move so silently? Or so fast? She had hardly dropped her gaze from his. Rowan turned slightly, finding him all too close for comfort. 'Conversing, Mr Lucas. We were discussing reputation and how fragile it is.'

The other dressers regarded the two of them nervously, obviously in expectation of a comprehensive set-down from such a senior upper servant.

'Indeed it is.' His smile was not amiable. 'And rumour is such a dangerous thing. Sometimes, of course, it may be truth.'

He sauntered off to exchange words with an older man, leaving the four women exchanging speechless looks. Eventually Miss Gregg, dresser to Miss Trent, ventured, 'One might almost think he was trying to scare us.'

'I am quite certain he was.' Rowan narrowed her eyes at the unresponsive back clad in black superfine at least as good as that worn by most of the male guests. 'Or me, at any rate. It seems Mr Lucas does not approve of Miss Maylin as a future mistress.'

A tentative voice asked, 'Miss Lawrence?'

It was abashful, slightly spotty youth, his Adam's apple protruding above his painstakingly tied neckcloth as he swallowed violently with nerves. He was such a contrast to Mr Lucas that Rowan was taken aback. 'Er-yes?'

'I am Mr Philpott, the Reverend Mr Makepeace's man, and I am to take you in to dinner, Miss Lawrence.' He was almost speechless with shyness, made worse by the barely suppressed sniggers of the other three dressers. His master must be as far down the scale as Penny, if not further, and Rowan's heart went out to him.

'Thank you, Mr Philpott, I am much obliged.' Rowan had encountered her share of gauche young gentlemen and had learned how to put them at their ease. She felt considerably more sympathy for this very junior valet than she had for some bumptious sprig of the nobility. She put her hand on his arm and smiled, reducing him to blushing incoherence. 'I suspect we are right at the end of the line, are we not? Never mind, you can give me some hints about how to go on.' She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. 'This is my first big house party: I am quite at sea.'

Her dresser had warned her that protocol could vary widely from house to house. In some the upper servants would dine by themselves in the Steward's Room. In others, as was apparently the case here, they would join the other servants. In that case, Alice had explained, they would probably only stay for the first half of the meal.

Then there was the vexed question of the seating plan. Once they entered the servants' hall they might split up, and the female staff occupy the table below the housekeeper with the men below the Steward.

'Me, too,' Mr Philpott whispered, dashing her hopes that he, at least, knew what was what when it came to table plans.

'Never mind,' Rowan murmured, more to reassure herself than him. 'At least we're at the back and can see what the others are doing.'

They trooped in to a scraping of chairs and a rustling of cloth as the lower servants got to their feet. There was a second table, empty and waiting for the Steward's Room party. Hanging back, Rowan watched, then nudged Mr Philpott towards the centre. 'I think that's where we go.'

She found she had another valet, a cheerful, round faced man, on her other side and opposite, Miss Browne and a man who, from his military bearing, seemed to be an ex-officer's batman.

'Do you know anyone else?' she asked, reaching for her napkin.

'No.' Philpott sent a hunted look round the table. 'Mr Makepeace has only just been appointed chaplain to Lady Hartley. Before then he was just the vicar, and never went anywhere, but her old chaplain died so she took him on. Do you know any of them?'

'Just the dressers you saw me speaking to earlier, and Mr Lucas, right up at the other end next to the housekeeper. He's Lord Danescroft's man.'

'I have heard of him.' Mr Philpott sounded as censorious as she could imagine the Reverend Makepeace might. 'My master does not approve of his presence here, you know,' he added in a whisper.

'Really? Why not?' Rowan crumbled a roll, keeping a wary eye on Lucas at the far end of the table. There was no way he could possibly hear what they were talking about, but she was beginning to develop an almost supernatural respect for his perception. 'I know about the scandal, of course.'

'Well…' Philpott seemed to wrestle with his conscience. Rowan batted her eyelashes at him shamelessly and he succumbed. 'I overheard Lady Hartley telling Mr Makepeace that she could never condone Lady Danescroft's behaviour, but she was sure Lord Danescroft had driven her to it because of his neglect. She-Lady Hartley-said that Lady Danescroft had been a sweet, pretty girl, and very lively, and then he had shut her up in that gloomy castle miles from anywhere and she had moped and pined until she was driven into indiscretion.'

Personally Rowan considered that a flaming affaire with one's husband's valet went somewhat beyond indiscretion, but before she could say so Mr Philpott added, 'And Lady Hartley says he has grown so cold and aloof it would send any lady mad to be locked up with him.'

Rowan struggled to be fair. Not only was it wrong to falsely accuse someone, but it was no good taking half-baked rumours back to Lord Maylin; that would do Penny no good.

'Anyone might become so after such a tragedy and the dreadful stories that were put around,' she suggested.

'Well, yes, but-' In his excitement Philpott took an over-large mouthful of hot soup, and there was a pause while he became boggle-eyed with the effort of swallowing it safely. 'Lady Hartley says he was not like that before he was married, but became so after the marriage.'

'Oh.' There was much to digest, and they could not sit huddled together whispering. Rowan turned, smiling, to the round-faced man on her other side and asked him to pass the butter.

'Paul Jenkins-man to Captain Dunkley. Miss-?'

'Lawrence. Miss Maylin's woman.'

'Well, now!' He cut some bread and passed the platter. 'There's a thing. A young lady set to rise well above her position in life, from what one hears. Next time we meet no doubt you'll be at the other end of the table, Miss Lawrence.'

Lord! Had everyone heard about the match Lady Rolesby was trying to arrange for her grandson? There was an awful inevitability about it, as though if enough people accepted it as fact then nothing would stop Penny being married off to a man who, at the very best, was an embittered, scandal-haunted semi-recluse. She wished she could get a glimpse of Lord Danescroft: she was beginning to imagine him as glowering, beetle-browed and middle-aged.

'It is by no means certain,' she said firmly. 'I can tell you-in strictest confidence, of course-that no proposal has been made. Nor has he approached her father.' Mr Jenkins merely looked more intrigued. 'Personally,' she added, beginning to wish she could have a normal dinner table conversation at a normal volume, 'I doubt she would be suitable for him. She's a nice enough young lady, but sadly scatterbrained, and nervous of children.'

Poor Penny. Her ears must be burning with all this speculation and slander. It did make Rowan wonder, as her soup plate was removed and the butler began to carve a joint, just how much the servants gossiped about all of those above stairs. She had never thought of it before, and now her cheeks grew warm at the thought of some of the indiscreet things she had let drop in front of staff.

The joint was accompanied by a good variety of side dishes and a very respectable claret. She really must ask Alice how typical that was. No wonder Papa's cellar bills were so large.

She managed the rest of the meal without glancing down the table towards Mr Lucas, or lapsing into gossip about his master. With a clatter of chair-legs on the flagged floor the most senior servants began to rise and

the rest of the table followed suit. Rowan realised just in time that she was supposed to bring her table napkin and her glass with her.