Scandal of the Year by Olivia Drake

heart as she tried to fathom his purpose. The household rules forbade the servants from venturing out in the middle of the night. Yet James had disobeyed. Why?
    More important, where was he going at this late hour?
    A distasteful possibility wormed into her thoughts. Perhaps he had a tryst arranged. The more she pondered the notion, the more logical it seemed. James had led her to believe he had no family or friends in London. And she would stake her reputation that he wasn’t a thief or a footpad.
    Therefore, he must be meeting a woman.
    Blythe scowled into the darkness. She told herself to forget his indiscretion. It was irrational to feel affronted. What a servant did while off duty was of little concern to her. Nevertheless, she stood gazing out the window for a time, hoping to see him return.
    But he was still gone half an hour later when she finally gave up and went to bed.
    *   *   *
    James rapped hard on the plain wooden door. Glancing up and down the pitch-dark lane, he kept a close watch on his surroundings. Thankfully, only a stray cat slunk through the shadows. This rundown neighborhood off the Strand boasted no watchmen patrolling the streets as in the posh area of Mayfair.
    James didn’t want any trouble tonight.
    The chilly breeze carried a fishy odor from the Thames. Two o’clock in the morning was far too late to be paying calls, but he’d had little choice in the matter. His days were filled with endless duties. With the way Godwin watched the footmen, it was a miracle James had been able to sneak out of the house at all.
    For a moment in the garden, he’d feared he’d been spotted. There had been a flash of movement in one of the upper windows. But upon closer inspection, he had concluded he’d been mistaken. The family had retired early, as had all the servants, so he had nothing to fear.
    The occupants of this small house must be dead asleep as well.
    James pounded his fist on the door. He hoped he wouldn’t have to resort to shouting, which would awaken the neighbors and draw undue attention. Then, much to his relief, the muffled sound of footsteps came from within. A key rattled in the lock and the door squeaked open a few inches.
    An elderly man in a nightcap and long shirt peered through the crack. He held up a lighted candle. “What the devil’s all the commotion about? Oh! Mr. Ryding!”
    Percy Thornton opened the door all the way, allowing James to enter the tiny hall. There were very few furnishings, only a chair and a side table. By the window, the sleepy chirp of a finch came from a covered cage.
    “Forgive me for disturbing you,” James told the old man. “It was the only time I could escape my duties.”
    “Never mind, I’m eager to hear your news,” Thornton said. “Come to the kitchen and Roland will make a cup of tea for you.”
    James followed the retired estate agent along a narrow corridor leading to the rear of the house. The light of the single candle cast elongated shadows on the peeling wallpaper, and the odor of boiled cabbage tinged the musty air.
    They headed down a steep flight of stairs to the cellar kitchen, where James had to duck his head to avoid hitting the lintel. Banked coals glowed in the hearth, casting a faint illumination over a lumpy pallet on the dirt floor in front of the fireplace.
    The blankets shifted and moved as if a mole burrowed deep inside the blankets. Then out popped a gangly bald man with ebony skin and a flash of white teeth.
    He rubbed his eyes. “Mister James, suh! Praise the Lord, you come back.”
    “I trust you’ve been behaving yourself, Roland. No sacrificing of chickens on the back stoop or anything of the sort?”
    Roland shook his head. “No live chickens a’tall in this devil’s town. Where dey get dere eggs from, I dunno.”
    “He’s been a big help with the chores,” Thornton said. “Please don’t think it’s been any trouble at all for him to stay here.”
    For many years, Roland had been valet,