ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴀᴄᴋᴇᴛᴇᴇʀ

Thirty | ʀᴏꜱᴇ

“...so I told him, that's the last time I go golfing with a Frenchman! No drive!” Mr. Pembrook exclaimed, concluding yet another anecdote that might have been comical had he not been trying quite so hard.

Pembrook's friends dissolved into laughter, so Rose joined them. Laugh on the outside, eye-roll on the inside, just as her Grandmamá Violet had taught her. She was now an expert. None among the group of men was the wiser to her disingenuous reaction.

“Good ol' Pem always has the worst luck on foreign soil,” a distinguished gentleman with silver hair and a hawkish nose divulged. Rose had come to discern that his name was Mr. Belvedere, and he owned a widespread series of tanneries all throughout England. Another excellent potential donor.

“East, west, home is best,” Rose recited, the cheer in her voice matching that of her companions. “Just an old cliché, of course, but clichés are exactly that for a reason.”

“Too right you are, Miss Sinclair!” Mr. Pembrook declared. “And I couldn't agree more. As lovely as Paris, Berlin, Lisbon, and Rome are, I prefer London. Better for my constitution, as well.”

“He means better for his indigestion,” Mr. Belvedere corrected with another laugh. The other men chuckled along with him.

“Belvedere! Hold your tongue, you old scoundrel!” Mr. Pembrook exclaimed, though his grin spoiled his phony scolding.

Rose suppressed another eye-roll. These men found their own lackluster humor far too entertaining.

At that moment, Elijah McQueeney sauntered by the group. He gave Rose a knowing smile as he passed, and she smiled in return.

“Pardon me!” Mr. Belvedere projected in Elijah's direction. “You there, boy! Take this for me, would you? I'm finished.” He held out his empty champagne coupe expectantly.

Elijah, who had stopped in his tracks and spun around, stared at the empty glass, conflicted. In his eyes, Rose could see a war waging between keeping the peace and preserving his pride. Should he take the coupe, or tell Mr. Belvedere precisely where he could shove it? That seemed to be the question.

Rose intervened before either option could come to pass. “Mr. Belvedere, Elijah McQueeney is a guest this evening, not a server.”

Belvedere lowered the glass, a look of doubt passing over his features. “A guest, you say?”

Elijah loosed a little huff but kept his composure and made no retort.

“Yes, a guest,” Rose stated, her delivery curt. “He was invited by Mr. Mercer himself, the same as you and I. The servers are wearing burgundy cummerbunds and bow ties. You can't miss them.”

Mr. Pembrook scoffed and looked down his nose at Elijah. “Humph. Well, I didn't know there would be his sort at this soirée.”

Indignant heat spread across the skin of Rose's cheeks and neck. “I beg your pardon?” she demanded. “His ‘sort’ of what, exactly, Mr. Pembrook? For I see only people in this ballroom. Well-dressed gentlemen and ladies. Though, evidently, some possess more civility than others.”