Page 70 of The Duchess Games

Cat thought of the afternoon of lawn bowling that awaited her. Of whispers behind fans, sugared violets. More champagne.

She might actually scream if she had to drink even one more sip of champagne.

“I can help,” she offered.

Morgen raised her eyebrows. “Are you sure? You—” She cut herself off, grabbing Cat’s arm and hauling her inside. “Never mind. We need the help.”

“Percival, find Viola!” Cat tossed over her shoulder. “And don’t chase the ball when the bowling starts!”

Percival lay on the flagstones under the rosemary and fell asleep instead. He wouldn’t budge until she was done. Cat darted back out to kiss his furry head and then followed Morgen. The entire belowstairs was more crowded than the market at Padstow before Christmas. The air sweltered and the harried staff where shiny with sweat as they polished silver, transported baskets of linens, trays of tea and sweets.

The kitchen was even worse. Rows of maids stood at the tables while Cook bellowed orders like a drill sergeant. It was frantic, orderly, industrious. Familiar.

Cook barely glanced at her. “The kittens are fine.”

“I’m glad to hear it, but I’m here to help.”

Cook frowned. The maids exchanged glances. Abovestairs or below, Cat was always a little odd. She decided not to dwell on it. “That’s kind of you but I don’t have time to teach you.”

“I can debone a haddock in under a minute.”

Cook did not look convinced.

“It’s true,” Morgen said. “I’ve seen it. Her da was a fisherman.”

“Well, we’ve fish enough.”

“You’ll never get the smell off your hands,” Morgen said. “You can’t go to the ball stinking of fish.”

“Those bloody toffs would never let us live it down,” another maid muttered.

Cook snorted. “Can you peel potatoes?”

“I can.”

“Excellent. Go on with ye.”

She found the potatoes at a long table at the bottom of the stairs, not quite in the kitchen, just outside the housekeeper’s room. Cat let the cacophony lull her, the murmur of voices, the shouts, the sounds of chopping and stirring and a cherubic-looking scullery maid singing a song to make a sailor blush. Cat remembered her mother singing it and her father scolding her, shocked and amused.

Cat scrubbed and peeled until her fingers wrinkled and her wrist ached.

It helped immensely.

Until…

“What on earth are you doing down here?” the dowager frowned at her. “I understand the natural order has been upset and I take responsibility for my part in it, but this is not helping. While you are a guest, you will comport yourself as a guest.”

“She’ll go where she pleases,” Callum said sharply from the top of the stairwell.

His mother clicked her tongue. “And what are you doing down here?”

“What am I doing in my own house, do you mean?”

“You’ll upset the servants,” she insisted, shooing him like a fly. Cat bit the inside of her cheek to keep from chuckling at his expression.

Percival, sensing a game, raced down the hall on his spindly legs. He tossed his treasure at the dowager.

A soggy, half-chewed potato.