The Rose of Birmingham | ᴘᴇᴀᴋʏ ʙʟɪɴᴅᴇʀꜱ

Twenty-Eight | ʀᴏꜱᴇ

"...and 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 Great Aunt 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 MacClare!" Mr. Pembrook declared. "And I couldn't agree more. As lovely as Paris, Berlin, Lisbon, and even Rome are, I prefer London. Better for my constitution, as well."

"He means 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, Isiah Jesus sauntered by the group. He gave Rose a knowing smile as he passed, and she smiled in returned.

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

Isiah, 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, Isiah Jesus is a guest this evening, not a server."

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

Isiah 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. Shelby 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 Isiah. "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 women. Though, evidently, some possess more civility than others."

"Now, Miss MacClare, that's hardly—" Mr. Belvedere interjected, coming to his friend's defense.

Rose held up a hand to silence him. "The purpose of this benefit, lest you gentlemen have forgotten, is to give to those less fortunate and in need. However, if all you have to offer are your antiquated opinions and prejudices, kindly refrain from further philanthropy."

"I can assure you, Miss MacClare, I meant no disrespect," Mr. Pembrook insisted.

Isiah leaned in close and spoke only to her. "I'm used to it, Miss MacClare. Ain't no reason for you to stick your neck out."