He liked parties better than dinners, that was for certain. They allowed a footman more opportunity to sneak away for a quick break, so long as there were enough bodies circulating the room. And, for the most part, for-hire footmen were more likely to pick up one another's slack, allow for such breaks, as long as they were not too frequent or too lengthy.

Callum's empty tray had been left downstairs to refill with further flutes of champagne for the ladies in attendance, many of whom he recognized from other functions, a couple of whom he recognized from other contexts. His bowtie had been loosened and now hung on either side of his neck, his gloves stripped and tucked into a pocket as he had taken the service exit to the small servants' courtyard at the side of the house a nod to one of the kitchen maids in greeting before he lit a cigarette and she returned inside.

One hand rubbed the back of his neck while the other, holding the cigarette, fell to his side, the walls of the courtyard shielding him from some, but not all, of the crisp March evening breeze. The cold, Cal thought, would be as much impetus to return to work as the desire to get paid/continue to be hired for such things. He took another drag from his cigarette, this time with a bit more haste.

The door opened, filling the courtyard with the warm glow of the lanterns inside as someone stepped out. Another kitchen maid, Cal assumed, but the footman stood up straight, pulse elevating a bit, as he realized she was one of the guests from inside. The cigarette fell to the ground, swiftly extinguished under the heel of his shoe.

"Madam, my apologies," he offered quickly, nevermind that he hadn't been doing anything wrong. The bulk of his livelihood required Callum stay on the good side of women like these ones. "Are you lost?" This was not the typical place for a house party guest to wind up.