Possessed of an authoritative manner.
Exceedingly rude.
Yes, no question about it, the man was insufferably discourteous. She ought to enjoy outsmarting him as she had, making an utter fool of him. For today, her story would hold true. Likely, by tomorrow, the truth of it would reign free, and she would then find herself landing on her rump after all, just as he had promised.
Had she already written arrogant? A cursory perusal of her list suggested she had. But if there was anyone she had ever crossed paths with who deserved a double listing of the word arrogant more, she could not think of one.
Arrogant, she added for the second time.
A quick, unexpected rap sounded at her door before she could proceed any further.
Some foolishness inside her convinced Hazel it was the Duke of Arden, coming to apologize for his earlier treatment of her. A second knock sounded, and she gave up the effort, simply snapping the journal shut. With a sigh, she stuffed her pen back into the inkwell before rising.
Hazel made her way to the door and opened it, startled to find yet another servant hovering in the hallway before her, this time, a female, who appeared similar in age to Hazel. A ready, if sheepish, smile was pinned to her lips.
“Miss Montgomery,” the servant greeted. “My name is Bunton. I am here to help you in dressing for dinner this evening. May I take the liberty of unpacking your trunks while you are otherwise engaged as well?”
Unpacking her trunks? Either the Duke of Arden believed her flummery, or this was his way of testing her. She decided the answer did not signify, for she traveled lightly—one trunk only—and no one had ever helped her to dress herself since she had been a babe in swaddling. What a lark! But then, this placewascalled Lark House, was it not? Fitting.
She did not hesitate with her answer. “I do thank you, Bunton, but no. Please advise the Duke of Arden that I will not require his peculiar sense of hospitality. I will do for myself, just as I always have.”
Bunton blinked, seeming uncertain of how to proceed. She lingered on the threshold, speechless. Hazel supposed most guests of the Duke of Arden would be elegant societal lords and ladies, who expected servants, such as the woman before her, to aid them in their unpacking and dressing. What a fantastical notion.
“I am afraid I cannot relay such a message to His Grace on your behalf, Miss Montgomery,” the domestic replied at last, her tone stiff.
“Thank you then,” she tried again, smiling, though she was weary, and she wanted nothing more than to return to her work. “You may go. I am otherwise occupied.”
Hazel had never particularly enjoyed the company of others. Not since Adam, that was. But she would not think of him now, for fear she would spend the rest of the evening wallowing in melancholy, rather than formulating her battle plan.
And a battle plan was precisely what her latest assignment would entail, there was no question of that.
But Bunton was still lingering, her expression fraught with concern. “I was told to assist you, Miss Montgomery, and directly by His Grace.” She looked as if she had been about to say more, but paused, attempting to compose herself.
Hazel’s eyes narrowed upon the poor woman, who clearly lived in fear of her employer. It would seem she had another trait to add to her notes concerning Arden:Tyrant.
“No need to overset yourself, my dear,” she said soothingly. Over the years, her work as an agent had enabled her to hone her skill of reading others, and the woman before her was clearly distraught. “Come along inside then, won’t you? I have already unpacked my trunk, but there is no reason why you cannot have a seat and keep me company.”
Indeed, now that she thought upon it, suffering more social interaction this day would prove most worthwhile, if it garnered her additional understanding of the Duke of Arden. He had made his distaste for her—afemale—as his partner apparent. She would need to fight him at every turn to prove her worth, and the more ammunition she had in her reserves, the better it would suit her.
Bunton entered the chamber, closing the door softly at her back. “Thank you, Miss Montgomery. I am new to my position, but I would not like to displease His Grace. The duke has never spoken to me directly before today, and I do wish to keep this post.”
Hazel knew the necessity of earning her bread and board more than anyone. “I understand, Bunton. Forgive me for being churlish. You see, I am not a cheerful traveler. Ships make me ill, and I fear railways are little better. I have landed in an unfamiliar country, and I am tired and disagreeable and decidedly in need of sustenance. I am famished.”
“Dinner is to be served in an hour, madam, but I can fetch you something from the kitchens now if you wish,” Bunton said then, ripping Hazel from the murky distractions of her past. “Regardless of what you decide, we should have ample time to prepare you for dinner, Miss Montgomery.”
Hazel glanced down at her navy gown, one of the finest dresses she owned. She had donned it early that morning, but it was holding up rather well, she thought. Few wrinkles to show for all the carriages and chairs she had inhabited. And it had cost a handsome penny too, as it was made by a fine dress maker back in New York. Handsome gowns were one of Hazel’s few indulgences. Gowns and sweets. And baths. Hot, delightful baths, such a rarity and a delight…
“What preparing have we need for, Bunton?” she asked. “I am already dressed for dinner.”
Bunton appeared crestfallen. “Madam, forgive me. Is this not a day gown?”
Hazel sighed. Her hands itched to return to her journal, to take up pen once more and set the nib to paper. Her work loomed before her like a gaping, voracious maw. There was no more disconcerting time than the beginning of a new assignment, when she needed to lay the foundation, organize her existing knowledge so she could build upon it with her inquiries and investigations, brick by brick. Always daunting, yet forever thrilling.
She had no wish to be tormented over a matter as trivial as the gown she wore. “It is indeed a day gown, but a very fine one, Bunton. It will do.”
Bunton’s expression tightened with disappointment. “Very well, Miss Montgomery. Perhaps I may see to getting you a light repast while you wait, if you do not wish my aid in your toilette?”
Guilt skewered Hazel. “I do have one gown, Bunton, which may be a more suitable choice for dinner.”
