When he stretched his hand toward me, instinct made my fist curl—I nearly boxed his ears on reflex.
But no. He only took the list.
I let the paper go, though my jaw stayed tight.
“This is good,” he said, flipping it over with far too much enthusiasm.“Very good progress.”
I straightened despite myself, a small glow of pride warming my chest. I lifted the teacup and took a careful sip. We weren’t used to tea—certainly not with milk and sugar—but I’d keep to my plain ways for now.
“You are a very dedicated worker, Euphemia,” he said smoothly.“If you ever want to make a little more money on the side, just let me know.”
I froze mid-swallow.
More money?
Doing what, exactly?
I was already running half his blasted staff while Flora wrangled the cook.
I set my cup down with a controlled clink.
“More?” I asked, one eyebrow arching.“And how would I be earnin’that?”
His throat bobbed.
A bead of sweat formed at his hairline.
For the first time since I’d entered, he looked less like a polished London gentleman and more like a man caught between lying, dying, and confessing a sin.
Then it dawned on me.
Oh, Lord above.
The whispers. The stories.
Lecherous Lowland Lairds who got maids with child and dumped them in the churches or—worse—the new workhouses.
Heat flared up my neck.
Not embarrassment—rage.
I gripped my teacup so tightly the porcelain squeaked. What I truly wanted to do was tip the hot tea over his perfectly groomed head, but that would be wasteful.
“My hours are full,” I said sharply.“Perhaps ye’d like tae ask ma Uncle?Hecan help ye.”
His smile went stiff.
“Yes, but—of course.”
Coward.
“Was there anything else?” I asked, and finished my tea in one decisive swallow.
“Yes,” he said, clearing his throat.“I would like you to report to me first thing every morning.”
“At six o’clock?” My eyebrow shot up.“Are ye aff yer heid?”
He winced—actually winced—and rubbed his chest like it pained him.
