There was a slight tap on the connecting door, and Harriet walked over to open it. “Are you ready, Ma’am?”
She received a nod, and turned. “Who would care to go first?”
“I will, Miss. John Harks.” A burly man stood and dipped his head respectfully, filling the space with his shoulders and chest. He looked as if he’d be more comfortable wrestling horses than grooming them, but he had applied and was about to be interviewed. If that’s what Letitia planned.
Harriet’s mind froze at the idea of her “auditioning” potential lovers. Or suitors. Or whatever Letitia was going to call them.
“Very well. Go through if you please.” Glancing over her shoulder, she addressed Letitia. “Mr. Harks, Ma’am.” She held the door wide to allow the man to pass through, then shut it behind him.
“I’m not sure how long this process will be,” she smiled at the other two. “I hope it won’t be an inconvenience, gentlemen.”
They murmured appropriate responses, each seeming as awkward as she felt. One was tall, lean and with a touch of sun in his hair and skin. Everyone had dressed in their best clothing, she noted, and the other man had a somewhat rakish air about him. His hair was dark and well-groomed, and he wasn’t embarrassed to meet her eyes and smile at her.
Fifteen minutes of this, and Harriet was ready to scream, so it was a relief when she heard the outer door of the parlour close, and the tap summoning the next applicant.
“Who would like to go next?” she rose.
“Will Smythe, Ma’am.” Mr. Tall and Lean stood, stooping a little.
She nodded and repeated the process, introducing him by name as she opened the door. Catching a glance at Letitia, she saw nothing amiss. No clothing askew or fallen curls. Which was, all things considered, rather a relief.
Alone with the final candidate, Harriet resumed her seat, only to find him moving his chair closer. He leaned back and stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankle and observing her.
“So tell me about yer mistress then, dear.” His smile was warmly suggestive. “She must be a good woman to have as lovely a maid as yerself.”
Ah. Flirtation. She should have expected it, sitting alone with a man she didn’t know. “My mistress is a kind woman, who does not approve of improper conversation, sir,” lied Harriet with a clear conscience.
“How about you, then, pretty girl? Do you approve of improper conversation? Is there some lucky footman you favour with a glimpse of that lovely bosom on the back stairs?”
She straightened. “Certainly not.”
“Oh good. There’s hope for Sam Pewsey then. I shall dream of the moment I get to touch that soft skin lurking under that simple dress of yours.” He licked his lips, his eyes hot. “You wear it like a princess, lovey. And I’ll wager you take it off like one as well.”
“Mister Pewsey.” She stood. “You are quite inappropriate and I will not stay to listen to more of your lurid nonsense.” There. That should do it. “When you hear my mistress tap on the door, go in. But rest assured I shall not forget the tone of your conversation if I am asked for an opinion.”
He laughed. “Maids aren’t allowed opinions, pretty girl.” He waved her away. “Go. Leave me to work my magic on yer mistress. You and I will have business together very soon.” He grinned. “And I promise you’ll love it.”
Clamping her mouth shut on the set-down she so longed to give him, Harriet stalked out the door.
And walked slap into the chest of Sir James FitzArden.
