Behind her, a young woman emerged who could only be Miss Penelope Ashworth. She was everything a young lady should be,blonde, delicate, dressed in pink muslin that probably cost more than Clara's entire wardrobe…and she looked terrified.
"Gabriel," Lady Agatha announced, as if his name was both a greeting and an accusation. "You're looking... less cadaverous than last time."
"Aunt Agatha, your compliments are, as always, overwhelming in their generosity. I'm positively glowing with health and vitality, as you can clearly see."
"Don't be smart with me, boy. And don't think I don't know what you're doing with all this sudden domesticity. A few clean windows don't render you competent."
"No, but they do make it easier to see the approaching doom you represent. May I escort you to the parlor? We have lemon cakes."
Lady Agatha's eyes narrowed. "How did you know I favor lemon cakes?"
"I make it my business to know everything about potential threats to my peace. Research is the foundation of any good defensive strategy."
"I'm not a threat, Gabriel. I'm trying to help you."
"Your help feels remarkably similar to an invasion, but please, do come in and help yourself to tea while you catalog my various failures."
He led them into the parlor, where Clara had worked magic. The room sparkled, silver gleamed, and the lemon cakes were arranged with mathematical precision on china that Gabriel hadn't even known they owned.
"Miss Ashworth," he said, remembering his manners. "Welcome to Ashbourne Hall. I apologize in advance for whatever psychological damage my aunt inflicts upon you during your visit."
Penelope, barely eighteen and clearly overwhelmed, attempted a curtsey. "Your Grace, thank you for receiving us. Your home is lovely."
"It's tolerably less decrepit than usual, due to the efforts of my staff, who've been threatening to mutiny if I don't maintain basic standards of cleanliness."
"Your staff?" Lady Agatha's tone suggested she knew exactly how many staff he'd had a week ago.
"Yes, my remarkably efficient staff, who've managed to transform this mausoleum into something resembling a habitable dwelling despite my best efforts to thwart them."
As if on cue, Peter appeared with the tea service, his footman's training evident in every precise movement. Gabriel watched his aunt assess the young man's performance, searching in vain for flaws and finding none.
"Tea, my lady?" Peter offered with a perfect bow.
"Who are you?" Lady Agatha demanded.
"Peter Morrison, my lady. His Grace's footman."
"Since when does my nephew employ footmen? Last I heard, he'd dismissed everyone and was living like a hermit."
"His Grace reconsidered the wisdom of complete isolation and hired a small but capable staff," Gabriel said smoothly. "We're all about redemption and second chances here at Ashbourne."
Clara chose that moment to appear in the doorway. "Your Grace, shall I have Cook prepare additional refreshments?"
Gabriel's mouth went dry. She'd added a white collar and cuffs that made her look like a governess or companion rather than a housekeeper. The effect was devastating in its propriety, making him want to dishevel her completely.
"Miss Whitfield," he managed. "I don't believe you've been formally introduced to my aunt and her... companion."
Clara dropped a perfect curtsey. "Lady Agatha, Miss Ashworth, welcome to Ashbourne Hall."
Lady Agatha's eyes sharpened like a hawk spotting prey. "You're the housekeeper?"
"I am, my lady."
"You're very young for such a position."
“I've been managing households for many a year now."
"Managing? Or destroying? I've heard some interesting rumors about you, Miss Whitfield."
