“No. I’ll assess her abilities myself. Have her bring up the water for my shower-bath. She’s to carry two buckets up the servants’ stairs.”
He allowed himself a thin smile. He would see how long that composure lasted. See whether she truly understood the game she had chosen to play.
The image forming in his mind was wicked enough to make a priest sweat.
They didn’t call him the Prince of Darkness for nothing.
If Mr Beattie asked her to polish the silver again, she’d tell him exactly what to do with his chamois cloth. No doubt Mr Hawke liked staring at his own reflection while he dined. One glint of a knife at the window was enough to summon an infantry from a mile away.
Wasn’t it the job of the footman? Or the under-butler?
Trust him to break with convention.
Her shoulders ached. Her hands smelled of vinegar and soot. She could lay a fire with military precision, and still Mr Beattie was dissatisfied.
He loomed over her like an ageing bloodhound as she sat at the crude oak table in the butler’s pantry, his long, mournful face sagging under the weight of Mr Hawke’s expectations.
“Miss Smith, I can’t comment on your previous employer’s standards. But at Shadowmere, everything must be first rate.”
Anyone would think Mr Hawke entertained the King, not a pack of lecherous libertines. Since when did debauchers and opium-eaters care about polished tableware? Most probably ate with their fingers.
Just when she thought Mr Beattie might pull out the boot polish and ten pairs of muddy Hessians, Mr Ramsey appeared at the door.
He stared at her from beneath hooded lids, as if the wordliarwere carved on her forehead. Then he turned to Mr Beattie.
“Hawke is home. And he’s not in the best of moods.”
Her heart shot to her throat, though it had nothing to do with the man and everything to do with his cold manner.
Well … that might be a small lie.
It had a little to do with the man, the one whose eyes were the shade of moss at dawn, and whose arrogance was utterly unmatched.
“He wants two buckets of water for his shower-bath.”
Shower-bath?
So, he might live in a fortress, but he wasn’t a heathen. He liked to indulge in modern comforts.
Perhaps the wicked ladies of the ton sat in velvet chairs, drinking ratafia, watching him tend to his ablutions.
“I’ll have Cook heat the water at once, Mr Ramsey.”
The sly curl of Mr Ramsey’s lips warned he had something shocking to say. “Hawke wants the new maid to carry the buckets upstairs. I’ll follow behind. Make sure she can find his chamber.”
Her stomach dropped. She’d been hoping to spend a few days moving about the house unnoticed, to delay theinevitable confrontation. Lady Soanes expected her to stay a month. At this rate, she would be lucky to last the hour.
Mr Beattie eyed her as a major would the worst cadet in the barracks. “I’m not sure Miss Smith is up to the task.”
Daphne straightened her spine. She’d carried burdens heavier than buckets and insults sharper than Mr Beattie’s stiff little moustache.
She smiled through gritted teeth. “I can manage the buckets, sir.”
“It isn’t a question of managing, Miss Smith. Hawke was quite specific.”
Of course he was. He’d make her climb the stairs, sweat dripping down her spine, just to gloat.
The buckets were heavy. Heavy enough that Mr Ramsey took pity and carried one to the top of the stone staircase. She adjusted her grip, ignoring the splash against her skirt.
