Page 35

Reina stopped beside the table. “Mr. Pembroke,” she said with pride, “this is my friend Miss June Rummage.”

The cook was small and slight of build, her lips clamped as if with invisible clothespins. Her large eyes reminded him of the little brown owls he’d often seen along hedgerows and farmland in Wales.

The rapid staccato of chopping ceased abruptly.

“Queenie,” the cook asked, “why did the bloody coachman just walk through my kitchen with a sausage dog?”

Reina drew closer, seeming not at all concerned about the huge knife in the other woman’s hand. “It’s a special, highly trained, rat-catching dog, a . . . a . . .”

“Dachshund, ma’am,” John murmured.

“Dachshund,” Reina told June brightly.

“I ain’t living with no dogs,” June snapped. “They’re always barking, shedding—”

“Yes, but this isn’t a permanent arrangement, it’s—”

“—shitting in the house, spreading fleas, chewing the furniture to matchsticks—” During this litany, June gestured violently with the knife, its flashing blade making John uneasy.

“Knife down, please,” he said, coming to Reina’s side.

The request was ignored.

“—jumpin’ on people, slobberin’—”

“Knife down,” John repeated, staring at her steadily.

June obeyed, shooting him a lethal glance before turning back to Reina. “It’s me or the sausage dog, Queenie. You ain’t argy-bargying me out of this.”

“Dear,” Reina said reasonably, “we have a rat civilization in the attic. If we don’t do something about it, they’ll start sending rat scouts and rat pioneers down to the lower floors.”

“Ain’t that what poison’s for?”

“You know we can’t use poison. If a rat died in a wall or under a floor, we would have to start pulling the house apart. We need Alan’s help, June. He’s our brave little champion. And once his job is done, he’ll leave.”

“He’ll leave now,” June said, although her indignation had lost its edge.

“If you insist, I’ll have Mad Dog take him back. But first, perhaps you might find something for him to eat? He’s so terribly thin.”

June’s forehead crinkled like damp paper. “He’s hungry?”

“I could see his ribs,” Reina said sadly.

With a growl, June picked up the knife and chopped a remaining length of carrot in two with a decisive thwack that made John flinch. “He can stay. But the first time I catch that canine in my kitchen, what I’ll do to him is the stuff of nightmares and nursery rhymes.” She glanced at John as if just noticing his presence. “Who the blazes is he?”

“Pembroke is our new butler,” Reina told her. “Sent by the employment agency.”

June’s suspicious gaze moved over John from head to toe. “You’re one of the slamkins?”

A deep blush spread up to Reina’s hairline. “June, I’ve told you—” She broke off and said desperately to John, “I do not condone that word.”

He struggled not to smile. “I’ve been called worse, ma’am.” He turned to June. “Aye, Mrs. Rummage, I’m from Millbank.”

“Call me June,” the cook said. “ ‘Mrs. Rummage’ reminds me of Ma.”

“As you prefer.”

“And if you ever try to give me orders in this kitchen again,” June added, “I’ll carve you up like a jugged hare.”