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“I had a concern for Miss Martin’s safety,” John replied evenly.

The cook snorted and gave Reina a droll glance. “And well he should,” she said. “A house full of servants and a sausage dog, and so far not a one’s earning his keep.”

“Pembroke is going to manage the situation,” Reina told her. “He has years of experience in service.”

“I hope so.” June used the flat of the knife to convey diced carrots from a chopping board to a large bowl. “Because right now he only looks like another mouth to feed.”

Charming, John thought irritably, and turned to Reina. “With your permission, ma’am, I’ll unpack my belongings and familiarize myself with the household.”

Reina beamed at him. “Of course. You have full run of it now.”

“How long have you known him?” June asked her. “Half an hour? And you’re setting him loose in the house?”

“We can’t come to know people by keeping them at a distance,” Reina replied. “Isn’t that right, Pembroke?”

“Indeed, ma’am. But June’s point is well made. It’s wise to be cautious when trusting a stranger.”

“I’m desperate,” Reina replied flatly. “The Economist magazine is waiting for my article on theories of stock exchange speculation, which is catastrophically overdue. I would put an ax murderer in charge if he could keep the household quiet long enough for me to finish my work.”

“Is he a flippin’ ax murderer?” June demanded, staring at John in alarm.

“No, no, dear,” Reina soothed. “Pembroke is only disorderly and violent.”

John had to choke back a laugh. Somehow he managed to keep his face expressionless as he bowed and left. The pair continued to bicker.

“How do you know he’s not a murderer?” he heard June demand.

“It didn’t say so on his application.”

“This is the last slamkin you’re hiring, Queenie. I mean it.”

“Hush, June, you’ll hurt his feelings.”

John returned to the butler’s apartment, where a fire had been lit in the inset cast-iron fireplace of the office. Through the doorway of the connecting room, he saw the bed had been made with white linen sheets and a wool coverlet.

Tuppence was in the bedroom, expertly flicking a feather duster across the top of a dresser. She froze as she saw him at the threshold.

John gave her a neutral smile and quickly retreated to the office to avoid making her feel threatened.

He heard a broom whisk across the floor, followed by the scrape of chair legs. “Tell me if you’re needing something to be moved or lifted,” he said.

“I can manage, sir.”

John leaned a shoulder against the wall, his gaze on the empty doorway. “Let’s speak freely with each other, aye? I want you to know that you’ve nothing to fear from me. Ever.”

The sounds of sweeping continued after a brief hesitation. “Miss Martin told you about my situation?”

“She did. An outrage beyond speaking, it is, that such a thing was done to you. But the shame is all his, and none of yours.”

No response, other than the whisk whisk of broom straw.

John kept his shoulder against the wall, his posture relaxed. “I grew up in service,” he said. “My mother was a housemaid. Many a time I saw her being harassed by visitors at the estate, and even by some of our own servants. Men were always groping and making free with her. Mam told me to ignore it—she wouldn’t have me causing trouble.”

The sweeping stopped. Slowly Tuppence came into view, her gaze wary. “Did you obey?”

He shook his head. “I raised a fight with anyone who dared to bother her or the other women. Every time.”

“I’ll bet you were thrashed for it.”