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Sir,

I trust this report finds you in good health. I am writing from my assignment at Westbrook House, where I have spent one week in service as butler to Miss Reina Martin. The five early-discharge prisoners in my charge bungle every bloody thing they touch struggle with their daily responsibilities. They require constant supervision. The house presents many challenges, as it not only needs repairs but is overrun with mold, dust, and rats. Soon I expect a rain of frogs or locusts, or blood coming from the tap.

The cook, June Rummage, has known Miss Martin since childhood. In time I believe Miss Rummage will be a source of invaluable information, as she is very outspoken. I have never heard a woman curse like this in my entire life, and I’ve lived in Manchester.

Maddock, the coachman, is the most generally liked of all the staff. He is straightforward, agreeable, and consistently shows gentleness to the more vulnerable. These are unexpected qualities in a man with a history of violence under provocation.

The housekeeper, Tuppence Higget, expects to give birth in a matter of weeks. So far it appears she has made no decision about what to do with the infant.

Enid Mox, a housemaid and former seamstress, is a good worker with a contrary nature. Despite the difficulties caused by a tubercular hip, she refuses help or concessions from anyone except Maddock. Norman Goodluck is the most ill-suited man alive to be a footman. I am trying to find uses for him other than doorstop or food taster, which are all I’ve seen him do so far.

As for Miss Martin, I have never she is the most she is highly articulate and empathetic. Although she is confident in her intellect and abilities, she has shown numerous personal insecurities.

According to Miss Martin, the banker William Farlow recently mentioned the desire to take a wife, which she interpreted as an opening to courtship. She has not dismissed the idea out of hand, but is reluctant to marry, fearing the loss of autonomy.

Miss Martin’s attachment to Farlow leaves her vulnerable to manipulation. It is difficult to envision her participating in unlawful activities, as she seems principled and idealistic to a fault. However, it is too early to rule out any conclusions.

I must request with some urgency that the police supervisor’s forthcoming visit be delayed by at least a month because the servants are plotting to kill him have expressed negative opinions about the inspection. A delay will give me time to come up with a safety plan assess the situation and hopefully prevent him from being stabbed, poisoned, or shoved through a window minimize the chances of an undesirable event while he’s here.

I do not believe the staff are currently involved in any kind of conspiracy, as they can’t follow the simplest instructions lack discipline, and most of the time they fight like caged badgers are not inclined toward collaborative effort.

That being said, they would do anything for Miss Martin. She treats them with kindness and a level of respect they almost certainly have not experienced before. Somehow she makes them want to justify her good opinion of them.

I will personally attest that the effect of her charm is considerable. She is an extraordinary woman who

She is

Every time I see her I

I want her. I want to

I will apprise you of further developments in my next report.

Respectfully,

J. Pembroke

Chapter Seventeen

Rebel Without a Claw

Ma’am. Miss Martin—”

Reina awakened to a morning of hard surfaces. Blinking and stirring, she discovered she had fallen asleep at the library table with her head cradled in her arms.

“Miss Martin.” The quiet voice persisted, despite her efforts to ignore it. Still fogged with sleep, she mumbled and tried to swat away the sound. Abruptly the world went topsy-turvy. She gave a little yip of surprise as she felt herself begin to tumble.

The momentum halted abruptly as she was seized in a pair of strong hands and guided to an upright position.

Pembroke was leaning over her, the decisive angles of his face illuminated in the orange glow of gaslight. He looked fresh and perfect, his jaw gleaming from a recent shave, his dark eyes focused and alert. She could smell the hint of cinnamon tooth powder on his breath. And there was a subtle whiff of shave tonic . . . bay and clove, and the peppery bite of allspice.

Whereas she probably looked and smelled like a Thames rubbish barge.

Embarrassed, Reina rubbed her sore eyes and spoke in a rusted voice. “I don’t like to criticize, Pembroke, but you shouldn’t shout at people when they’re sleeping. It’s bad for the nerves.”

He seemed more concerned than the situation warranted, even going so far as to briefly lay his hand across her forehead to test her temperature. “Was that sleeping, ma’am?” he asked in a tone of such immaculate politeness that it served as mockery. “It looked like a loss of consciousness.”

“Is there a difference?”