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He straightened as the carriage came to a stop in front of the house. It was an elegant, black-lacquered vehicle, drawn by a pair of perfectly matched bays.

William Farlow emerged from the vehicle, carrying a rectangular leather portfolio case. He ascended the front steps with the limber ease of a man much younger than fifty-five. In the glow of the gas lanterns flanking the front door, his face was only lightly time-weathered, his gaze clear and steady.

John opened the door just as Farlow reached the top step. “Good evening, Mr. Farlow,” he said with a precise bow.

Farlow removed his hat and surveyed him with a touch of surprise. “You’re the butler?”

“Yes, sir.” John held the door open and followed him into the house. He received the hat and portfolio case from the man and set them on the demilune table in the entrance hall. “May I take your coat?”

The banker removed his gloves, tucked them into a pocket, and unbuttoned the front of the coat. “What’s your name?”

“Pembroke, sir.” John stepped behind him and took the coat by the shoulders as Farlow shrugged out of it. After folding the coat lengthwise and draping it over one arm, he went to retrieve the hat and portfolio case and handed the latter to Farlow.

“Capital job,” Farlow said, impressed by the smoothness of the procedure.

Even though the praise appeared to be sincere, it rankled. “Thank you, sir.”

The banker subjected him to an evaluating glance and smiled. “Well, you’re a handsome fellow, aren’t you.”

Which sounded like a compliment but was something Farlow would never have said to an equal. It was the sort of remark he might have made to Alan, if Alan didn’t resemble a sausage.

John only replied, “A moment, sir.” He took the coat and hat to the cloakroom beneath the stairs. When he emerged, he found Farlow staring at him with a mixture of amusement and interest.

“We have a cloakroom now?” Farlow asked.

We.

John didn’t like that at all. But he showed no reaction, only said politely, “Miss Martin is expecting you in the library, sir. This way, please.”

He led the way to the library, troubled by the discovery that William Farlow wasn’t what he’d expected. A middle-aged banker should have been stocky and staid with mutton-chop whiskers and a monocle. And a cane.

But Farlow was fit, vital, and good-looking. He had the air of someone who was the product of well-bred generations, each one more nourished, educated, and refined than the last. Men like William Farlow had learned the intricate rules of the upper class not through effort but absorption, like a rarefied fish housed in a gilded aquarium.

John entered the library room and stopped at the side of the threshold. “Mr. Farlow to see you, ma’am.”

Reina rose to her feet, beaming. “Dear Mr. Farlow,” she exclaimed, and came to him.

Farlow took her hand and brought it to his lips. Retaining her hand for just a second too long, he grinned down at her. “Miss Martin, you are a vision of spring.”

The obvious delight the two took in each other made John want to chew doors.

“I’m impressed by your latest protégé,” Farlow said, indicating John with a tilt of his head.

“Pembroke is hardly a protégé,” Reina replied quickly. “He’s taken charge of the entire household.”

“No small task, that,” Farlow said, glancing at John over his shoulder with a smile.

It was a nice smile, with every appearance of being genuine.

John tried to look amiable in turn. “Shall I bring up the tea directly, ma’am, or would you prefer to wait?”

“Directly, pl—” Reina caught herself, and said simply, “Directly.”

Well done, John thought. “Yes, ma’am.”

Reina’s lips quirked, her gaze meeting his in a moment of connection and companionship. She turned to introduce Farlow to Norman, who was standing beside the writing desk.

John went down to the kitchen for the tea service and was perplexed to find Maddock and Belinda instead of June. “Where’s June?” he asked.