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He’d clearly interrupted the early work of the house, but he’d not been able to help himself from arriving then. He’d been dodging Miss Radcliffe at every moment over the last couple of days at The Red Hound—the last night being the worst of it. She’d attempted to sneak into his private room but was thwarted only by his locked door.

Oliver had determined then to leave even before his valet—who would pack up their belongings and head to Bellthorne in the carriage.

While he was relieved to be rid of the advances of the innkeeper’s daughter, Oliver wasn’t blind to his inconveniencing the household of Bellthorne Hall. The Countess hadn’t even awakened yet, and the staff were clearly still readying the house before the rest of the guests arrived at sensible hours, maids and footmen bustling back and forth with bedding, buckets, and empty, silver trays.

“My apologies for the disruption I must have caused,” Oliver said to the footman who was attempting to walk slower.

The footman merely shook his head with a polite smile. “Not at all, sir. Guests will be arriving at all hours, and I’ve been assured all chambers will be ready.”

They arrived in a hall leading to four separate rooms, his being the third, and just as the footman promised, his room was, in fact, readied. A warm fire crackled in the grate and spiraled warmth upon entry, and his bed had been made fresh and full with thick covers.

Instantly, a wave of exhaustion overcame him. He hadn’t done much sleeping at the inn on that straw bed not even big enough for half his body. He’d do well to have a bit of sleep this morning to be more presentable for the rest of the party that afternoon.

He requested the footman to instruct his valet to allow him to sleep until Oliver called him, which the footman readily agreed to before hurriedly leaving the room, no doubt going about his other business while he still could.

Oliver removed his cravat and jacket, undoing his waistcoat and the upper button of his shirt before throwing down his covers.

He slept warm, so there was no need for them anyway.

As he did so, he caught sight of a large, black streak at the base of the otherwise stark-white sheets. He frowned. That was hardly to be expected at a grand place such as Bellthorne.

Upon closer inspection, he recognized the mark to merely be a long streak of coal—but a streak of coal that would no doubt stain his feet, more of the bedding, and his breeches.

He reached for the pull cord, then paused. Perhaps he could catch the footman and request new bedding, which might be faster than having to wait for a response from the bell.

Without bothering to dress again, he opened his door and stepped outside, hearing footsteps right before him. What luck—the footman hadn’t left.

But as he looked up from closing his door behind him, he saw a maid instead, leaving the final room in the hall, a bucket in one hand and a coal scuttle in the other as she set them both down to close the door behind her.

“Oh, excuse me,” he said as she retrieved her items from the floor. “Would you be able to...”

His words failed him as she turned to face him, and he recognized the woman from the river at once.

“You,” he stated, narrowing his eyes. What was she doing dressed as a maid?

The woman—he still didn’t know her name—peered up at him, frozen in place. Her red lips were parted and plump, and her blue eyes were as wide as saucers. “I...I...”

As she stuttered, Oliver’s mind raced. He hadn’t wanted to admit how much her words from that day had affected him, but he’d been kept up late on more than one occasion, reliving her accusations and rethinking his actions.

Did he truly decrease a woman’s intellect—and perhaps his own—by choosing to engage in affection rather than conversation? He’d been inclined to believe her words when she was a tradesman’s daughter. They’d been spoken with such authority.

But now, to find out she was a housemaid...She certainly didn’t hold that same air of superiority this morning with her apron on inside out, soot covering her brow, and her maid’s cap slightly askew.

“Well, well, well,” he said as her silence continued, his confidence inflating by the second. “And here I thought you wouldn’t be attending the house party.” He eyed her up and down. “Though I must admit, I really wasn’t expecting you like this...”

Still, she made no response.

“So what are you, then?” he asked, leaning against the wall next to his door and folding his arms.

Her eyes dropped to his chest that had been revealed by his shirt cropped open. She hardly seemed ruffled. A true maid, indeed.

“What do you mean, sir?” she finally asked, still holding the bucket and coal scuttle in her hands.

“Are you a maid or a merchant’s daughter? Or perhaps a lady who has fallen from grace, what with the way you speak?”

She raised her chin. “Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”