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“Unless what?” she questioned.

“Unless you tell me if you were genteel before you took work here.”

She remained silent for a moment, then her lips stretched into a mirthless line. “There is nothing you can do to me or threaten me with that will ever persuade me to tell you that, sir.” She leaned forward, dropping her voice. “And the harder you try, the greater my resolve will be. Good day.” She unfolded her arms, gathered her coal scuttle and slop bucket, then smiled again. “Careful of the coal. I hear it stains fiercely.”

Oliver smirked, staring pointedly at her brow. “I can see that.”

She paused, frowned, then dropped the scuttle to wipe at her brow, peering at the stain on the back of her hand brought on by the coal mark across her skin.

Her lips pulled down even more, and her glower was fierce as she stared up at him.

With a humph, she walked toward him, then intentionally bumped directly into his leg with the slop bucket, splashing grey water down his boots and across his leg.

He jumped back, holding out his hands in surprise as he grunted. “What the devil are you doing?”

“Oh, dear,” she said, peering at the water dripping from his thigh to the carpet below. “Have you had an accident? I’ll send someone to deal with it directly—as well as the stains you’ve caused upon your sheets by climbing into your bed with your boots on.” She smiled sweetly, then walked away, her head held high.

“You do know it’s your word against mine,” he called after her.

“Oh, I’m well aware,” she spoke over her shoulder. “Time will tell if you’re a true gentleman or not. Good day, Mr. Cole. Do take better care next time.”

Then she left the hall and disappeared down the side corridor. Oliver was left alone, staring at the mark upon his pants as a smile grew on his lips.

Seven

Clara was going to be dismissed. She was fully aware of it. She’d rejected Mr. Cole twice, had spilled filthy water upon him intentionally, hadn’t bothered to get anyone else to change his bedding, and had spoken to him in a manner most un-maid-like.

There was no chance her ladyship would not hear of it. Even Clara would dismiss a maid who’d behaved in such a way.

Sure enough, by midafternoon, Clara was called to the housekeeper’s room.

So...Mr. Cole had been a rat after all.

She curtsied to Mrs. Wintle, the woman behind her desk once again, a picture of perfect serenity—no doubt because she was finally going to be rid of Clara.

“You called for me, Mrs. Wintle?”

“Yes. I’ve heard word of your actions this morning.”

Clara drew a deep breath. “It was an accident, ma’am.”

Mrs. Wintle’s sharp eyes snapped up. “What was an accident?”

Clara froze. “Oh, I...I cleaned the rooms out of order.”

The housekeeper hardly seemed to believe her, though she continued all the same. “I have been informed that not only did you manage to clean each of the rooms you were required to in a timely manner, but you were also able to finish the chamber in which a guest arrived impossibly early.”

Clara clamped her teeth onto her tongue and nodded.

“You will be expected to care for each room in the same manner for the duration of the house party,” Mrs. Wintle continued.

Heavens above. Clara was going to keep her place at Bellthorne. So Mr. Cole had not spoken of Clara’s insubordination? Perhaps he was more of a gentleman than she’d assumed.

“On top of that,” Mrs. Wintle continued, “you will now have the opportunity to prove yourself as a lady’s maid.”

Clara’s eyes rounded. “Truly?”

“Truly,” Mrs. Wintle said sardonically. “Miss Leah Sterling’s maid has trapped her hands within a carriage door, so she cannot see to her mistress. Miss Sterling will be in need of someone to help her dress and care for her hair.”