household?”
“Not common, but not unheard of,” Mrs. Harkins said carefully, clearly not wanting to malign her employer, and Bryony immediately realized her mistake. She should never have mentioned it, never have questioned, but tact had never been her strong point.
“Of course,” she said, dismissing it. “That’s not unusual. It was an impertinent question, but I need to visit the employment agency to find us new help and I planned to hire a valet for his lordship today as well. If he was frequently… indisposed that could alter my choice.”
Everyone turned to look at her in astonishment. Bertie was busy shining shoes, Emma gathering a mop and bucket, but the sudden silence was broken only by the sound of Becky, soldiering on at the sink.
“His lordship doesn’t wish to have a valet,” Mrs. Harkins said finally. “He refuses.”
“Which is why I will have to be extremely resourceful in hiring one,” Bryony said, unperturbed. “In the meantime, follow the menu you had planned. I’ll deal with his lordship later.”
She didn’t hesitate any longer. After her unpleasant interview with Lady Kilmartyn she found she was in desperate need of fresh air, and there were servants to be hired. She wrapped her cloak around her and stepped out into the cool morning air to make her way to the employment agency.
Bryony had mastered the circuitous paths surrounding Berkeley Square and their old home on Curzon Street, and she arrived at Lawson’s Agency for Domestics in a good amount of time. They greeted her arrival with appropriate delight, plying her with tea and small cakes.
“I have a most startling suggestion, Mrs. Greaves,” Mr. Lawson himself said when she finished listing her requirements. “I beg you will hear me out.”
“Certainly, Mr. Lawson,” she agreed. He was a kindly man, slightly patronizing, but with a good heart.
“Just today the perfect man to serve as valet to his lordship arrived on our doorstep like a gift from heaven. I do think you should consider him.”
“It would be extremely shortsighted to ignore a gift from heaven, Mr. Lawson,” Bryony said, reaching for her cup of tea. “Tell me about him.”
The Earl of Kilmartyn never liked coming home. He always rose early, no matter how much he’d imbibed the night before, and he was out of the house before his loving wife could arise. He’d spent the early morning at the stables, watching the horses being put through their paces in light of the upcoming derby. Then his club provided a quiet place to read the paper and pick at the excellent food offered, and in the afternoon he played cards at Ridgely, the latest in a line of popular houses that offered both gambling and available women. He ignored the women, left the table nine hundred pounds to the good, and decided to walk home. The longer it took him the better—he had a great deal to think about. His brand-new live-in spy wouldn’t have time to be a problem—the house was in too much disarray. He could always go out, but he wasn’t in the mood for loud voices and bright lights; he wasn’t interested in willing women and inventive sex. He was in the mood to play games.
He climbed the front steps, two at a time, and was astonished to see it open before he had to apply his cane. Mrs. Greaves had already improved things.
A strange man stood there, dressed in the sober black of an upper servant, his head lowered as he ushered Adrian in. “Your lordship,” the man said smoothly, and automatically Adrian handed him his gloves and hat. “I hope you had a most pleasant day.”
“And just who the hell are you?” Kilmartyn demanded irritably. He never liked surprises—they were usually unpleasant.
The man reacted with perfect calm. “I am Smyth, my lord. Your new factotum.”
Kilmartyn raised an eyebrow. “And what is a factotum, may I ask?”
“It is Mrs. Greaves’s term. I am here to oversee the male servants, act as butler and majordomo, sommelier, dogsbody,
“Not common, but not unheard of,” Mrs. Harkins said carefully, clearly not wanting to malign her employer, and Bryony immediately realized her mistake. She should never have mentioned it, never have questioned, but tact had never been her strong point.
“Of course,” she said, dismissing it. “That’s not unusual. It was an impertinent question, but I need to visit the employment agency to find us new help and I planned to hire a valet for his lordship today as well. If he was frequently… indisposed that could alter my choice.”
Everyone turned to look at her in astonishment. Bertie was busy shining shoes, Emma gathering a mop and bucket, but the sudden silence was broken only by the sound of Becky, soldiering on at the sink.
“His lordship doesn’t wish to have a valet,” Mrs. Harkins said finally. “He refuses.”
“Which is why I will have to be extremely resourceful in hiring one,” Bryony said, unperturbed. “In the meantime, follow the menu you had planned. I’ll deal with his lordship later.”
She didn’t hesitate any longer. After her unpleasant interview with Lady Kilmartyn she found she was in desperate need of fresh air, and there were servants to be hired. She wrapped her cloak around her and stepped out into the cool morning air to make her way to the employment agency.
Bryony had mastered the circuitous paths surrounding Berkeley Square and their old home on Curzon Street, and she arrived at Lawson’s Agency for Domestics in a good amount of time. They greeted her arrival with appropriate delight, plying her with tea and small cakes.
“I have a most startling suggestion, Mrs. Greaves,” Mr. Lawson himself said when she finished listing her requirements. “I beg you will hear me out.”
“Certainly, Mr. Lawson,” she agreed. He was a kindly man, slightly patronizing, but with a good heart.
“Just today the perfect man to serve as valet to his lordship arrived on our doorstep like a gift from heaven. I do think you should consider him.”
“It would be extremely shortsighted to ignore a gift from heaven, Mr. Lawson,” Bryony said, reaching for her cup of tea. “Tell me about him.”
The Earl of Kilmartyn never liked coming home. He always rose early, no matter how much he’d imbibed the night before, and he was out of the house before his loving wife could arise. He’d spent the early morning at the stables, watching the horses being put through their paces in light of the upcoming derby. Then his club provided a quiet place to read the paper and pick at the excellent food offered, and in the afternoon he played cards at Ridgely, the latest in a line of popular houses that offered both gambling and available women. He ignored the women, left the table nine hundred pounds to the good, and decided to walk home. The longer it took him the better—he had a great deal to think about. His brand-new live-in spy wouldn’t have time to be a problem—the house was in too much disarray. He could always go out, but he wasn’t in the mood for loud voices and bright lights; he wasn’t interested in willing women and inventive sex. He was in the mood to play games.
He climbed the front steps, two at a time, and was astonished to see it open before he had to apply his cane. Mrs. Greaves had already improved things.
A strange man stood there, dressed in the sober black of an upper servant, his head lowered as he ushered Adrian in. “Your lordship,” the man said smoothly, and automatically Adrian handed him his gloves and hat. “I hope you had a most pleasant day.”
“And just who the hell are you?” Kilmartyn demanded irritably. He never liked surprises—they were usually unpleasant.
The man reacted with perfect calm. “I am Smyth, my lord. Your new factotum.”
Kilmartyn raised an eyebrow. “And what is a factotum, may I ask?”
“It is Mrs. Greaves’s term. I am here to oversee the male servants, act as butler and majordomo, sommelier, dogsbody,
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