Well. Everything, really.
Pomeroy House—if thiswasPomeroy House, which still seemed doubtful—was in shambles. Some of the rooms were empty of furnishings and smelled powerfully of vinegar and washing soap. Others seemed to have several rooms’ worth of chairs and tables piled into them, every stick of which was carved with snarling fantastic beasts. The windows were almost impossible to see through, covered as they were with either thick fabric or a coating of sea spray, and Ruby could scarcely hear herself think over the enthusiastic welcome of a pack of bloodhounds.
The house lookednothinglike the papers had described it, except for all the turrets and towers and its position on top of a cliff overlooking the sea.
And the man who had answered the door—
Ruby gritted her teeth and made herself look at him again.
He was of medium height, broad-shouldered and powerfully built. He wore no livery but rather a haphazard arrangement of braces, billowy trousers, and threadbare coat. He had dark hair, a full beard, and eyes of a most piercing shade of blue.
He was, without a doubt, the handsomest man she’d ever seen.
He also had puppies in his pockets. Three, at least.
“I’ll... take you ladies to your rooms,” he said. He’d sounded a trifle hysterical a few moments ago, but he seemed to be recovering himself. “You didn’t, ah, write ahead? To announce your arrival?”
“Erm,” Ruby said. “No.”
Alice shot Ruby a beleaguered look, which Ruby ignored. Alice—for whom discommoding another person was the most grievous offense imaginable—had wanted to write ahead. But Ruby had feared that her father would somehow get wind of their plans in the weeks it had taken to set everything into motion. When logical, practical Tamsin had sided with Ruby, the matter had been settled: They would forge the letter of introduction, supply their own funds, and show up without mentioning the scheme to anyone at all.
After all, Ruby had told herself, the mansion belonged to a princess. Surely they could occupy a few rooms without putting anyone to too much trouble.
As they passed through another parlor—this one holding inexplicable trays of catgut and needles and camphor in pots—Ruby was forced to revise her assumptions.
This was going to be a hell of a lot of trouble.
Two more men barreled around the corner and nearly collided with the extravagantly attractive and peculiarly dressed man—butler?—who’d answered the door.
“Cap,” one of them said, “you have to—”
“Sir,” the butler interrupted, in quite a louder and more stern voice than Ruby had heard him use thus far. “Please try to behave more sedately.”
The two newcomers stumbled to a stop, and—
Good heavens. Alice stifled a gasp, and even Tamsin appeared slightly boggled.
These two were beautiful as well. One of the men—the one who had spoken—was delicate of build, with nearly white-blond curls framing an angular face. The other was tall, his flowing chestnut hair in a queue. His shirt was open nearly to the waist, which afforded Ruby a view of the human form that ought more properly to have been in an art book. Or a museum.
The butler turned to Ruby and bowed. “Allow me to present the staff of Pomeroy House to you, Lady Ballimore.”
“Lady Ruby,” she corrected absently. “I am unmarried. Did you say... the staff?”
“Indeed.”
She blinked. “Allthe staff?” According to the papers—which were proving less reliable by the moment—Pomeroy House boasted twenty bedrooms, two kitchens, and a fully equipped stable on the grounds. Surely it couldn’t be staffed by three men, no matter how blessed in appearance they might be.
The butler swallowed. And then a smile spread across his face—precisely as blinding and exquisite as the one he’d delivered outside. He drew himself up in a way that seemed to set off his breadth of shoulder, and an air of serenity seemed to overtake him. “No. Today is a feast day in this part of Cornwall. The rest of the staff has gone to church. To pray.”
“A feast day?” Ruby narrowed her eyes. “What feast would that—”
“I am Malcolm Archer, Pomeroy House steward,” the man continued, rather more rapidly. “And these are our footmen, Gerald and Lamentation.”
At this introduction, the taller footman—the one with the ponytail and the chest—appeared to choke.
The angelic blond at his side blinked once and then nodded. “Ah. Yes. I am Lamentation. The footman. How may I serve your... feet?”
Ruby opened her mouth and then shut it again, quite unable to summon a response.
