“If my sisters want to be treated like adults, they need to cease being so reckless! And we are all staying here for the summer as a consequence and that is that!”
“Well, I am not,” said his mother, standing. “I have much better things to do with my time than waste it trying to sort out this epic, ham-fisted mess that you have decided to make, Leo! If you genuinely think that you know best and can do a better job of keeping a keen eye on this family than I can, then you can jolly well get on with it without my help! I am going on strike and heading back to Mayfair forthwith!”
“Then go with my blessing, Mama, as I am more than capable of properly chaperoning my sisters here without you. In fact, I suspect I shall do a much better job of it because they will have less chance of absconding without yourkeen eyeon them.”
“You seriously think yours will be keener?” His mother had the audacity to laugh. “You—who by his own admission does not possess enough hours in the day to deal with all your ducal responsibilities?” She laughed some more. In that annoying and sarcastic way that she did when she thought her only son an idiot. “Your aggrieved and willful sisters will run rings around you in my absence after what you have just done to them, mark my words.”
“No they won’t,” he replied, suddenly doubting his own hubris.
“I wouldn’t bank on that, big brother,” said Abigail with such a bright light of defiance shimmering in her eyes that his already racing heartbeat decided to kick into a gallop. “You are going to have to find a dungeon to lock me in if you want me to behave like the adult you refuse to allow me to be.”
“Me too.” Emilia linked arms with her sister. “For be in no doubt, if I am being forced to stay here under duress, I shall need to do something to relieve the tedium. I do hope that there are plenty of soldiers here in Bath to alleviate our crushing boredom.”
That below-the-belt threat made his incorrigible mother chuckle as she sailed out of the room. “Good luck being me too, Leo. You are certainly going to need it.”
Chapter
FOUR
A week of desperately scouring the situations-vacant advertisements later, Portia found herself in the house of a duke on the prestigious and elitist Royal Crescent for an interview. About to bite her tongue in the vain hope of serving the aristocracy again when she had foolishly thought that all her subservient years were behind her.
However, she had made her bed and, for the good of the cause, she would jolly well lie in it—but the irony of this situation was not lost on her. Earning a wage from someone from the very upper echelons of the aristocracy was the only way that she could affordnotto earn one atEquitas.
Assuming, that was, that she got this job over the other candidate sitting several feet away, who had been there when she had arrived and who was still doing her best to ignore her.
“Good afternoon.” It felt churlish not to be polite despite them being rivals. Her interview for the temporary post of social secretary and chaperone was supposed to have started now, so they were both clearly stuck here until the poor timekeeper who was interviewing them deigned to see them. “I am Portia.” She smiled her best let’s-be-pleasant-because-we-are-in-the-same-boat smile because she harbored no malice whatsoever for the stern-faced older woman who was dressed head to toe in funereal black. “Portia Kendall.”
“Good afternoon.” Madam Sourpuss could not have made it plainer that she was only answering because manners dictated it. “I am Miss Strictland.” A name that seemed to perfectly suit her as the woman clutched her austere black reticule closer to her body, almost as if she expected Portia to steal it from her at any moment, and turned back to stare at the wall. She probably also gargled vinegar to keep her judgmental frown in place constantly while she glared down her hook of a nose. As glares went, Miss Strictland’s was quite impressive. It certainly let Portia know that she considered herself far superior in every way possible.
“Have you traveled far today?” As she had never been one for airs and graces, especially among those who had to serve their betters just like she did, she could not resist goading Miss Strictland into further conversation.
“Only from theCircus.” Her rival gave her a slightly smug nod because anyone who knew Bath knew that the Circus was the only residential street in this city that came close to the Royal Crescent in grandeur. If the Crescent was the shimmering crown that sat atop the city’s biggest hill, the Circus was its diamond choker. “Where I have been governess to the Marquess of Teignmouth’s three daughters these past twenty years.” Preempting Portia’s next question, the woman wafted an imperious hand. “The youngest has recently come out, so she really has no need of a governess anymore. The family still want me to stay, of course.” She wafted her hand again as if it held all the cards, which Portia did not believe for a minute when servants were always disposable as far as the aristocracy was concerned. “However, when they finally accepted thatIwas ready for a new challenge and that my skills and experience would be more beneficial to another grand family with exacting standards, theypersonallyrecommended me to the duke.” That depressing piece of news was delivered with the semblance of a smile designed to inform Portia that she really did not stand a chance.
Which, if it were true, would not have meant that both of themwere here for an interview, so Portia was going to give this her best shot regardless. Especially because this particular vacancy was ideal for her very particular requirements. The salary was decent and the advertisement had been clear that her hours would be confined to the daytime. Such regular hours meant that she would have every single evening free to fulfill her vital and extensive workload for the newspaper. As much as she loathed the idea of being an aristocrat’s servant again, this position also came with a room and board and that would be a godsend in this expensive city.
The same clerk who had taken her dubious letters of recommendation when she had arrived reappeared and traced his finger down the worryingly long list in his hand. “Miss Strictland—his grace will see you now.”
Well, well, well, Portia hadn’t expected the illustrious duke to be the one conducting today’s interviews. That was unusual. Men with grand titles usually had minions to deal with unpleasantries like their staff. At the very best, she had expected his duchess to put aside her urgent needlepoint to spare her five minutes, not the great man himself. In the normal order of things, he would be doing more important tasks like shooting his pheasants or drinking brandy in his club or tupping his mistress. But no! Today he was apparently going to honor those so far beneath him with an audience. This would be interesting.
Portia had seen the odd duke from afar, but she had never actually met a real one before and, because she disapproved of the breed and all that they stood for in general, wasn’t overkeen to meet one now—but such was life.
She knew already what he would be like.
Gray-haired and supercilious.
Humorless and superior.
Primped like a peacock as he looked down his pompous, ducal nose at her with more gusto than the lowly Miss Strictland could ever manage, while never quite looking at her directly. Because, of course,the illustrious Duke of Debden would see her as more beneath him than her rival Sourpuss Strictland did—if he even bothered seeing her at all. Servants were somehow rendered invisible in the presence of those with blue blood coursing through their idle veins.
“His grace is running a little behind,” said the harried clerk as he reappeared. “It has been a busy morning because he has had a lot of candidates to see.”
“Precisely how many candidates is he interviewing?” Because with each one, Portia’s odds of getting this job were reduced.
“Ten,” said the clerk, rechecking his list. “You are the last—thank goodness.”
Marvelous.
That meant that she had to somehow impress him more than the other nine preceding her had, including Miss Strictland with her personal recommendation from a marquess.
