Page 27
She pasted a polite smile on her face and opened the door. “Good morning, may I—”
Her voice stuck in her throat as she found herself looking up into a pair of cool dark eyes set in a complexion of deep umber warmth. The visitor was a big-framed, black-haired young man with such striking good looks that her brain started spinning like a compass in a magnetic field. She looked over him, helplessly taking in details: the hard-angled cheeks and jaw, sturdy nose, and full, firm mouth. He was well-dressed and clean-shaven, the leather of his shoes polished to a licorice-drop sheen.
“May I help you?” Reina managed to ask.
“I’m Mr. Pembroke.” At her baffled silence, he added, “The employment agency said you’d be expecting me.” His rough-soft accent—Newcastle? Scottish?—fell pleasantly on her ears.
“You’re from the Second Chance Agency?” she asked dazedly. “For the assistance of discharged prisoners . . . ?”
“And those who have seen better days,” he finished for her, the outer corners of his eyes crinkling in the prelude to a smile.
Oh, God, he was handsome. She felt herself flush like a ballet girl who’d accidentally locked herself out of the dressing room.
She opened the door to allow him inside. “I don’t recall having seen a letter from the agency, but I don’t doubt they sent one.”
Mr. Pembroke came in with a canvas bag and set it near the door.
“What position are you applying for?” she asked as he removed his coat and hat.
“Butler.”
“Oh.” She tried to reconcile her idea of a distinguished older gentleman with this virile stranger.
“It’s not filled already, I hope.”
“No. In fact, I’m astonished the agency found someone willing to give it a try. We’re not an easy lot to manage.” She took the coat, draped it over the staircase railing, and set his hat on the newel post. Mr. Pembroke watched without comment, but she sensed that he found her treatment of his hat and coat less than ideal. Unfortunately, the under-stairs cupboard was filled with tools, cleaning supplies, and various odds and ends, with no wall hooks to be found.
“Did they tell you anything about our situation?” she asked.
“They said five ticket-of-leave men and women had been hired for the household staff. A month ago, more or less?”
What was that accent? The pure vowels and tapped R’s reminded her a little of Spanish, but the rhythm and flow was completely unfamiliar. “Yes,” she said, “all with excellent potential. Although they’re still finding their footing.”
“After a month?”
Reina felt vaguely defensive on her servants’ behalf. “It takes time to learn a new job. And this house is a special case. It’s determined to defeat every advance of modern science.” She went to sort through an avalanche of calling cards, mail, and advertising circulars that had nearly buried a half-moon table. Eventually she held up an envelope with a triumphant flourish. “Aha! Here you are. Shall we talk in the parlor?”
He fell into step behind her.
Thankfully, the parlor didn’t appear to be too untidy at the moment. Reina settled into an upholstered chair and gestured to the one beside it. “Please.”
Mr. Pembroke sat, the fine wool of his suit stretching over the developed muscle of his shoulders and thighs. His body was lean and disciplined like an athlete’s.
Commanding herself not to ogle the poor man, Reina forced her attention to the envelope. She pried at the gummed flap with her fingernails.
“May I?” he asked.
After she gave him the envelope, he extracted a folding knife from inside his coat and deftly slitted the top. With a nod of thanks, she took it back and pulled out the application and letter.
John Pembroke
Age—twenty-seven.
Height—6 ft 1.
Place of birth—Wales.
“Welsh!” Reina exclaimed in satisfaction, which earned her a questioning glance. She gave him a vaguely sheepish grin. “I couldn’t place your accent.”
