Page 8

“Then perhaps you might explain Farlow’s policy of making female customers wait in a corral for an hour, while the male customers walk up to the cashier and then go on their way?”

“The policy was intended to be helpful. You see—”

“It is not,” she said curtly. “Women are quite capable of standing in line, or walking across the room, without assistance. There’s no need to tow us about like children on leading strings. All of it reeks of condescension. It couldn’t be more perfectly designed to make someone feel small and unimportant.”

To her surprise, he appeared to consider what she’d said.

“I’ll admit,” he said quietly, “I hadn’t viewed it that way.”

Reina relaxed slightly. “Men tend to view women through the prism of their own experiences, which are quite different.”

“Is it possible the other ladies don’t agree with your opinion of our system?” he asked.

“I suppose it’s possible,” she said. “Why don’t you come with me right now, and we’ll sit behind that delightful little wall for an hour, so you can experience all that helpfulness for yourself? I dare you.”

He was too taken aback to reply.

How very satisfying it was to have thrown him off his guard, this self-possessed man with his polished manners and blue, blue eyes. Reina wanted to provoke him further, wanted to . . . well, she wasn’t sure what. She found herself stepping closer, holding his gaze.

“I double dare you,” she said.

A playground taunt, entirely inappropriate for such a dignified setting. But she could tell somehow that he liked it.

“I don’t have the time,” he had the nerve to say.

In spite of her wrath, Reina let out a breath of amusement.

“Neither do I, actually.” She tucked the document wallet beneath her arm. “I’ll take my leave now. However, if you’re in a position to relay something to Mr. Farlow—”

“I am.”

“—please convey my congratulations. He must be doing quite well if his bank can afford to turn away a customer who wanted to deposit over three thousand five hundred pounds. Also tell him that a coin weighs the same in a woman’s hand as in a man’s. No—never mind all that—just tell him this: Money doesn’t care.”

“I will—” he began, and broke off with a disconcerted laugh. “That is, when I said ‘I am,’ I meant—”

“Oh God.” In a flash, Reina realized who he was.

“William Farlow,” he said with a precise bow, “at your service.”

Chapter Two

Desperately Seeking Servants

London, 1880

Reina had already sacrificed an entire issue of the Penny Illustrated to scrub the window glass, and it was still dirty. She tossed another page to the floor, where a hailstorm of crushed newspaper balls had accumulated. Now all she had left was the Morning Chronicle, which she hadn’t yet read.

Sighing, she flexed her aching back and reached beneath her apron to tug her bodice back in place. Too late, she realized her hands were smudged with newspaper ink, which she’d just rubbed onto her clothes.

“Oh, pistols.”

Wiping her hands on the apron, she began to pace around the parlor. Like the rest of the house, it resembled a room in Sleeping Beauty’s castle, once charming but now dilapidated. Every surface was coated with ancient grime. No matter how often she cleaned, swept, and mopped, the house kept coughing up more dust. Where in heaven’s name was it coming from?

She was desperate to hire anyone, male or female, who would be willing to do household work. But even after a month of running Help Wanted notices in all the newspapers, and visiting every reputable employment agency in London, she’d had no luck at all. There was a national servant shortage, or as it was generally called, “the servant problem.”

The agency managers had been reluctant to explain the cause, but finally a friendly junior clerk had taken her aside to speak frankly.

“Respectfully, ma’am—how much do you know about the life of the average servant?”