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The outer corners of his eyes deepened with the suggestion of a smile. “I will, ma’am.”

Every day after breakfast, Pembroke would come to the morning room for a short meeting. He and Reina would discuss the day’s schedule and go over the menu, and he would mention any issues with the servants or the household. Since she was usually poring through a stack of newspapers, including The Daily News and The Spectator, items of current interest were frequently brought up.

These meetings had quickly become Reina’s favorite part of the day. She and Pembroke might discuss the recent results of the general election between Disraeli and Gladstone, or the new communication apparatus called the telephone, which had just been installed in Lord Randolph Churchill’s house, or Belinda’s developing knife-skills, or the ongoing war in Afghanistan, or how many rats Alan had caught the previous night.

Even when Pembroke challenged her opinions, or flatly disagreed with her, he was never insulting or patronizing. Nor did he seem intimidated by her intellect. He could hold his own in a debate with her, and yet his respect for her was never in doubt.

Reina had never met anyone with Pembroke’s unique combination of qualities. Having grown up as a servant at an aristocratic estate, educated alongside the master’s sons, he understood the upper class from the inside. During his years at the Manchester iron foundry, however, the hardships of industrial life had made him tough and shrewd. Tiene mundo, the Spanish would say. He has world. It referred to the kind of practical knowledge that had been gained from a wide range of experiences.

“Are you going to meet with Norman after this?” Reina asked, watching him carry the tray of used dishes to the sideboard.

“Aye, ma’am.” Pembroke returned to the table and poured fresh tea into her cup.

“There’s an event I’ve already mentioned to him, but—wait, I’ve been meaning to ask—should we still be calling him Norman? Mr. Farlow addresses his private secretary more formally.”

“I had intended to bring that up, ma’am. It would be more fitting to call him ‘Mr. Goodluck’ in his new capacity as your secretary. When he performs extra domestic duties such as helping to serve guests at a formal dinner, he could be addressed as ‘Norman.’ To minimize confusion, however, it might be best to err on the side of formality.”

Reina beamed at him. “How knowledgeable you are, Pembroke. I think being called ‘Mr. Goodluck’ will bolster his confidence tremendously.” She used her foot to nudge a hopeful chair toward him.

Ignoring the chair’s advance, Pembroke retreated to the side of the room and stood at a comfortable speaking distance. He pulled a leather pocket notebook from inside his coat. “The event you mentioned, ma’am?”

“A charity dance on Friday evening, for the Sociedad Española de Socorros Mutuos.” Seeing him hesitate at writing the name, she quickly added, “The Spanish Mutual Aid Society. A variety of people will attend, from the ambassador and his wife to newly arrived Spanish refugees. There will be lively conversation, heaps of food . . . it won’t be formal, but not entirely informal either. A sort of in-between occasion. The Spanish word for it is tertulia.” She sounded it out for him. “Ter . . . tu . . .”

Pembroke had looked up from the notebook, his gaze falling to her rounded lips and the pencil paused on the page. She heard the brittle snap of a pencil tip.

“Did the lead break?” She removed the gold propelling pencil from her chain. “Here, use this.”

He came to take it from her and retreated to the side of the room again, muttering to himself in Welsh.

“The Sociedad helps Spanish immigrants adapt to life in London,” Reina said. “They need financial help, or jobs, or advice on where to live, or how to find language lessons. Some of them just need to know they have friends here. Community is very important to the Spanish.”

“Where will the tertulia be held?”

“A meeting hall over a wine shop in Soho. The shop is owned by Don Ramón Gutiérrez de la Torre, and his wife, Doña Isabel, who’s a good friend of mine. I’ll introduce you to them, if you’ll escort me?”

“Aye, to ensure your safety,” he murmured, writing in the notebook. “But I won’t be attending as a guest, nor meeting the hosts. I’m your servant.”

“Half the people there will be working-class,” she protested. “No one would mind if you were a guest. You could have some food and wine. You could even dance.”

Pembroke ignored that, turning a page of the notebook. “Is there anything else to add to the schedule, ma’am?”

“Yes—next week, Mr. Gladstone will be coming to visit. They haven’t told me the precise day or time yet. Apparently he can give very little advance notice, so a messenger will be sent only a day or two before with the information. Which is inconvenient, to say the least, but I suppose under the circumstances it must be overlooked.”

Pembroke was staring at her rather oddly. “Gladstone . . . the statesman? The former prime minister?”

“Yes, in anticipation of winning the election, he wants to consult with selected economists and financial professionals as he shapes his policies.” She pointed to herself, made a comical grimace, and said, “What luck.”

Pembroke didn’t smile, however, only regarded her with exasperation. “And he’s coming here,” he said, as if needing confirmation. “To this house.”

“Yes.”

“Is this visit being coordinated by the police? Will he have a bodyguard?”

She gave a nonchalant shrug. “I am positively without clue.”

More muttering in Welsh, while he glanced in various directions as if suddenly finding himself in a madhouse.

“I beg your pardon, but what are you saying?” Reina asked with polite interest.