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If Constantine gave his scrivener her congé before six months passed, he’d have to admit defeat and pay the wager. It wasn’t losing the funds that made him reluctant. It was that he’d have to admit there might be a measure of truth—surely, only the merest amount—in his friends’ accusation.

Why was a young woman of excellent character so set on proving herself in a traditionally male occupation? Not that females couldn’t perform the task just as well, but the women he knew focused their energies on marriage and having children.

The gentlemanliness bred into Constantine’s very core as an aristocrat also objected to the dishonor of hiring her purely to win a wager. That had been the craven act of a cad, and he felt no small amount of shame for his role in the fiasco.

That Miss Roth had overheard him arguing with Harvey about why he’d hired her only added to Constantine’s guilt. Now, every time Miss Roth glanced in his direction, he felt miniature accusatory daggers pricking him.

Grunting, he plunked his hands on his hips and perused his disorderly research laboratory and office once more. Which was, in fact, the entire ground floor of his house except for the kitchen.

How hard would it be to convince Miss Roth to accompany him to Dovetonwick Court? He had mentioned possible travel as part of her duties during the farcical interview, hoping the duty would dissuade her from accepting the post. It hadn’t.

Confounded woman.

If Constantine dictated to her during the journey, that would make up for the time lost participating in obligatory family activities.

He wished to depart for Dovetonwick Court on Tuesday—three days away.

“Good morning, my lord.”

Formal, cool, civil.

Constantine painted a pleasant expression on his face and summoned a welcoming smile.

“Good morning, Miss Roth. I trust you slept well.”

He barely constrained the grin tipping his lips upward at her swift, suspicious glance. He’d never bothered to inquire about her sleep or any other personal details, for that matter, before.

Except for the perfunctory questions he’d asked during their initial meeting, he knew nothing about her. Beyond her name, age—three and twenty—education, that she was an orphan, and that her letters of reference were exceptional.

Of course, the latter could’ve been forged, but he believed them genuine.

Of the three women who’d answered his advert, Miss Roth was the candidate he’d erroneously believed would quit within a week.

More fool him.

Everything he’d done to encourage Miss Roth’s departure had only caused her to dig her heels and claws in and thwart his efforts all the more. Always within the bounds of respectfulness and deference.

Only just.

Gilly leaped to his feet and trotted over to Miss Roth, wagging his tail with such exuberance that his entire back end wiggled.

Traitor.

“Good morning to you too, handsome boy,” Miss Roth crooned, bending to give the dog a pat and kiss, and presenting her delightfully rounded derriere for leisurely inspection in the process.

By Zeus. Constantine was not jealous of a dog, and by no stretch of the imagination was Gilly a handsome boy. Not with that tattered ear that dropped over his forehead, nor his doggy smile that rather made him appear as if he’d indulged in too much ale.

Swiveling away, Constantine raked a hand through his hair, messing the already untidy strands further. He hadn’t bothered with brushing it into one of the fashionable styles the young bucks of the ton favored.

Embly had long since given up on Constantine’s unruly, overly long hair. Keeping him reasonably shaven and presentable in unrumpled attire strained the bounds of the valet’s best intentions.

At least Embly hadn’t threatened to give his notice this week.

That was an improvement.

Constantine slid the bane of his existence a side-eyed glance.

Miss Roth would smite him to cinders if she caught him gawping at her backside.