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“Of course not,” Bryony said firmly, knowing how Maddy had wept bitter tears over the faithless Tarkington.
“He was a weak-chinned idiot who didn’t deserve you,” said Sophie, who held the strong belief that no one should criticize Maddy but her younger sister. Maddy smiled at her, and Bryony sighed in relief. For all their squabbling, her sisters loved each other, and Nanny Gruen would keep them safe.
“Then we’re agreed,” she said briskly. “Tomorrow you two travel to Somerset and I will go to my interview.”
“But what if they don’t hire you, Bryony?” Sophie inquired.
“As I said, they’ve had a great deal of trouble maintaining a decent staff at their house in Berkeley Square, though I’m not sure why. In any case, my forged credentials are impeccable, and I’m quiet, forceful, yet unassuming. They’ll take me.”
Neither Maddy nor Sophie protested this self-assured statement. Indeed, they believed their older sister capable of anything she set her mind to, Bryony thought. She only wished this were more a matter of fact than bravado.
“Then we’re decided,” she continued. “I think we should break into Sophie’s supply of tea cakes. They’re sinfully good for only your second attempt at baking.”
Sophie preened. “Let’s eat them all,” she said recklessly. “I’m ready to tackle bread next.”
“I’m sure Nanny will give you plenty of scope for your culinary genius,” Maddy said, not without kindness. She looked at her older sister. “There’s no chance at changing your mind, Bryony?”
“None at all,” she said.
“Then tea cakes it is.”
CHAPTER TWO
BRYONY STOOD OUTSIDE the large town house on Berkeley Square that was home to the notorious Adrian Bruton, Earl of Kilmartyn, and his beautiful wife. Bryony had never stepped foot inside it—indeed, she had shunned society completely for her entire adult life, a fact which now served her well. Standing on the street, her drab mourning garb washed and faded to a dull brown, the ugly hat pulled down over her tightly braided hair, she felt as if she were entering into battle.
She straightened her back and squared her shoulders. This had been her idea, and a good one it was. She was more than capable of carrying off the role of housekeeper—that was all she’d been since she’d left the schoolroom. Most of her life she’d been immured in the countryside, and no one in London would recognize her, despite the distinctive scars. With her light hair pulled back tight against her scalp, her too-generous mouth pulled into a grim expression, she could pass muster with the best of them.
She’d seen her sisters off less than an hour ago, and it had taken the brisk walk from the staging house to Berkeley Square to put the ramrod back into her spine, to let the tears dry. She had a mission, and she was never one to shirk a responsibility. It was time to start her new life.
Opening the iron gate, she started down the alleyway beside the large stone house. How did people know which alleyway belonged to which house, she wondered. There was no plaque to signify. She would simply have to hope this would lead her to the servants’ entrance of the earl’s town house.
For once her luck held. She descended the narrow steps and rapped firmly on the door.
No one came. Did servants and delivery persons simply enter a kitchen unannounced? Or need she wait for someone to open to her?
She rapped again, tapping her foot. A moment later the door opened, revealing a young woman in a maid’s uniform, her hair awry, her eyes running over Bryony’s form with thinly veiled contempt. “Yes?” she said impatiently. The woman was pretty enough, though the sullen turn of her mouth rather spoiled the effect. Her apron and cap were gone, and she looked as if she’d just left her bed. “What do you want?” she demanded of Bryony. “We don’t allow no Reformers in this household.”
Bryony drew herself up straight. Best to start as she meant to go on. “I am Mrs. Greaves,” she said calmly. She’d chosen the false name with a certain amount of irony. “I have an appointment with Lady Kilmartyn. Please tell her I await her pleasure.” And without another word she moved past the woman, making her way into the overwarm basement kitchen.
It was a shambles. Dirty dishes littered the table where a footman sat, sprawling, his long legs stuck out, his neckcloth awry. There was a stain on his livery, and he looked at her for a moment, his practiced eye raking her body, moving up to her face and then dismissing her as unworthy. “Who’s this, then, Ruby?” he demanded.
Ruby didn’t have time to answer before an older, cheerful-looking woman scurried into the kitchen, her plump figure and stained apron attesting to her role. “Beg pardon, miss,” she said hurriedly, wiping her hands on the grubby apron. “I’m Mrs. Harkins, the cook. You must be here about the new position.”
At least this one was polite, though something would have to be done about the general cleanliness of both the kitchen and Mrs. Harkins’s aprons. Bryony nodded graciously, a housekeeper-gracious, not a lady of the manor–gracious. “I’m Mrs. Greaves,” she said composedly. “I hope I’m not too early.” In fact, she hoped no such thing. She’d wanted a chance to get the lay of the land before she had her interview. Clearly her work here would be cut out for her.
“Don’t you worry about it, Mrs. Greaves,” the cook said. “You have a seat and I’ll bring you a nice cup of tea while Alfred goes to inform her ladyship that you’re here.” She turned to the indolent footman. “Get your lumpen arse off that chair, Alfred, and do your duty.”
Alfred was unimpressed. He rose with slow insolence, reaching up to straighten his neckcloth. It still wasn’t right, but apparently it was good enough for this household. He strolled out of the room; slow enough to make it clear he was going because he wanted to, not because Mrs. Harkins had ordered him.
“And you, Ruby! Don’t you go be leaving Emma with all the upstairs work. Get a move on.”
“Emma can handle it,” Ruby said rudely.
“If she can then there’s no need for you on staff, now is there?” Mrs. Harkins replied.
A moment later Ruby was gone, and Mrs. Harkins put a cup of very strong tea in front of Bryony, sighing. “You can see we’re at sixes and sevens here, Mrs. Greaves. I do my best, but I’m not cut out for managing a household this size, and that’s the truth of it.”
Bryony put sugar and milk into the inky tea, then managed to take a sip without shuddering. She sincerely hoped Mrs. Harkins’s cooking was better than her tea. “It’s a difficult task if you’ve been thrust into the midst of it,” she said. “Particularly if things have gotten lax.” She resisted the temptation to glance at the littered table.
