all dismissed."
"But, sir-"
"Your Grace, there's no time. With the ball next Friday!"
"My lord-"
"Good day," Justin said with utter finality.
Emily stood in sullen silence as her disappointed accusers filed out. Penfeld slipped out behind them, shaking his head and muttering under his breath.
The door whispered shut, leaving them alone. Justin drew off his spectacles, leaned back in his chair,
and surveyed his young charge from boots to crown. If she was trying to look boyish, she had failed dismally. The trousers only emphasized her slender waist and hugged the ample curve of her rump. Edith's jacket had not been tailored for a bosom as generous as Emily's. Unhindered by corset or chemise, her breasts strained against the worn fabric.
Only a hint of color in her cheeks betrayed her response to his casual perusal. Her spine was stiff with that terrible pride that made her seem so fragile yet so unreach-able.
He steepled his fingers beneath his chin. "Have you anything to say for yourself?"
She crossed her arms over her chest and blew a stray curl out of her eyes. "Damnable liars, every one
of them."
"You didn't swear at the curate?"
"Hell, no."
His lips twitched. "You didn't eat the entire rhubarb pie?"
"Of course not. I gave it to Pudding. Bulldogs Love rhubarb."
"And you didn't allow the stable cat to birth in Harold's new hat?"
"Cats are notoriously stubborn. They birth where they please."
Sighing, he slipped on his spectacles and went back to scrawling in the ledger. "Very well. You may go."
Emily slammed her palms on the desk. "Aren't you even going to punish me?"
"Punish you?" He nibbled on the end of his pen. "If it pleases you, you may take supper in your room."
She spoke through gritted teeth. "I take all my meals in my room."
"Then you may take supper in the dining room." He flipped a page of the ledger.
"Damn you," she whispered, her voice husky with thwarted emotion. He didn't even look up.
She spun around and marched for the door.
"Emily?"
She turned, her hand on the doorknob.
The pen kept up its even scratch. "Nothing you do, no matter how horrendous, is going to change the way I feel about you." His hand stilled. He slanted her a look over the rim of his spectacles. "Nor the
fact that I am not free to act on those feelings."
Emily threw open the door, horrified by the betraying sting in her eyes. She closed the door and slumped against it, pressing them shut against the burning pressure. When she opened them, a black mountain blocked her vision.
She blinked the tears away and found herself face-to-face with Penfeld's starched lapels. "Penfeld?
What the devil-"
She was totally unprepared when the valet fastened his meaty fingers around her earlobe in a pinch that would have made Doreen Dobbins swoon with envy. Emily's mouth fell open, more from shock than pain.
Penfeld thrust his face into Emily's. "March, little missy," he hissed, "or I'll give you something to cry about."
"How dare you-!"
Emily's cry of protest was cut off by a vicious yank that almost dragged her off her feet. Needles of pain shot through her skull. Wherever Penfeld was going, he was obviously intent on taking her ear with him, whether it was attached or not. Emily's feet slid on the polished wood floor, but he never faltered. A grinning footman swept open the door to the foyer.
A mobcapped head appeared around the corner, then another. Doors flew open. Grubby faces popped
up in the windows. The servants gaped as their master's mild-mannered valet dragged a howling Emily across the foyer and up the stairs.
When Justin emerged from the study to investigate the distant smattering of applause, he found nothing but a bevy of servants industriously polishing the gleaming banister.
Chapter 23
I pray the man you choose is worthy of such a prize. . . .
Penfeld gave her a less than genteel shove into her bedroom. Emily groped for her ear, surprised to find
it still in place, then stood with fists clenched.
The valet planted his bulk between the bed and the door. "I had seven younger brothers, all bigger and meaner than you, dear. Think about it."
Emily did. Penfeld's hands hung like creased hams from his immaculate sleeves. She sank down on the edge of the bed and gave him a sullen glare.
Returning a sweet smile, he locked the door and slipped the key into the pocket of his waistcoat.
She rubbed her throbbing ear. "What are you going to do? Beat me?"
"It would be a bit overdue, don't you think? Someone should have cared enough to yank your ear and blister your little bum a long time ago. But no one did, did they?"
It wasn't the shocking language, but the complete absence of pity in his tone that made it so compelling. He scraped over the chair from the hearth, turned it backward, and straddled it.
"Why, Penfeld, I hardly know you," Emily breathed in amazement.
"No, you don't," he said briskly. "And I think it high time to remedy that. I was born on Tenant Street, the second oldest of fifteen, three of whom died at birth. My father was a tanner, my mother a drunk. I was commonly known by the undignified sobriquet of Penny. My older sister died of typhoid at the age of fifteen. Before her corpse could cool, I snatched her job at a Bond Street haberdashery, where I met my first master."
Emily nodded, cautious but empathetic. Ambition. Level-headed thinking. A yearning for independence. These were all traits she respected.
"I discovered that by serving as a valet, a 'gentleman's gentleman' so to speak, I could partake of the
finer and more civilized aspects of life and earn wages for doing so."
"Don't you ever tire of being on the outside? Don't you ever want to be that gentleman?"
"A gentleman has many responsibilities. I have only one. Ensuring the happiness of my master."
She traced the gold leaf pattern on the rug with the toe of her boot. "I see. Is that why you dragged me
up here? Because I am interfering with that task?"
"Precisely."
Emily swallowed, bracing herself to hear she was unwanted yet again. Somehow the words would hurt more coming from the gentle valet. Penfeld had never so much as rebuked her. "What would you have me do? Shall I disappear from his life again? For good this time?"
"Would that make him happy?"
She searched his earnest face. "I honestly don't know."
Penfeld folded his arms on the back of the chair. "Why don't we give him exactly what he's asked for? First, you must stop this infernal misbehaving."
"I already tried acting like a lady. It made us both miserable."
A triumphant smile wreathed the valet's round face. "Ah, but that's because my master doesn't need a lady. My master needs a woman."