Page 4 of One Day for a Valet

“That’s it then?” Sofi scoffed. “You’re just going to hire me without a character reference or a single scrap of proof regarding my credentials? Even after my admission that I am the very worst role model you could choose for a well-bred young lady?”

The few servants still milling about the scullery halted in place as if Sofia had just lit a piece of tinder and they were waiting to see if she would drop it onto the kitchen table. The duchess’s eyebrows rose to her hairline, then lowered. Her mouth curved into a slight frown. Good. A moment later, however, she gave a quick nod and the tightly drawn expression vanished. “Yes. That’s the right of it.”

A frustrated huff escaped Sofia’s lips. “I could be lying about everything. I could be a thief or an arsonist or believe the earth is flat. It’s madness to take me on my word!”

“Are you an arsonist?”

Sofia glared. “No.”

“Well, all right then. Honestly, I don’t care much for the estate’s antiquities, and we have more sets of silverware than we could ever use, so as long as you perform your duties well, I’m still getting the better end of the bargain. Besides, no sane person thinks the earth is flat, and you don’t strike me as mad.” The duchess shrugged. “Gabriel hired the last three governesses based on their outstanding recommendations. Considering the disasters they were, I doubt this approach could be any more catastrophic.”

This was ridiculous. Then again, how far did she expect logic to take her when she was arguing with a woman who thought her rooster was allergic to goats?

Bennett stood and retreated to a corner table, taking with him his papers and Sofia’s only hope of a level-headed presence in the conversation. She could feel her future closing in on her, and every logical argument fluttered from her thoughts like a startled sparrow.

Sofia’s gaze swept the room searching for anyone who might talk some sense into the duchess. Instead, her eyes caught on a smartly dressed man she hadn’t noticed before. He was neither remarkably tall nor especially brawny, but his trim musculature gave the impression of restrained energy, like that of a coiled spring. He ran one hand through hair the colour of sunlit sand, provoking an enthusiastic cowlick to stand in its wake. Everything else about the man’s appearance was so crisp and precise—his linen bullied into starched smoothness, his cravat meticulously tied—that she couldn’t seem to drag her eyes away from the anomaly of his hair. He caught her staring and one corner of his mouth kicked up.

Drawing to his full height, perhaps four inches taller than her, he approached in unhurried steps. “If you will forgive the interruption, Your Grace, might I suggest an alternative to hiring the lady based solely upon the endorsement of an eleven-year-old? While the story of an inquisitive Tuscan girl with a thirst for obscure knowledge is entertaining, I suspect it is as factually accurate as your rooster’s livestock allergy.”

The duchess raised an eyebrow but seemed otherwise unfazed by his blatant insult to her character. His eyes flicked to Sofia’s, there and gone in a moment, and she had the sudden feeling of being baited for this man’s amusement.

Two

“Isuggest we use a single test to judge the validity of her claims,” he continued. “If she was honest about one aspect of her tutelage, it stands to reason the rest may be true as well.”

“And what do you suggest, Mr Keene? Shall we have her conjugate Latin verbs? Share her opinions on Mary Anning’s fossil discoveries?” the duchess asked. Sofia couldn’t help but smile. What the duchess lacked in aristocratic polish, she more than made up in wit.

“Nothing so dry as that. I suggest a more practical display.” He reached for a broom and cracked its stick in two with a swift movement against his knee. “A fencing demonstration. I don’t expect her to win, of course, but if she puts up a worthy show, you hire her on. If not”—his eyes scraped insolently down the length of her too-lean body—“we feed her a decent meal and send her off.” He tossed the makeshift foil in Sofia’s direction and she caught it easily in one hand.

“What do you say, love?” he asked Sofia. “I’ll go easy on you. You’ll be perfectly safe.”

Sofia kept her eyes trained on the broken broomstick, cool against her palm. “Vinco, vincebam, vincebam, vici, viceram, vixero,” she murmured.

Mr Keene eased a step closer, his voice dropping in volume to match their intimate proximity. “Sorry, sweetheart, I never learned Latin. You’ll have to settle for insulting me in the King's English. Then again, for all I know, you were complimenting the fit of my breeches.” His gaze slid to the duchess, “Was she complimenting my breeches?”

“I’m sorry to say she was not. It was the Latin conjugation for ‘I win.’”

Smile lines appeared at the corners of his eyes, stretching as he studied her with a focused intensity that made her stomach pitch. “Humbling a man in Latin. You’re absolutely charming.”

A young hall boy handed Mr Keene a second broom, which he broke to match the first before giving one-half an ostentatious twirl through the air.

“This used to be such a very normal estate,” Bennett muttered. Standing, he quit the room. The other servants, who had long since stopped pretending to work, looked to Sofia. For a fleeting moment, she considered throwing the match, bungling the whole thing so this day could be over and done with. She could run back to her brother and tell him he would have to give up this despicable scheme. That they would find some other way to make their way in the world. But then the bastard winked at her and she couldn’t help but envision him flat on his egotistical behind with her practice foil at his throat.

She raised one eyebrow and lowered her chin. “En garde.”

His grin stretched slowly. And for the first time, Sofia understood how dangerous this charming man could be. That smile. There was nothing safe about it and absolutely nowhere to hide from its brilliance.

Movement from the duchess tore her attention away from his weaponised dimples. “This won’t do. You cannot simply start fencing in the middle of the kitchen,” she said with a sigh.

Sofia felt her limbs relax. Thank God. Common sense had prevailed after all. Now she could thank the duchess and⁠—

“Outside. Less potential for broken bits.” The duchess gave a quick nod, as if a change in venue made this situation perfectly acceptable, and strode to the door. Servants dived to open it before she could grasp the brass handle.

“After you.” Mr. Keene bent toward Sofia in a parody of an elegant bow and held out his hand to indicate the direction. “Don’t worry, Your Grace,” Keene called out. “I know you have plans for the morning. This shouldn’t take long.”

The duchess cast a distinctly mischievous smile at Sofia. “I rather agree, Christopher, but I don’t think the ending will be precisely as you anticipate.”

Once outside, Mr Keene gave Sofia a jaunty salute and planted his feet. “First to five legal points? Standard foil, which means trunks only. I’d rather not have my⁠—”