Before she gathered her wits enough to offer one more sting, he slipped away, the door clicking shut behind him.
Then, not ten feet away, Mrs. Hunter rang her insufferable bell. “Miss Thorne.”
Frances jumped at the sound. Her legs were unaccountably unsteady, as if her bones had turned to ribbons that might curl beneath her. She was far too old to be prone to such behavior, she thought, and lifted a hand to the brooch that held her fichu in place. It served to remind Frances why she was here, and why her work was so important.
Then she turned, her best face fixed in place. “How may I be of service, Mrs. Hunter?”
Her employer smiled approvingly. “Lady Binghamton would like to utilize your services. Her niece, Miss Farmingdale, has need of your instruction in Artful Defense.”
The young lady in question had removed her bonnet, revealing a comely face framed by a wealth of deep auburn curls.
“My niece,” her ladyship began, “has led a cloistered life for her education. Now, that she is under my charge, I have decided to employ her as my companion. Though I doubt she will ever be far my side, I require assurance that her person will remain unchanged throughout the duration of her life.”
At the word unchanged, Miss Farmingdale’s chin jerked up, and she stiffened. From across the room, her peridot green gaze speared Frances with a look that seemed to rail at the injustice of such a fate. Standing to the girl’s back, neither Mrs. Hunter nor her ladyship saw it, but both Kaye and Frances did. They exchanged a swift sideways glance of commiseration.
Frances nodded her understanding, which Mrs. Hunter took as acquiescence. “Very good. Miss North, escort her ladyship and Miss Farmingdale upstairs. Miss Thorne, a word, if you please.”
Once they were alone downstairs, Mrs. Hunter stepped close. “I needn’t remind you that your position here depends very much on pleasing patrons like Lady Binghamton, need I?”
As before, Frances said, “No, Mrs. Hunter. I understand.”
“After the debacle with Lord Whitelock, it is a wonder that I am still in business.” She exhaled audibly and brought her hands up to primp the curls of her wig. “We are fortunate that he is such a kind and agreeable gentleman.”
“Yes, ma’am.” It was true. Stomping on Lord Whitelock’s foot, while Frances was in the process of instructing one of his very own maids, was unforgivable. She still couldn’t quite figure out how it had happened. Yet accident or not, she was fortunate that he was the one who had insisted on Frances’s keeping her position here. If not for him, then she would have lost not only her job but her rooms as well. Between her and her father, she was the only one earning a wage.
In the years since her mother had passed away and her father had been branded, their lives had fallen into gloom and chaos. They would be out on the street if she lost her situation.
“We provide this service of yours without gain. It would be better for the agency if you spent more time remarking on the suitable servants we have listed in our registry than in giving instruction to the ones who are not,” Mrs. Hunter reminded unnecessarily. “As it is, with all that I’ve said and with the new agency down the street, I cannot afford one more mistake, Miss Thorne.”
A sense of dread filled Frances, reminding her of the booklet up her sleeve. The edges of the paper rasped against her skin, making her itch, but she dared not scratch.
Not one more mistake.
After his brief encounter with Miss Thorne, Lucan found himself oddly distracted. And hungry. His stomach felt empty, as if he hadn’t eaten for days. Somehow, he doubted mere food would satisfy his appetite. Miss Thorne, however . . .
He shook his head before he finished the thought, and aimed to concentrate on food instead of another, more delectable alternative.
Leaving the servant registry office, he strode directly to the corner bakery. Yet his thoughts remained on Frances. He’d always thought her a rather intriguing woman, hiding a mystery behind those spectacles. Her eyes were sumptuous and smoky, a color somewhere between a velvety brown and a plush gray. With lashes so long they nearly touched her lenses. Her dark brown hair was the color of the burnished bronze lamp on his bedside table. And her plump lips hid a slight overbite. She’d never smiled at him. Even when she was younger, she’d shyly kept that part of her a secret. So each time he’d caught a glimpse of her teeth, he felt a low growl deep in the pit of his stomach, like a beast awakening after a long slumber and in need of sustenance.
He was grateful for her waspish sting, because he preferred to keep that beast slumbering.
Inside the bakery, he filled his lungs with the tantalizing aroma of rising yeast and sugar. His gaze honed in on the platter of glazed buns beneath a glass dome. His mouth watered.