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the better of me.”
    Claudia gazed at him speculatively, but said nothing.
    After that, there was little left of the tour, and as they descended via a narrow flight of servants’ stairs, Claudia enumerated his duties.
    “We have no house steward, I’m afraid, so you will have to double as ... Oh.” She stopped abruptly as a tall, spare figure approached them from the other direction. “Here is Aunt Augusta.” She extended her hand to the older woman who, ignoring Jem completely, thrust into Claudia’s hands several papers she carried.
    “Would you believe,” she asked rather breathlessly, “what I found in an old cupboard in the laundry room? A whole parcel of Emanuel’s lists!”
    When her niece made no response beyond a baffled lift of her brows, the old lady continued. “They all concerned household procedures he wanted put into effect—and it’s my belief the staff simply crushed them up and stuffed them in the cupboard where he’d never find them again.”
    Claudia stared at the papers in her hand for some moments, her expression putting Jem in mind of someone who had just been handed something dead and odorous.
    She said only, “Very well, I shall burn them.” Turning to Jem she remarked in an odd, controlled tone, “My husband was a rather compulsive note taker. He made lists of absolutely everything. We’re still finding them. Aunt,” she continued, still in that remote voice, “here is the young man I was telling you about. He is to be our butler, at least”—she glanced at Jem dubiously—”temporarily.”
    Miss Augusta Melksham inclined her head toward Jem. She appeared to be on the shady side of fifty, and was astonishingly angular. She was tall, with a prepossessing nose, around which her plain features were arranged with precision. Her hair incongruously, was arranged in a profusion of iron-gray ringlets that quivered about forehead and cheeks, punctuating her conversation in a prim dance.
    “He seems very young” was her only comment to Claudia. She eyed Jem assessingly. “And very poorly dressed,” she concluded.
    Jem shifted uncomfortably, feeling like an errant schoolboy brought before the headmaster. “I... ” he began, but closed his mouth quickly as Miss Melksham lifted her hand.
    “I think you are of a size with Morgan,” she said, and turned her head. “Claudia, will you show Mr.—January, is it? What an odd name, to be sure. Will you show Mr. January to Morgan’s quarters? I would do so myself, except that I am late for my appointment with Mrs. Skinner to go over next week’s menus.”
    “Of course. Aunt.” Claudia smiled warmly at the older woman.
    “After which,” continued Miss Melksham, addressing Jem, “you may come to the kitchen. I will introduce you to Mrs. Skinner—our cook—and the rest of the staff.”
    Without waiting for a reply, she proceeded on her way with a rustle of bombazine skirts. Jem looked after her in some awe before turning back to his employer. He surprised an amused twinkle in her eyes before she turned to ascend the stairs.
    An hour or so later, Jem stood before a patched cheval glass examining his newly butlered self. In his memory, Morgan loomed as an immensely tall, cadaverously thin personage of imposing mien. He was surprised to discover that the man was actually the same height as himself. There was no question, though, that Morgan’s shirt and waistcoat were more than a little snug, and there was a definite gap in the fastenings of his breeches. Jem sighed. He had shirts of his own, and with any luck, there would be, somewhere on the premises, a housemaid who plied a talented needle.
    Upstairs, Claudia began to dress for dinner. Standing in the center of her bedchamber, she stripped off the faded blue muslin she had worn all day. She moved to the clothes cupboard and perused her meager wardrobe. Examining each gown in turn, it began to be borne on her that she wished to dress with special care this evening. She wanted to