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part of my role to
    describe my experiences of the wider world to the staff not fortunate enough to travel. They share my concern for you, my lord.”
    “I’m an ungrateful wretch, is that it?” This discussion was overdue, and it should have been uncomfortable.
    Starched cravats were uncomfortable.
    “Your lordship is tired from the journey,” Cherbourne said. “London can be overwhelming, I know. Your brother took some while to adjust
    to the demands made upon a titled gentleman here in the capital, but I’m sure, in time, you too will move effortlessly among your peers.”
    For three years, Ashton had been Cherbourne’s work in progress, his Galatea, a block of stone to be fashioned into a titled paragon.
    Helen shot Ashton a look, as if he’d missed his lines.
    “Cherbourne, I will write you a glowing character, if that’s what you want. In London, you should have no trouble finding employment worthy of
    your skills. Here’s what I want: No more subtle laments, sermons, or scolds. I pay your salary, you give me your loyalty and your service. Me, not
    Ewan, not Lady Alyssa, not your cronies among the staff. You don’t tattle on me as if I’m a naughty underfootman. You don’t presume to
    criticize my need for a little privacy. You are the valet, I am the earl. Keep to your place or find another position.”
    Three years ago, Ashton could not have carried out the threats he was making.
    “I… but…”
    “Or I can write you a modest character, confirming dates of employment and competence only.”
    “My lord, you cannot… that is... This is most irreg—”
    Helen drummed her heels against the side of the trunk.
    “No character at all,” Ashton said. “Out on your ear. I’ll save some coin and get shut of that most disgusting exponent of
    dishonor, a spy under my own roof. I can shave myself. Did it for years.”
    “You should apologize, Mr. Chairbug,” Helen said. “Turns ’em up sweet, and you might get a cobbler.”
    “Do we understand each other?” Ashton asked.
    “Say yes,” Helen chirped. “I don’t think you’ll get a cobbler, though.”
    “We understand each other, sir.”
    “Delightful. That took only half an hour I shouldn’t have had to waste. Hector, let’s be off. Cherbourne has much to do, even if he
    isn’t sending hourly missives to people who have no business meddling in my life.”
    Helen hopped off the trunk and darted to the door. She’d shown up at Mrs. Bryce’s exactly on time and peppered Ashton with questions the whole
    way to the Albany. Her opinions were marked, original, and incessant.
    And, bless the child, not a one of those opinions came with a “my lord” attached.
    “So you’re a nob?” she asked as they made their way down the steps.
    “I’m Mr. Ashton Fenwick.”
    She gazed up at him. “Mrs. Bryce don’t hold with lying. I’m fair warning you, because I’m your general tote ’em, though you
    haven’t given me nuffink to tote yet. If I take your coin—and your cobbler—then I should look out for you.”  
    “You will carry my confidences. My name is Ashton Fenwick. Whatever else I might be is of no moment, and you won’t mention it.”
    Helen hopped down the stairs. “Right, guv, and I’m the Queen of the Fairies. Mention that all you please, especially to old Sissy when she gets
    in a taking about one of her flats.”
    Flats were the men who hired prostitutes. That Helen knew of such goings-on wasn’t wrong, because what she grasped she could take steps to protect
    herself from.
    That she
needed
to protect herself from her sister’s customers was very wrong, indeed.
    “Time to introduce you to my horse,” Ashton said. “Then you’re to show me where we can find some supper.”
    “I’ve never met a horse before. Met plenty of horses’ arses.”
    “So have I.”
    “Mrs. Bryce doesn’t like bad language.”
    “I do, when it’s done properly. Don’t tell her I said that.”
    Helen stopped at the foot of the steps.