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“Can you handle a mop and duster?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œCarry large trays stacked with china and silverware?”
    â€œChild’s play.”
    â€œBe willing to treat this family with the utmost respect?”
    The thought of Graham Foster’s impertinence stiffened her spine. “Rather more vexing, but for a worthy cause, yes.”
    â€œThen you’re hired, my dear. And may heaven preserve us both.”

CHAPTER
       4      
    S he dreamed of Nigel. Nigel as she best remembered him—galloping his horse across the countryside, jumping hedgerows and streams, and sending her heart into her throat as she watched from her vantage point by the lake. Later she would scold him, tell him he’d break his neck one of these days…
    Oh, Nigel
.
    A pounding at her bedchamber door scattered the memories. Beside her, Trina the scullery maid sat up, rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and delivered a hardy thwack to Moira’s shoulder, still huddled tight beneath the blanket.
    â€œRise and shine, Your Highness. Sleepin’ away half the morn won’t wash round ‘ere. You’ll find your sorry arse in the street by luncheon.”
    Moira peered at the bedside clock. Four thirty in the morning—in the
morning!
Oh, what
had
she gotten herself into?
    By day’s end her aching back, sore muscles, and throbbing feet provided the answer, not to mention a new appreciation for the length and depth of the service staircase.
    By the close of her second day in the Fosters’ employ, she’d shaken out and rehung the velvet curtains in the drawing room, set and cleared stack upon stacks of dishes, and hauled linens from the laundry to the bedding closet and back. This morning she found herself on hands and knees scrubbing the hardwood floor in the morning room.
    Mrs. Higgensworth hadn’t intended for her to scrub floors. But minutes ago, after that dratted tray of porridge, scones, and clotted cream upended in her tired hands, the housekeeper reluctantly set her to work with scrub brush and bucket.
    Miss Letitia Foster had insisted. Red-faced with fury, the sullen young woman had bewailed her ruined frock and threatened Moira with immediate dismissal if she didn’t dispose of the mess instantly. Miss Foster had behaved like a spoiled child and really, only the smallest drops of porridge had spattered her pale muslin over-skirt. Nothing the laundress couldn’t set to rights.
    Moira certainly understood now why Mrs. Higgensworth had warned her to stay clear of Miss Letitia.
    So far she had managed to avoid Graham Foster, for Mrs. Higgensworth carefully timed her duties before and after he occupied any particular room. Once, however, while traipsing from the kitchen to the conservatory with a brimming watering can in hand, she’d had to detour into the ladies’ parlor as he strolled down the corridor. An ill-placed armchair—which would not have been set so close to the doorway in her mother’s day for fear of a draft—had been the unhappy recipient of splashing water. The mishap resulted in a watermark on the fine moiré, which only a strategically placed pillow could conceal.
    But not once in all this time—marked by arduous toil and near disaster—had she gained access to either the library or the master’s study. The latter had been locked tight both times she had tried. The former presented a different sort of difficulty, one she hadn’t counted on.
    Upon tiptoeing into the library the first evening, she had been surprised to discover the same dark-haired man she’d seen in Mr. Smythe’s waiting room—a man certain to recognize her should he get a close enough look at her. Graham Foster’s friend and houseguest, as Mrs. Higgensworth identified him, seemed unfortunately fond of reading in the evenings.
    The thought produced a pang. Everett Foster had enjoyed reading in the