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newspaper. Liza recognized the style. Hawked on the street for a few pennies, broadsheets were full of delicious gossip and innuendo. Since coming to London, Liza and her mama had bought several of them behind Papa’s back. The Duchess paced furiously, her heels catching the threadbare patches of carpet. Peering nearsightedly at the newsprint, she collided with Liza and her pointy shoe nearly crushed Liza’s toe. Liza cried out and the startled Duchess rocked backward.
    So much for the unobtrusive servant.
    “I beg your pardon, Your Grace.” Liza was careful to follow the Baroness’s instructions to speak English.
    The Duchess stared at her, her quick glance taking in every detail of Liza’s fine mourning gown. A crease appeared between her eyes as she began speaking English. “Who are you? We aren’t expecting visitors today.”
    “I’m the Princess’s new maid,” Liza said, remembering to curtsy. Her toes stung from the Duchess’s pointed shoes.
    “A maid? In such a dress? When were you hired?” the Duchess asked, her expression puzzled, as if she were trying to remember a detail that had escaped her.
    “Today, Your Grace.”
    “Oh. Very good.” Turning her back on Liza, the Duchess returned to the broadsheet.
    Liza rested her head against the wall. She had prayed Kensington Palace would be a refuge, but now she wondered if it were an asylum.
    The door slammed open and a gentleman paused in the doorway. He was middle-aged, but extraordinarily good-looking. His dark trousers and tailored coat accentuated his broad shoulders and narrow waist perfectly. His gray silk cravat was impeccable and fastened with a diamond tiepin. Liza stared admiringly at the effect he made.
    “My lady, what is this upset?” He also spoke in German as he made a beeline for the Duchess. He placed both hands on her shoulders.
    “Sir John,” said the Duchess, leaning into his embrace. “Thank goodness you are here.” Her voice was breathy and pleased.
    So this is what the servants mean about Sir John managing the Duchess.
    The Duchess’s coils of hair quivered with a life of their own. “Sir John, they’re saying I’m a terrible mother!” She shoved the broadsheet at him. He harrumphed as he read.
    “Do you see where they criticize Victoria’s accent?” The Duchess interrupted. “How unfair, when I’ve been so careful to limit her German!”
    Still scanning the article, Sir John said absently, “We can do something about that.”
    “I already have, Sir John,” the Duchess simpered. “There’s a new maid to wait on her. Her accent seems ladylike.” She pointed toLiza, who held herself motionless in the corner. Sir John started; he had not noticed Liza until that instant.
    “I was not consulted,” he said coldly. Disengaging himself from the Duchess, he strode across the room to Liza. “What’s your name, girl?” he asked in English.
    “Liza Hastings, sir,” Liza replied in a low voice.
    “No maid in this house ever wore a dress as nice as yours,” he said.
    “My parents died recently and I have to earn my living,” Liza answered.
    “As a maid?” He eyed her carefully.
    “I prefer to make my own way, sir.”
    “Very commendable.” He smiled, his dark blue eyes glittering with admiration. “But a word of caution: you must be careful not to outshine the Princess. She is not amused unless she is the prettiest girl in the room.”
    Liza felt a blush creeping up her neck.
    Sir John might have paid her another compliment, but the Duchess interrupted. “Sir John, what is taking so long?” she cried in German. “Come away from the girl.” She extended her hand to him, her wrist weighed down by a many stranded bracelet of precious pearls.
    Sir John hurried back to the Duchess’s side and led her to a settee. He stroked her palm with his thumb. His hands looked smooth. Liza’s Papa had told her never to trust a man with a manicure.
    “My lady,” he said. “The girl seems quite suitable. Much more