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that was incomprehensible to everyone—everyone but her. Over the years, when she hadn’t been busy taking care of the family household, she’d served as his assistant. As such, she’d learned mathematics from him even though females were traditionally discouraged from studying such a masculine discipline. But Papa had always been proud, encouraging her to learn in spite of her mother’s gentle admonitions that such knowledge would only lead to trouble.
    Ironic that her mother had been right though not for the reasons either of them had imagined at the time. Fateful that Mama, who died when Sebastianne was only fifteen, had unwittingly provided her with the other essential skill she needed in order to perpetrate her current charade. For if her mother had not been British, Sebastianne would never have known how to speak English so flawlessly that everyone would assume she was a native born and bred.
    Half–born and bred , she corrected, thinking of her dual heritage and her resulting affinity for languages. In addition to French and English, she was fluent in Spanish and Italian, with enough German and Russian to make do. But she had a pretense to maintain, she reminded herself, aware that she must remember to appear as British as possible at all times.
    Linking her hands behind her back, she forced her memories aside, struggling as she did to quiet the churning in her stomach over knowing herself a cheat. For no matter what choices she made now, she was destined to hurt and betray someone. Better those for whom she did not care, she reasoned, than those she loved.
    Without warning, Drake Byron’s face popped into her mind. Her pulse sped faster as she thought of his angular features and clear green eyes, which were so honest and insightful, so captivating and breathlessly male. It would be easy for a woman to lose herself in eyes like those. Easy to forget herself and her true purpose.
    Bah! she told herself, coming back to the present.
    With an imperceptible shake of her head, she sternly banished the image, calling herself a ridiculous widgeon.
    “If we are not to enter his lordship’s workroom,” Sebastianne said, returning to the discussion at hand, “then how is the chamber ever cleaned?”
    “Oh, he lets us in every so often to do a dusting and polish,” Parker volunteered. “So long as we don’t move anything, he’s fine enough. Mrs. Beatty used to wait until he went out, then sneak in and clean.”
    But despite her own wish that she could “sneak in,” Sebastianne found her afternoon far too busy to play spy. Instead, after her inspection of the housemaid’s work, she went to the linen cupboard to sort and arrange the contents—removing a few sheets that needed mending.
    Returning belowstairs, she’d been greeted by Mrs. Tremble, who pointed out that there were deliveries from the butcher’s boy and the greengrocer that required checking to make sure they were of good quality and the right weight and measure.
    “Ye never know when one of the tradesmen will turn cheat,” the cook advised with a sage nod. Having dealt with her own share of unscrupulous merchants in her time, Sebastianne could only agree.
    At supper, in spite of being given a reprieve on overseeing the arrangement of Lord Drake’s meal at table, she’d still been expected to carve the roast joint of beef for the servants. It had proven a daunting experience that had made her hands shake. Apparently, she did well enough, however, quiet with relief as she ate her first evening meal among the staff.
    Afterward, she hoped she could retire for the day, but more work awaited. Since she was responsible for the management of the larder and stillroom, it was her job to grind the spices, sift and measure out the sugar, and stone the fruits and raisins, among other tasks. And to her silent dismay, once she had finished with that, there was a large basketful of clothes and linens in need of mending—the fine sewing also her duty to