The slightest dusting of color appeared on the butler’s high, sharp cheekbones. “And I often think of His and Her Graces as well as the rest of the family.” He looked as if he wished to say something else, but hesitated.

“His Grace does not blame you for leaving, Jessup,” she said.

Well, that was a bit of a fib. Her in-laws had been devastated by their family retainer’s desertion. But Mr. Lockheart—a man reputed to be among the ten richest in Britain—had offered a wage too high for Robert Jessup to resist.

Jessup’s lips flexed in what passed for a smile. “You are very kind, madam.”

“So, how do you find it here?” Serena glanced around the cavernous room, which evoked a seraglio with its bold fuchsia, gold, and green color scheme, opulent silk and velvet window coverings, and Egyptian-style furniture.

“I find my position suits me admirably, Mrs. Lombard.”

Again she heard the hesitation before her name. She knew that Jessup, like her dead husband’s family, were unhappy that she refused to use her honorific. Serena allowed them all to believe her resistance to aristocratic titles was because of her French Republican upbringing, rather than the truth; a truth they could never know.

She realized the butler was waiting for her answer. “I’m pleased to hear you are happy here, Jessup.” And she was. It was too bad he’d needed to leave his home of many years, but—as she knew all too well—everyone deserved a chance at a better life.

Serena returned her cup and saucer to the massive tea tray. “Mr. Beech has asked me to work with him on the new gardens for Rushton Park.” Jessup knew what Serena did for a living. He’d worked for the Lombard family when she had first arrived in England almost ten years ago. He’d been there when Serena—after living her first year under the care of the duke and duchess, who were very kind to their youngest son’s foreign widow—had scandalized her new relations by moving to London to take up a position teaching art and sculpture at a girls’ school.

Once again, her husband’s family blamed her mad French blood—but, thankfully, hadn’t tried to stop her—for taking her infant son from the comfort of Keeting Hall and moving them both to a town house with two other women teachers. It had been a difficult decision, but she did not regret it.

“If you will permit me to say so, madam, I have seen your work, and it is quite lovely.”

The Jessup of old would never have offered an unsolicited opinion. Perhaps working in a Whig household had given him a more egalitarian outlook.

“Thank you, Jessup.” She stood and smoothed down the skirt of her dark green traveling costume. “I’m refreshed and eager to see Rushton Park. Would it be possible to take a stroll around the grounds?”

“Of course, madam.”

Serena opened the flap of the large leather satchel she was rarely without and took out her sketchpad.