“So your parents are arriving today?” One of the voices floated toward me, echoing from all that marble in the foyer, even though he was speaking softly.

“Today or tomorrow. Not sure. Better stay away, just in case, or I’ll have the mater going on at me again. You know what she’s like.”

“So when will I see you?”

The voices had reached the open doorway on the far side of the living room. Out of the corner of my eye I recognized the stiff, upright bearing of the son of the house, the Hon. Roderick (Whiffy) Featherstonehaugh, and behind him, in shadow, another tall and lanky young man. I turned my back to them and kept sweeping, hoping to build up a cloud of dust around me. The sounds of my brush hitting against the brass fender must have startled them.

There was a pause and then Whiffy said, “Pas devant la bonne.”

This was the standard phrase for times when something was about to be discussed not suitable for servants’ ears. It means, “Not in front of the maid,” for those of you who are not conversant with French.

“What?” The other man asked, then obviously spotted me. “Oh oui, I see. Je vois.” Then he continued in atrocious French. “Alors. Lundi soir, comme d’habitude?” (Meaning, “Monday night as usual?”)

“Bien sûr, mon vieux. Mais croyez vous que vous pouvez vous absenter?” (“But do you think you’ll be able to get away?”) Whiffy’s French was marginally better, but still with a ghastly English accent. Really, what do they teach these boys at Eton?

“J’espère que oui.” (“I hope so.”) Then the speaker reverted to English as they headed out of the room again. “I’ll let you know how it goes. I think you may be wunning a fwightful wisk.”

I froze with my brush in midair. The other speaker had been Tristram Hautbois. I heard their voices disappearing down the hallway, but I had no idea which room they had gone into. It took all my self-control to finish my sweeping, gather up my cleaning paraphernalia, and deposit it in the broom cupboard before escaping through the servants’ entrance.

My heart was thumping wildly as I crossed Eaton Place. This scheme of mine was madness. Already, on my second day of work, it had led to two embarrassing encounters. Next time I couldn’t count on being so lucky and getting away unscathed. I felt my cheeks glowing pink at my choice of words.

Getting away unscathed—that was precisely what had happened to me in the bedroom. If Darcy had decided to force his attentions upon me, as the older generation so quaintly worded it, I’m not sure I would have been strong-minded enough to have resisted him.

A fierce wind sprang up as I crossed Eaton Place and I held my coat around me as I hurried home, looking forward to a cup of tea—no, make that a brandy—to calm my rattled nerves. It had been quite a morning. I let myself into Rannoch House and stood in the marble-tiled hallway.