She walked to the door.Call me back. Call me back!
He did not call her back.
In the hall, Hattie drew some very deep breaths to rid herself of the dizziness. She didn’t understand what was happening between them. Were they becoming friends? Because she never felt short of breath with friends. Did he ever feel short of breath? Did he believe them to be friends? It was entirely possible that he felt nothing about her, nothing at all. That made the most sense, really—she was as unsuitable for him as Yolanda or Aurelia.
He was being kind to her, and she was lusting after him.
She couldn’t help herself.
RAINWASPOURINGfrom the skies when Hattie arrived at Mr. Callum’s office. She shook her umbrella out, smoothed her cloak, and walked down the hall to where a bronze plaque proclaimed Mr. Callum could be found within that room. She rapped on the door.
A moment later it swung open, and the portly estate agent eyed her suspiciously. “His lordship sent you,” he stated disapprovingly.
Hattie lifted her chin. “It’s certainly not a social call.”
He snorted. He turned and walked into his cluttered office. He didn’t invite Hattie to follow, but she did anyway. He often had the look of someone who wanted to slam a door in her face. She had no idea what had caused his animosity toward her—she guessed it had everything to do with her being a woman and working for her livelihood. She was aware how many people viewed that with disdain.
Mr. Callum went to his desk and rummaged through some papers, then found a packet. He held it against his chest. “You’re not to look at the contents. You’re to take it straightaway to the viscount. I’ll know if you haven’t, so don’t you dare try and fool me.”
What could she possibly want with the contents of that packet? “What is it? A king’s ransom?”
“You should watch your mouth,” he said, and held out the packet.
Hattie reached for it with a forefinger and thumb and extracted it like it was dripping with poison. “You have no cause for concern, Mr. Callum. I know my responsibilities and what I stand to lose by ignoring them.”
“Doyou,” he said with a sneer. “I have never cared for immodest women.”
Immodest!“I can’t imagine they have cared for you, either, sir. Good day.” She turned and walked out of his office, wild with fury. He had taken an instant dislike to her from the moment he’d laid eyes on her. What was it to him what she did with her life? Why did so many people in the world believe they had a say in any woman’s life?
But Hattie was proud of herself as she snapped open her umbrella. There had been a time she would have crumbled had a man spoken to her in that way. She would have blamed herself for it, would have thought she was too forward, too unladylike. But when one suffered a broken engagement for no good reason, one tended to look at some men with suspicion.
She supposed she could thank Rupert for that, at least—he’d made it easier for her to respond to the foolishness of men like Mr. Callum.
Frankly, he’d made it easier to cease caring what anyone thought of her.
It was still pouring rain when she reached Grosvenor Square with the packet. It was well past teatime, and the lamplighters were already out, moving down the street to each lamppost. Hattie entered through the servants’ entrance as she normally did, dropped her umbrella, and removed her cloak. It was soaked through. She decided to take it to the kitchen and let it dry by the hearth before she started home. She could probably persuade Yolanda to give her something to eat. Maybe there were still some petit fours.
She walked into the kitchen with her cloak over one arm, Mr. Callum’s packet in her other hand...but it wasn’t Yolanda behind the rough-hewn kitchen table. It was Lord Abbott. And he was wearing an apron. And there was a dash of flour on his cheek.
Hattie froze in place, trying to make sense of the scene before her. He was with the older woman who’d accidentally splashed her with mop water her first day here. She couldn’t help but gape at them both.
Lord Abbott looked mortified. “Ah...” He looked around him, grabbed a towel, and began to wipe his hands. The woman, however, smiled as if she’d been expecting Hattie. She said something to him in Spanish.
The viscount shot a look of exasperation at the older woman. “Miss Woodchurch, what are you doing here at this hour?”
“I brought the packet from Mr. Callum?” She held it up so he could see.
“Yes, of course.” He frowned. “You walked here in the rain?”
“Yes, my lord.” She set the packet on the end of the kitchen table. And when she did, she noticed the several balls of dough spaced apart on the table. Was he—she was surely mistaken—but was Lord Abbottbaking? He had to be. The apron, the flour on his cheek!
The woman noticed her gaze and spoke again to the viscount, who responded softly, almost in a whisper. The woman put her hand on his arm and spoke again. There was a familiarity between them that made Hattie think she must be his grandmother. Now, whatever Hattie thought she knew about aristocracy was evaporating. Would the Duke of Santiava and his duchess grandmother enter a kitchen, much less prepare food? Lord, her parents only aspired to such lofty titles, andtheynever entered a kitchen.
Lord Abbott sighed. “Señora de Leon would have me beg you forgive her for not speaking English. But I will tell you she understands English perfectly well. She doesn’t speak it as well as she would like.” He shot the woman a look. “Nevertheless, she wishes to make your acquaintance. Properly.”
“Oh.” Hattie swept a bit of rain from her cheek. “Of course.”
“May I present Señora de Leon,” he said. “She has been with my family for all my life.”
