“Why can’t the man take gold? Why must he demand freedom, solitude as payment?” Rowan tossed the letter to the desk and collapsed into his chair, draping his forearm over his eyes. The exposed bit of his wrist between jacket cuff and gloves scratched against the raised skin, a scar curving around his left eye, a thick welt, a reminder.
No, he’d not marry. What need had he of a wife when he had a hotel, when he had Mrs. Smith and the footmen, and Bartlet his valet, Poppins his secretary, the maids, and…
Perhaps the admiral was right. He must simply consider this a business venture. He didn’t have to marry the man who provided new linens for the beds. Nor did he have to eternally tie himself to the cook who ran his kitchen. No. He hired them because they were good at what they did and would make his life easier. In exchange, his money would make their lives easier.
Why not? He had, after all, twenty maids in his employ. Any one ofthem might need a little extra coin in their pockets in exchange for providing an extra task. Any one of them…
But the face of only one floated to the surface—wispy golden curls surrounding an impish face, pink lips—the bottom plumper than the top—a tiny turned-up nose, bright, clever blue eyes, too much mischief there. But for a task such as he would need her for… mischief might be just the thing.
He would not make a rash decision, though. Best to consider all his options.
He reached for the bell pull behind his desk and gave it a tight, efficient yank. Then he folded his arms on the top of his desk and waited. Mrs. Smith appeared quickly, as she always did, her black hair swallowed by the shadows, her stout figure inspiring confidence in whomever she met, including Rowan.
After a quick curtsy, she said, “Yes, Mr. Trent?”
“Assemble all the maids. Here. Now.”
“Is something amiss? Have any of them performed poorly or—”
“No. I’ve had no complaints from others or for myself. I merely wish to… assess them. A quick evaluation to… make sure they are tidy.”
Mrs. Smith sniffed. “They are always tidy. Even after the most strenuous tasks.”
“I’m sure. Humor me.” He sat back behind his desk, and when she’d gone, he pulled a large ledger from one of the drawers, flipped it to the pages listing all twenty house maids who worked at Hestia. He checked his pocket watch. Noon. They all worked this hour. He’d have his pick.
Why marry, after all, if he could pay one of his employees to pretend to be a wife?Thank you, Admiral, for the excellent idea.True, it wouldn’t satisfy Aunt Lavinia. But Mr. Barlow…
The door opened once more, and in streamed a long line of women—all shapes, sizes, and colors, all appearing a bit timid, the green of their gowns black in the dark study, the white of their aprons and caps glowing. Mrs. Smith organized them up shoulder to shoulder in two lines of ten, and Rowan considered them as he rounded the desk to stand before them. Hair color, build—neither mattered. The womanhe chose merely needed to be believable, needed to stand next to him without losing courage.
None of the assembled women would look him in the eye. He twisted to spin the ledger around with the tips of two fingers and a thumb, then read the first name. “Miss Esther Hinks?”
A small brunette with freckles bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, sir?” She trembled.
He offered a slight smile, then called out the next and the next, putting each face with a name until all twenty had been identified. Not a one had managed to return his stare.
“Mrs. Smith?” he asked.
“Yes?” She scowled. Likely, he was wasting her time, putting the fine-tuned mechanics of the hotel’s day-to-day operations in complete disarray.
“You’re missing a maid.”
“I’m not.”
“Yellow hair.” More golden, actually, but saying it out loud might make him sound… odd. “Curl to it. Stands to about here.” He lifted the blade of a flat hand to his shoulder. None of the women here fit the description of the little maid who crept about, face hidden in her shoulder or chin raised high. Whenever he caught her eye, he always thought…sidhe. One of the fairies his mother used to tell him of, a creature of myth and magic.
“We don’t have a lady like that.”
“You’ve not recently lost one? Or fired one?”
“No. We don’t hire young women likely to be let go. Only the best for the Hestia. You know that.”
He did. But then… who was she?
The maids were shifting now, sharing glances, biting lips. Miss Hinks stepped forward, bobbed a curtsy. “I think I’ve seen her, Mr. Trent. She rarely talks to anyone. Unless it’s to take one of our tasks.”
“She… does your work for you?”
Miss Hinks curtsied again. “Yes, sir.”
