She stepped out onto the narrow landing and came face-to-face with a man coming up the stairs. “Oh! Sorry!” she said instinctively.
He stopped cold. “For what?”
Jennie blinked. Down a step, he was the same height as she was. He was young, probably about Miss Bianca’s age, with copper skin and close-cut black hair, and sinfully long eyelashes. “I beg your pardon, miss, but you did me no wrong.” He stepped aside to let her by.
Jennie blushed. “You must be Mr. St. James’s man.”
He managed a graceful bow, even in the cramped stairwell. “Christopher Lawrence, miss.”
“Oh!” She laughed from nerves, him bowing to her like she was a lady. “Jennie Hickson, sir. I do for Mrs. St. James.”
He smiled again, his teeth white and perfect. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Hickson. Please call me Kit.”
She blushed harder, till she could feel the heat in her face. “Oh, right! Great pleasure. Kit? Kit. Call me Jennie,” she squeaked, and slipped past him.
Down the stairs she clattered, fanning herself with one hand. Goodness, Mam hadn’t warned her about this. Mr. St. James’s man was fearfully handsome.
For the first few weeks in Marslip, Kit kept his guard up, trying to learn his new employer’s ways.
St. James and his wife did not get on well. That was plain to see from the frosty looks the lady gave him, and the barbed words they exchanged.
It was just as plain that Mr. St. James found his wife much more appealing than she found him. His gaze would follow her across the room, and he would stop speaking for a moment if her voice floated through the wall that divided their bedrooms.
Kit found that promising. All the money in the marriage, he had quickly learned, came from the bride’s family. If the pair of them separated, Kit could easily find himself on the streets again. But as long as Mr. St. James stole those hungry, intense looks at his wife when he thought no one was watching, there was a good chance the man would sort out how to win her affections.
Kit quickly fell into an easy camaraderie with the other servants. Mary, the downstairs maid, was friendly and helpful. Cook was a kindly woman whose tarts and puddings made his eyes roll back in his head in ecstasy. And Jennie . . .
Jennie made his heart leap.
She had curly black hair and big brown eyes and a habit of humming as she worked. She laughed a great deal and was treated by her mistress more like a younger sister than a maid. When not attending Mrs. St. James, Jennie spent her time in the kitchen, mending and shelling peas and chattering with Mary and Cook.
And amazingly enough, Jennie seemed as intrigued by him as he was by her. When he sat down to repair the lace on Mr. St. James’s ivory satin coat, torn after the wedding, Jennie leaned over to watch how he did it. Kit showed her.
“Pick up the threads on the point, see?” He demonstrated, weaving the needle through the ragged lace threads. “Then pull, but lightly or it won’t lie smooth.”
She sat back, looking impressed. “You do fine work.”
He laughed, finishing the repair. “Adequate! Anyone who looks closely will spot it.” He bit off the thread and winked at her. “But they will have to look closely.”
“Miss Bianca—that is, Mrs. St. James—never went in for much lace, and when she does wear it, she takes care. Nary a spot or a tear.” Jennie was fixing a cloak hem, ripped out from being stepped on.
“I don’t envy those ladies’ maids in London,” Kit replied. “So much lace and embroidery, and the kerchiefs made of gauze! My mother said they’re as delicate as spiderwebs, and just as simple to mend.”
“Is she in service, then? Your mum?”
“She was.” Kit threaded his needle anew and set about reattaching a button. “Now she tends my sister’s children, which I suppose is more than service.”
“Oh?” Jennie wiggled forward eagerly in her seat, and Kit felt an unwarranted bolt of pleasure. “What about your pa?”
“Purser on a trading ship.”
She drew back admiringly. “A world explorer! And I’ve never been out of Staffordshire.”
Kit grinned. “Where would you go?”
“Spain,” she said at once. “Or Italy. Or Turkey, to see the palaces, or America, to see the wilderness. Even Scotland!” She sighed. “Seeing Liverpool is probably the best I’ll ever do—if I even get that far.”
“What about London?” Mr. St. James had already told him they were going to town soon on business.
Jennie’s eyes grew luminous. “Wouldn’t that be lovely! What’s it like? You lived there, aye?”
“Aye.” He smiled back at her. Jennie’s wide-eyed enthusiasm for everything had thoroughly charmed him. “You’ll like it.”
She blinked. “But—no, I won’t be going. Mrs. St. James is attached to Perusia and her workshop. I’ll be right here, mending and ironing . . .”
Kit leaned closer. “I bet you sixpence he’ll find a way to persuade her to come, and then you’ll have to come, too,” he whispered.
“I shouldn’t wager.” She sat back, but her eyes still shone. “Sixpence?”
He waited hopefully.
She laughed. “Oh, you’re a wicked one, Mr. Lawrence, but I’ll take that bet. And hope I lose!”
“So will I,” he replied. If he had to spend a month in London, let Jennie be there, too.
As it happened, she did lose. With eyes like saucers she came down a few days later and told him. “I owe you sixpence.”
Kit stopped blacking the boot in his hand and grinned. “Knew you would.”
She flapped one hand at him with a fleeting smile. “Did you really know?”
He shrugged. “I guessed.”
She sat down next to him, her skirt flowing over his shoes. Kit tried not to twitch. “What will it be like?”
He leaned forward, and she responded in kind. She smelled softly of lavender water, which she sprinkled on the clothes before ironing them. He loved the way she
