Byrne was glad he'd not had much to drink last night, or the cacophony in the kitchen would surely drive him mad.

"Can we please quiet down?" he tried.

That didn't work.

It was a shame Mrs. Stern was still observing the Sabbath. She had a foolproof method of whistling between her fingers so loudly that any who heard it would grasp their ears and immediately cease talking. She also had a way of keeping everyone in order so that these meetings were not pure chaos.

Today, everyone seemed to have a complaint. Fletcher was still concerned about this "supposed village laundress" possibly encroaching on his territory. Mrs. Dudley, the supposed laundress herself, claimed she "ain't even touched his precious starched cloths and has no aim to."

The upstairs maids, with some shy support from Evie, claimed he was "ruinin' a good thing for all of us."

The footmen were arguing over Tony changing up the way dinner was served.

"It's too confusing," Sean said.

"I like it," young Declan said. "Keeps things interestin' for me. And Mr. Higgins didn't mind none."

"Mr. Higgins don't mind nothin' but his reflection in the mirror since Miss Crewe's maid drew him."

Higgins stopped studying himself in the warped mirror at the base of the stairs at that. "Pardon? I was not derelict in my duties at all. And I thought I made a very fine Roman soldier."

Sean crossed his arms. "At least I don't go in for none of that silliness."

Byrne found his mind drifting at the mention of Miss Crewe, even if it was truly about her maid. Apparently, half the house had been distracted by her fanciful drawings of them as mythical creatures or some other nonsense. He had heard several protests, mostly from Fletcher obviously. And while he expected Mrs. Stern to be as vehement in her complaints, once she rejoined them this evening, he didn't see much harm in it.

Or maybe he had a certain bias. If such silly endeavors made her maid comfortable among his staff, perhaps that was for the better. If things went as they should — as they would, he reminded himself — this Miss Finch would be making a life for herself in his household.

Last night's endeavors had been promising, not from anything Miss Crewe said. He'd learned enough about Miss Crewe by now to know that she said more with what she didn't say. And that wasn't only within her glances and her movements. No. There was the fact that she had yet to actually...

"I personally feel that we have yet to arrive upon an agreement upon this beast," Fletcher said, pointing disdainfully at Mopsy, who was laying in his pile of blankets, gnawing on one of little Ruthie's dolls.

Byrne was a bit annoyed at his ruminations being interrupted, but he did have a task this morning, so he'd best get to it.

"He ain't no beast," Mrs. Doyle protested. "He's a very good boy, he is. He chased off a fox this morning, who'd been aiming for the chicken coop."

"It was a cat," Sean groaned.

"So what if it was," Kitty scoffed. "It was after the chickens, wasn't it? He's a credit to this house, he is."

"This house ain't even our house," Timothy, the gardener, groaned. "And he's chewed up the handle on me best trowel."

"Enough!" Byrne yelled, glancing toward the staircase and the servants' quarters. He wasn't sure where Miss Finch or Dora, that maid of Miss Poole's, were, but he was just glad they weren't here to see the true chaos lurking below stairs, and that none of it belonged to Sir Anthony.

Everyone silenced themselves, thankfully.

"I did not call this meeting," Byrne went on, "to hear a litany of complaints. I called it to introduce you all to the newest member of our staff." He gestured to the skinny boy, perhaps of ten or eleven, shrunk up in the corner. "This is Kenneth. He comes highly recommended from Mrs. Dudley, our new laundress," he turned to Fletcher here, "who will be keeping herself to the work that is given to her and will not touch my clothing unless asked."

"One can never be too careful," Fletcher sniffed.

Byrne wasn't sure if he'd call it a high recommendation, but the woman had said that, if he was in need of another hand, there was a boy who helped at the village inn for only scraps and a bed in the stables and it was a "cryin' shame" He'd never consider himself soft-hearted, particularly not these days, but he could never abide leaving someone to a bad situation when he could better it — and benefit himself at the same time. Almost every single person in his employ was a stray of some sort, not wanted elsewhere, some with petty crimes in their past, some only guilty of the crime of being Irish.

Kenneth was not Irish, but he'd not hold it against the boy. "Kenneth has been considering joining our household," Byrne went on, "but I shouldn't wonder that, after hearing all this, he might run far away."

Evie stood, giving the boy a kind smile. "He's been a great help to me so far," she said. "It was so nice to have the fires done."

Kenneth lifted his chin at that. "I been doin' fires since I were seven. I can clean a chimney, too."

Byrne lifted his hand. "See, I wouldn't go about volunteering that kind of thing, Kenneth, or you'll end up like Evie here."

Evie paled and sat back down. "I didn't say nothin' at all," she muttered.

"You see, it has come to my attention that Evie," Byrne said, "though she hasn't complained," he added at her look of protest, "has been given more work than is fair."

"Well, she is the scullery maid," Sean put in, finishing on a mumble of, "lowest position," when Byrne turned to him.

"I don't want anyone in my employ to struggle to make do. I am not running that kind of house," he said firmly. "So... if Kenneth has not been scared off by you lot, then I welcome him to stay."

Mrs. Doyle approached the boy. "I welcome him, too. Though I would like to fatten the wee thing up." She put an arm around him and pulled him to the table. "Have you had a proper breakfast... ever? Come now..."

The boy's eyes grew wide as she piled a plate with eggs and sausages.

Byrne suspected Kenneth's hesitancy was now gone. His gaze was drawn to the window beyond the boy as he tucked in o his breakfast. There was a flash... or blur that had him unable to look away for a moment.

"But what about Sir Anthony?" he heard. "Is he gonna keep changin' everythin' and havin' no plans and..."

Byrne tore his gaze from the window and turned to Sean. He was a good worker, but he was fastidious and little superior about being first footman. No wonder Fletcher thought him the most promising of the staff. "We need not worry about Sir Anthony's antics. I hear Mrs. Baddeley is on the mend and will be present to give supper — and all things — more structure."

"And the dog?" Fletcher asked, obviously not satisfied.

Byrne turned to his valet. "Sir Anthony has accepted the dog. The dog is a part of this house as long as we stay in it," he said with finality.

"And after?" Fletcher prodded, gesturing down.

"There is no after." Byrne stared down at Mopsy, who had sidled up to him by now, laying his chin upon his boot. "He will stay here when we depart." He had no use for the creature. However Miss Crewe, and even Mrs. Doyle, falsely touted his skills at scaring off vermin, Mopsy was obviously a silly thing with no work in him.

Yet Byrne found himself bending to scratch the useless thing's head before he left the kitchens.

******************

Emilia found herself with nowhere to be. As a guest of the party, her time was her own. The only question was what to do with it. Or where to hide.

She had approached the kitchens from the back, thinking she might collect the laundry to see that it had been done to her standards or, if that seemed too suspicious, collect Mopsy, but she saw that there was some kind of meeting happening. Upon seeing Mr. Byrne was leading it, she ducked under the window. She felt unequal to seeing him just yet. How was she to dissuade him when she... she didn't wish to... she didn't wish to even finish that sentence.

She'd ended up nearly crouch-walking away. It was not the only humiliating moment of her morning so far, as she had ducked behind a large potted plant while Miss Prudence came searching for her in the front hall before, once again, going up the main staircase. She couldn't go to her room as Emilia was certain Prudence would be there waiting... and with questions she was not prepared to answer.

So here she was, pacing the front hall, trying to work out what to do with herself, depending upon the next person who came across her path.

Was this what it was like, being a real lady? She didn't like the suspense at all. She'd love to go find some mending — even from Mary Hartley's pile — but if she ran into Prudence, then...

"Sir Anthony," Emilia burst out, spying him descending the stairs.

The man himself stilled in the middle, probably shocked at her exclaiming his name in the echoing front hall as if she were alerting him to a fire. He called out, "Good morning, Miss C—"

"Shh!" She put up her hands, glancing past him. Yes, she had meant to get his attention, but she didn't want anyone else's, particularly Prudence's. She gestured frantically toward herself, then put a finger to her lips.

Sir Anthony seemed amused, tiptoeing down the stairs with exaggerated movements before he met her at the bottom. "Why are we being so secretive?" he whispered loudly.

"So as not be be heard," she supplied with a hiss.

"Yes," he whispered back, grinning. "That is the general idea. But to what end?" He leaned forward. "Are we conspiring to get to the nutty buns before anyone else? If so, I support it entirely."

She sighed and shook her head. He was such a pleasant sort of man. It was a shame to take that playful grin away from him. She grasped his hand and pulled him toward the drawing room.

"Is breakfast in here? I hadn't thought—"

"No. And I am very sorry to delay your breakfast," she said sincerely. "But this cannot wait." Perhaps he would enjoy breakfast more after this bit of unpleasantness was done with. She hustled him in and closed the doors, noting a fleeting gasp as she did so.

Yet when she turned to him, he didn't look surprised, more... resigned.

He had seated himself on the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, as if waiting. "Go on, then. Best to do this sort of thing quickly and painlessly."

She stared at him. "You seem as if you already know what I wish to say."

"I am willing to be pleasantly surprised, of course," he said with a smile.

"You are a good man," she said, "and a kind one. And while your proposal is..." What was the word she had settled on? Not tempting. That might encourage him to try further. "While many girls might... Well..."

"But not you," he said, putting her out of her misery.

She wanted to say yes, but that would be a lie. He hadn't proposed to her, not truly. "There are," she began carefully, "many other young ladies," besides Miss Prudence Crewe, she added in her mind, "that will find the sort of marriage you offer to their liking. But when a young lady is determined not to marry, for many reasons involving... independence and... and property, then there is no proposal that will change her mind — not even one as nice as yours," she added, hoping that helped.

He tilted his head. "Would it entice you further if I put it in writing that I would ask very little of you."

"I'm sorry to say that will not change things," she sighed. "Sir Anthony—"

"Please, call me Tony," he cut in.

"I'm not sure that I should."

"I insist that all young ladies who reject my proposals do it using my given name," he said, standing and giving her a sad sort of smile.

She found herself laughing. "Have you given many then?"

"Just the one. As far as refusals go, this one isn't so bad. Though I will say you are picking a very cruel day to do it. My Aunt Dotty has declared we are all to play parlor games on the patio. Or should they be called patio games? Either way, it's further torture that—" He stopped at several noises, what sounded like a knock and an "oof!" He bent, narrowing his eyes.

Emilia also turned. The noises seemed to be coming from under the piano.

She barely had time to register seeing the lace edge of a dress before Sir Anthony strode across the room, reached under, and came up with Miss Marbury, looking quite red in the face. So that was what that gasp had been.

"I'm so sorry," the girl began, staring between them. "I was just—"

"Just eavesdropping?" Tony demanded, still holding on to her arm.

"I haven't dropped... or eaved... I didn't mean... Let go of me," she stammered, now looking flushed with anger.

He dropped her arm, though he stepped in front of her when she tried to leave. "So what were you doing in here? And why didn't you announce yourself when—"

"I came in here to practice," she said peevishly. "Mrs. Baddeley said I could do so whenever I wish and you also—"

"You leave Aunt Dotty out of this!"

Emilia said hesitantly, "I think perhaps I should... go."

"I didn't hear any music," Tony went on, not even noticing Emilia had spoken.

Neither had Miss Marbury, as she scoffed at him loudly. "I simply hadn't started yet. And you're a fine one to talk of Mrs. Baddeley when you call her kindly planned afternoon torture."

"She's my aunt," he said.

"Only by marriage," Miss Marbury said, poking his chest. "She's my cousin, my blood, and I think she is very sweet to host your party. I don't know how she puts up with your flippant—"

"I was only teasing. She wouldn't blink if I said it directly in front of—"

"I'm going," Emilia announced before putting herself on the other side of the door and closing it. As curious as she'd been about the acrimony between the pair of them, it didn't mean she wanted to be in the room with it.

She started away, rather grateful they had yet to notice her absence, their bickering fading as she crept to the stairs, though she still caught little bits...

"...and now we come to it! You're still holding onto your silly little grudge for something I said so long ago that I—"

"It was not that long ago!"

Emilia sighed, rather wishing Miss Marbury would direct some of this ire at Mary instead. That one deserved it much more than...

"Prudence," she gasped, spying her at the top of the stairs. Emilia ran for it before she caught sight of her... or so she hoped.