Emilia froze at the top of the servants' stairs as Mopsy attempted to pull her down with a slight whining protest, likely smelling bacon.

"Yes, I know you want your breakfast," she hissed. "So do I. But we must be careful not to be seen." Of course, that would be very difficult, considering the clanks and noises from the kitchen were in full force.

Whether Mopsy understood or not, the dog sat on his haunches with a grumble. Evie had not come to collect him and, hence, wake Emilia. It was now nearly seven and Emilia might have slept even longer had she not been awakened by paws bouncing on her stomach, followed by sloppy kisses.

At least, this time, she wasn't rushing about in her nightdress and bare feet. She'd been sure to don slippers and a dressing gown so Prudence Crewe wouldn't have the reputation of a wild girl who roamed about her hosts' houses half-dressed — not that Prudence herself would care. She'd likely enjoy being considered so free-wheeling and eccentric, but Emilia certainly didn't want to help her further... distinguish herself.

Now she had only to work out why she had Mopsy. If she said she found him roaming about upstairs, then he'd be considered a very bad boy for escaping the kitchens, which he was meant to be protecting from rats. Then again, what if he was up there chasing one? Yes! A very big rat, which he had chased with such fervor that it would never be seen again. She was just thinking of how to describe his heroics as she descended the stairs when she heard a voice she'd not expected, at least not in the kitchens.

It was Mr. Byrne. She wasn't quite sure how ready she was to see him after last night's events. But he didn't seem to be concerned about that. He seemed to be quite heated about last night's supper.

"...and I think you should give me some sort of warning," he was saying, "before you torture me, and the other guests, with those disgusting mounds of—"

"I didn't hear no peep out o' no one else but you." That was the cook now, Mrs. Doyle. Having heard her only once was enough to know. All cooks were loud, but Emilia had never heard such a big voice come out of such a small woman. "Sir Anthony gave his compliments, on those in particular, I'll have you know."

"Hang Sir Anthony," Mr. Byrne growled. "He'll eat anything you put on his plate."

"Because he knows what's good for 'im. It won't hurt you none to eat your vegetables."

"I eat plenty of vege—"

"Them's what's in season and I ain't caterin' to your whims when I got ten guests who got no complaint. Brussels sprouts are an acquired taste and you got to eat 'em to acquire it."

"Well, I don't want to acquire it," Mr. Byrne was saying, sounding a bit more like a petulant boy than a grown man. Emilia held in a laugh.

"Shall I just slap a plate of plain eggs and toast on your plate for every meal? Would that make you happy? Hard-headed, Southern Irish. Don't eat nothin' unless it's bland as—"

"I eat many things and I'd rather be hard-headed alone, than domineering to boot, like you Northern Irish! I've a good mind to fire you for your insolence."

"And I've a good mind to quit because of yours!"

"Very well. Out on the street with you!"

Emilia's laugh died immediately. She found herself rushing down the rest of the stairs. "How dare you speak to Sir Anthony's servants in such a manner!"

Mr. Byrne turned to her, looking red-eyed and worse for wear, but that was no excuse for such behavior. She wouldn't stand for a guest berating servants in her presence, not when — as Miss Crewe — she had some power to stop such abuses.

"These are... are Sir Anthony's staff," she said, addressing Mr. Byrne, faltering a bit when his surprise had turned into a sort of... smile. "I doubt you have the right to toss his cook into the hedgerow over some... some disagreement on the menu," she finished hotly, now feeling strange about her outburst.

That was because the entire kitchen had frozen at the sight of her, all stopping in their duties. Even Mr. Fletcher stilled, a hanger dropping from his hands.

Mrs. Doyle seemed to recover first, sighing loudly. "Ah, Miss. You won't believe what I suffer. He scolds me somethin' awful."

"That is outrageous," Emilia scoffed.

"Oh, and there's more. I've been given the sack time and again," the cook lamented. "It's a wonder I don't take it, one of these days..."

Emilia scowled at Mr. Byrne, who had the nerve to smirk now. "Does Sir Anthony know his guests are abusing his staff in such a beastly—"

"He berates me for my weight, too. Tells me I'm too skinny to be trusted to cook a meal someone might like to eat. It's time somebody told him what's what."

There were snorts... then stifled laughter from the frozen staff.

"See?" Mrs. Doyle lifted her chin, tossing an elbow toward Mr. Byrne. "I got m'self a defender, here. You won't be abusin' me no more, not while Miss Crewe's about. I thank ye, Miss."

"I suppose I've learned my lesson," Mr. Byrne said, now approaching Emilia, still with that stupid smirk.

Emilia glanced down. "And I suppose that was all a bit of a... game with her?"

"Not at all. I've tried to dismiss Mrs. Doyle for years now," Mr. Byrne called over his shoulder. "She just never leaves."

"Nor will I," Mrs. Doyle called out. "Someone's got to make certain you eat more than bland sandwiches and potatoes all the day. Damn Southern Irish," she grumbled.

The rest of the servants seemed to return to their duties, though still throwing glances toward the pair, some still giggling over Mr. Byrne and Mrs. Doyle's little show. "You obviously spend an awful lot of time with Sir Anthony's staff," Emilia said, glancing around sheepishly.

"You could say that," he said slowly, hedging her toward the stairs.

Emilia lifted her chin. "You are still awfully free with them, in my opinion," she said weakly. It wasn't as if she had a leg to stand on. Miss Crewe — the real one, that is — was awfully free about bickering with her and vice versa. But Miss Crewe was her mistress. Then again, Mr Byrne, as a guest — perhaps a favorite guest — felt more free to joke with Sir Anthony's staff. Yet it still seemed strange...

Mr. Byrne laughed. "Well, that's a bit better than being accused of abusing them in a beastly manner."

"I apologize. I was mistaken."

"No need to apologize." He leaned one hand on the railing as she hit the bottom step. "Or perhaps there is. Now that we've cleared that up, what of your transgressions?" He glanced downward.

"I just said I was mistaken. No need to tease..." She trailed off, realizing he was staring at Mopsy. "Oh."

"Where was he all night?"

"It's... it's a funny story. I found him guarding the... chasing a..." Drat it! What had her story been? He was leaning awfully close and she couldn't quite remember Mopsy's imagined heroics. "He was with me," she finally admitted.

Mr. Byrne nodded. "Just as I suspected."

"No, you see... it's not like..."

"Isn't he supposed to be guarding the kitchens at night?"

"But he can guard more than the kitchens! He can guard the whole house. He is very vigilant. And fierce. Mopsy! Protect me!"

Mopsy, the silly thing, just looked up at her, letting out a little whine and a string of drool, before staring hard at the bowl of meat scraps near his nest of blankets.

"Yes, he's coming along remarkably," Mr. Byrne drawled.

"It's only because he's hungry. Were I truly frightened, he would be at attention and growling at the potential threat. Anyhow, I feel much safer with him in my bed. Truly!"

Byrne didn't say much to that, just backed away slightly, mumbling something that sounded a bit like "...jealous of a dog," though Emilia was sure she must be mistaken.

"Anyhow," she went on, "I'd wager Sir Anthony wouldn't mind."

Mr. Byrne backed away further, muttering, "I'd imagine not."

Evie came in then, gasping. "Oh, Miss Crewe! I'm so very sorry. You see, I had so much else to do and the time got clean away from me before—"

"Don't be sorry, Evie," Emilia assured her. "I know you have more than enough on your plate. I simply found Mopsy upstairs, guarding the house," she added loudly for the benefit of those in the kitchen. She remembered the argument from yesterday morning among the staff and wanted to leave Mopsy's naysayers in no doubt that he was attending to his duties as well.

Mopsy greeted Evie enthusiastically when she took his lead, though Evie still seemed a bit leery with him, especially when he fairly yanked her to the little feast laid out for him. "Still, I should have been more mindful." She tied his lead to a table leg before straightening breathlessly. "It won't happen again, if our deal is still—"

"Think no more of it," Emilia broke in quickly, with a glance sideways at Mr. Byrne.

"Oh!" Evie covered her mouth, leaning into Emilia. "Yes. Mum's the word, o' course."

"What's mum about the word?" Mr. Byrne asked, ruining her hopes he hadn't heard that last. Of course he did. There was no such thing as whispering in a noisy kitchen. It was why cooks were so notoriously loud, after all.

"You know, that's only a little nothing."

"Still, I should like to know... for Sir Anthony, of course," he added.

"Oh, Miss Crewe!" a familiar voice called out.

"Yes?" She gratefully turned away from Mr. Byrne's interrogation to the real Miss Crewe. "Ah, Miss Finch!" she called out, perhaps too loudly.

Miss "Finch" stepped back slightly, then cleared her throat. "I'm sorry, Miss. Had you rang?"

"Not as if she'd pay attention to it anyway," Mr. Fletcher muttered under his breath as he passed with his freshly pressed shirts.

"You know, I had thought to ring for you," Emilia said, ignoring the older man's dig, except to reflect that Miss Prudence was mucking up her reputation but good, "but since I was bringing Mopsy back, I thought we might discuss the laundry in more..." She let the rest fall off as she dragged Miss Prudence aside. "Thank you for that."

"For what?"

"Never mind. But we really should discuss the laundry." That tangle of muddy stockings and clean dresses last night had given her actual nightmares. "I was thinking tonight, after all are abed, you and I sneak down and—"

"Oh, let's not think about that now. There are far more interesting things afoot."

She should have known Miss Prudence wouldn't care a fig for laundry. "Like what?"

"Like this strange situation with Mr. Byrne," Miss Prudence, said nodding in his direction before pulling Emilia into the servants' hall and away from the noise.

Emilia paled. "Mr. Byrne and I have no... We were simply talking just now. There's no—"

"Come now," Miss Prudence hissed as she closed the door. "You know as well as I that it is odd, to say the least."

Oh, God! Had someone seen them last night? How much did Miss Prudence know and how quickly could Emilia throw her off the scent... which didn't exist? He simply kissed her and proposed and there was nothing more to it and nothing would come of it, so speaking of it had no purpose. Yet would she be seen as leading him on? "Odd is... is certainly a good word for it, because I certainly did not... did not encourage..."

"I'm not expecting you to have noticed," Prudence said dismissively. "You don't spend much time around the servants. And I doubt you and Mr. Byrne have said more than a handful of words to each other."

"Just so," Emilia lied, relieved, yet also wondering what the devil Prudence was talking of.

"But I've told you how it seems strange, the way the servants defer to him and seem to look to him, even over Sir Anthony."

"That is strange, I'll grant you." Emilia herself thought his combative game with the cook was a bit odd, as much as she explained it away as him being a favored guest.

"I think it warrants investigation," Miss Prudence said, sounding so much like Charity, Emilia felt afraid of what she might do.

"Miss Prudence, this has nothing to do with us. I beg you not to interfere with—"

There was a knock on the door then. Emilia started to open it before Miss Prudence batted her arm away. "I'm the servant. Remember? Do you want to ruin everything?"

Emilia wanted to protest that her opening a door was not likely to give away their ruse, but since it was Mr. Byrne on the other side of it, she kept mum.

"Mr. Byrne." Prudence dropped an exaggerated curtsy. "I was just discussin' urgent laundry matters with Em... with Miss Crewe," she hastily corrected.

Now who was ruining everything? "Yes. And breakfast," Emilia added. "I shall take mine in the dining room."

Miss Prudence dropped an overly deep curtsy. "Yes, Miss."

Emilia resisted a roll of her eyes.

"I apologize, but if these matters can wait, I have things to discuss with Miss Crewe as well," Mr. Byrne held out an arm, "while I escort her safely back upstairs, of course."

Prudence sighed and held the door wider. "I shall keep you abreast, Miss."

Emilia nodded as she passed. "Yes, thank you." She could only hope Prudence, unlike her younger sister, would be a bit more discreet and possibly not put her very life in danger. Ian had, on the couple's last visit to Crewe House, showed Emilia a shock of grey hair that he attributed entirely to Charity's investigative antics. But Emilia didn't think there were many dangers present here... apart from Mary Hartley, of course.

She glanced at Mr. Byrne as she took his arm, thinking he might also be one of the dangers present... if only to her.

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

Byrne hadn't been sure how to take Miss Crewe's sudden descent upon the kitchen — in a fit of righteous fury, no less — except with a strange sort of delight. It was a bit like the mix of luck, of justice, of fate or whatever the hell one might call it that had governed his life since leaving Ireland. He had always trusted his gut and gone where it led.

Despite all the reasons she did not fit his plans, his gut, luck, fate or whatever — God, he hoped it was more than just his own desire — was leading him to this strange woman, despite all the reasons she did not suit his purpose. So seeing her this morning, yelling at him in outrage, even with his head aching from drink (many thanks to Tony) after waking on a sofa in the library with his legs half-off the thing and a blanket (also thanks to Tony) half-off him, he'd been strangely thrilled at her appearance.

Yet he'd had to remind himself that Tony had a sort of claim to her that he did not. Tony had expressed his interest from the start and, though his memories last night were hazy, Tony's reasons for wishing to marry her above the others were sound.

I will give her an honest offer. No false promises later broken, no passion that turns to bitterness and acrimony.

He remembered that and more. Tony's pursuit of Miss Crewe was not the half-baked notion that Byrne had imagined it to be. He'd probably given it much more thought than Byrne had, damn it all! 

All Byrne knew was that he wanted her. He'd not given much thought to why... except perhaps that he wanted her back in his sight the minute she left it, and that she made him laugh when nearly nothing else did, and that her hand on his arm just now felt like it belonged there...

None of that was the basis for a marriage. That was all infatuation, at best. He was far too reasonable and successful a man to go into something like marriage just because it felt so damned... right. And she was far too full of secrets to be a proper wife, anyhow, as he reminded himself before asking, as they climbed the stairs...

"So how does Evie fit into all this?"

She started a bit beside him. "Who?"

"Evie, the maid," he reminded her.

"The scullery maid," she said, her tone a bit harsh.

"Is there something wrong with the position of scullery maid?" he asked, genuinely curious at her bitter sort of emphasis on the word.

"Nothing in and of itself. It's a place to start from. But hard to rise from," she finished softly, almost as if it was to herself.

"Is that your deal with her? To help her rise from it?"

She started beside him again. "No. My deal had nothing to do with her employment here and... and nothing about it was meant to distract her from it." She sighed. "If you must know, I simply offered to pay her to bring me Mopsy at night and take him in the morning." She shook her head. "But perhaps I was mistaken. She has far too much work to do to make time for such things."

He frowned. "I've never heard her complain of overwork."

Miss Crewe laughed. "Well, of course she won't complain. She wants to learn and rise up the ranks, as any good maid would wish. But it still stands that scullery maids have far too much to do and, money or not, I shouldn't have added to her burden. I likely shouldn't be burdening you with this. She is Sir Anthony's—"

"Is she over-taxing herself?" Byrne frowned. Evie was a bit younger than the others he'd hired. He'd actually thought of turning her away to play with dolls, or whatever young girls did with themselves, but she'd seemed so eager for the work. "This business with tending to Lady Adele must be more than she can—"

"Oh, no!" Miss Crewe pulled him to a stop at the top of the stairs. "I was speaking without thinking. You see, she wishes to learn, to be more than she is and she deserves it," she said urgently. "Don't we all?"

Byrne stared down at her, surprised by her sudden passion. "I suppose so, if one wishes."

"Please forget I said anything. I shouldn't like her prospects for advancement ruined because of me just... just musing."

"Very well, I won't say a word to her." Though he had noticed the girl yawning a bit more than before, lately. She was a keen worker, and never complained, but still... "But I will keep an eye on the situation."

"Please don't tell Sir Anthony. It's his home, after all," Miss Crewe finished. "She only wishes to learn new skills and better herself. She should have the opportunity to advance if she wishes, from the lowest position in the home."

He'd never thought much about what a scullery maid did. Was it truly the lowest position? When he'd been hiring his staff, he mostly deferred to Higgins or Stern on what was needed and conducted interviews accordingly, perhaps giving a bit of preference to the Irish, since they met mostly rejection everywhere else. Evie, in particular, had impressed him as an eager young girl, confident she could do anything asked of her.

"Aye, she should." He patted Miss Crewe's hand on his arm, which seemed to comfort her. "I would not keep her from it." They walked down toward the main hall in companionable silence a moment. He nearly didn't wish to break it, but couldn't help asking, "How do you know so much about the lot of servants?"

"I... I... I suppose anyone would, who takes an active role in their home. I dare say I know more about the struggles of a servant than most young ladies," she finished softly.

"Yes. Tony said Mrs. Baddeley was extolling your virtues as one who helps about the house." He stilled her, taking the hand under his, noting again the calluses on her fingers. "You must help an awful lot."

She pulled at her hand, but not very firmly, he noted. "Stop that. You shouldn't be... doing that."

"I shouldn't be doing a lot of things I wish to do," he said, leaning toward her, her hand still in his, as she backed away, only to be stopped by the wall. She stared up into his eyes now, her own eyes going to half-mast, as if staring at his lips. Yet his own stared at her hands, taking both in his again, turning them over, running his fingers over the hardened spots. "You work harder than you wish people to know. Such calluses can't be from only wielding pencils and paintbrushes. Such things grow from work, more work than a lady of your position should do."

Her only reply was a shaky breath.

He'd previously theorized that she was poorer than she let on. Why else would she be sent here, among the dregs of society such as he? Yes, she had a dowry, but that might only help her upon marrying. Her family must be struggling here and now. She'd be much better served by marrying a man who might help her situation, and her family's. Tony would be no help in that.

Damn it!

Hadn't he just told himself, last night, that he would allow Tony to put forth his proposal? He'd had a fair amount to drink, but not enough to forget that resolution, damn it again!

He drew back, dropping her hand. "Perhaps you should bring the matter of Evie to Sir Anthony himself, when he takes you on his tour of the house," he finished, hoping he didn't sound as bitter about it as he felt. "I'm sure he'll be gratified you take such an eager interest in his household."

"Whatever do you mean by that?" she asked, staring at her own hand now.

He shrugged. "You know very well what his intentions are."

"Whatever his intentions are, I have no intentions toward him."

"Yet you refused me last night," he said eagerly, staring at her closely. "Perhaps it is because your heart is spoken for?"

"Don't be ridiculous," she scoffed, glancing away, anywhere but at his eyes. "Your proposal was not in earnest."

Blast it all, she didn't answer his question. "I assure you, it was. I am an honorable man who put forth an honorable offer to rectify—"

"It was a kiss. It meant very little. It... it needs no rectification."

He felt a bit miffed at the idea that it meant "very little," yet she was staring at his lips again. "You said it was your first kiss, in a dusty closet. Surely such an insult begs to be rectified." Perhaps with another kiss — a better kiss, one where he could take his time and explore her generous lips the way they deserved. He leaned forward. Her eyes widened a bit, then nearly fluttered closed. He could kiss her again. And she'd let him. But he didn't. "If your love for Tony has led you to—"

"I have no love for Tony," she said loudly, shoving at his chest. "Er, Sir Anthony, I mean."

He smiled, then. He couldn't help it. "I'm certainly relieved to have that confirmed."

"N-nor for any man," she added quickly. "As I tried to tell you before, I... I do not wish to marry. At all."

He was still relieved. Between her protests last night and Tony's surprisingly reasonable reasons for proposing to her, he'd held some fear Tony might be successful in his suit. "Then why are you here? You must know what these parties are for."

"Because I had very little choice," she said hotly. "I've avoided Sir Anthony at every turn. I am doing my best. Do you think this is easy? I never thought this would be my lot. I don't want this! But... sometimes we... we are given very little choice in our comings and goings."

His smile dropped. So she'd been pressed to be here, possibly by her family. "If you are truly here against your will—"

"No," she finally said, her voice steady. "I chose this. And I had my reasons." She met his eyes then. "But I do not intend to leave this place engaged. Not to anyone."

"At least not to Tony," he prodded, leaning in again.

"To anyone," she repeated... but weakly, staring at his lips

"Yes, I heard that part. But I'm not discouraged." He leaned in further. Not just because of his relief, but because the pull between them, the one that had intensified in the closet last night, was still there, and still strong. She felt it, too. She must.

And he couldn't do anything about it — damn it all! — not until Tony had put forth his proposal. "You should not keep him waiting any longer," he whispered, before drawing away. "I say this as his friend. If you intend to refuse him, you'd best do it sooner rather than later."

She stiffened, her eyes wide again. "I will."

"You'd best do it today, then. Our discussion can be left for after."

She shook her head. "There is no discussion that we—"

"Oh, there is." He put a finger under her chin, tipping it up. "I wouldn't keep avoiding Tony if I were you. At least let him say his piece so it's done. He's a good man. He will not be difficult about it. You can come find me later."

"Why?" She swallowed hard and visibly. "There is no reason to—"

He took her hand again, lifting it and turning it to press his lips to her inner wrist. "Find me later," he repeated before leaving her, smiling as he walked away.

Whatever Miss Crewe claimed about her indifference to him... well, to any man, but including him, the moment that had just passed between them, and many more before that, showed there was room for negotiation.

He did enjoy a challenging negotiation.

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

Emilia stared after Mr. Byrne as he sauntered off, actually whistling as he started up the stairs, the lout. She couldn't help feeling hoodwinked, yet she was not sure if he'd done it her or if she'd done it to herself. For just a moment, she'd thought he'd meant to rectify her dusty closet kiss with a better one, perhaps in a sunlit hall on a quiet morning.

He'd leaned toward her, his eyes half-closed and then... nothing except a kiss on her wrist, which despite the shivers it induced, was not what she expected. And then... then he'd told her to entertain Sir Anthony's proposal rather than his! And this was after he claimed his proposal was in earnest and perfectly honorable. If you asked her, a man who truly wanted to propose wouldn't let another in first and...

God, what was she even thinking?

She was not Prudence Crewe! No proposals presented to her were in earnest at all because nothing could come of them! This entire situation was ridiculous and she should no longer be party to it.

Yet that didn't change the fact that she would be receiving another proposal... and today, if she couldn't successfully avoid it. Mr. Byrne was right about one thing. There was no use putting off Sir Anthony's proposal — nor his imminent refusal — any longer. Yet why should it be upon her to...

"Ah! There you are! I was hoping someone might help me."

She turned to find Miss Prudence, struggling with a tray. She looked about to see no one was watching, then rushed forward to take it.

Miss Prudence gave it up easily, shaking out her wrists, not even glancing about, the careless girl. Emilia was starting to think she cared more about this ruse than Miss Prudence did... not that she truly did. She wanted it to be over. Didn't she?

"I don't know how you carry these things up and down stairs all the day without spilling everything," Prudence was saying. "I'm certain I would be covered in stains if I did your job."

Emilia snorted. "You're usually covered in stains no matter what."

"It would be ever so nice if you let some of the opportunities to criticize me pass you by," Prudence huffed, taking the tray again. "Anyhow, this is for you. I ordered you a hot cup of chocolate and biscuits."

"I'm sorry. That is quite thoughtful of you," Emilia said, feeling a bit guilty, deciding not to point out that Prudence was once again using the main stairs rather than the servants' stairs. "But didn't I say I'd be taking breakfast in the dining room?"

"Yes, but we can't talk there, so I hope this suffices for now." The tray rattled a bit. "I confess, it was mostly to find something to do. Between Mrs. Stern and Mr. Fletcher, I've had my fill of being lectured upon my failings today. It's getting harder and harder to look busy. I needed to find something they can see me doing, so the sooner you teach me the mysteries of laundry, the better."

"Or," Emilia began hesitantly, "the sooner we end this, the better."

Prudence stilled, the tray jangling again. "What? But it's just getting interesting for me! This strangeness with Mr. Byrne is—"

"Forget Mr. Byrne." As if she could. "Sir Anthony is very likely to propose to me today — and by me, I mean you."

"Is that all?" Prudence scoffed. "I refuse and give you leave to refuse him in my stead. Refusal by proxy." She nodded as they walked on. "There are marriages by proxy, so why can't proposals work the same?"

"Because he is proposing without truly knowing who he is proposing to."

"There are far more interesting things afoot." Prudence leaned in a little. "And they involve Mr. Byrne."

"Like what?" Emilia also leaned in.

"Let's discuss this over biscuits. If I don't put this thing down soon—"

"Ah, how lovely! I see you two have anticipated my needs."

Prudence and Emilia gave each other an exhausted look before turning to Mary, leaning against her door.

"Sorry, Mary," Prudence said with a very false smile. "This one isn't for you. But I can go fetch your sad sliver of toast and two raspberries in a cup if you wait."

"No need for that." Mary sauntered forward, plucking a sugar biscuit from the plate. "I've decided I might have something more substantial today."

"Breakfast will be served in the dining room soon enough," Prudence tried.

"I'd rather talk to the pair of you. We must formulate our plans for today. Our little ruse needs maintaining, after all." Mary said before opening the door of Emilia's current bedchamber. Perhaps it wouldn't be so for long. As much as she wanted to hear what "interesting things" Prudence had discovered, she also knew this had to end before Mary somehow ruined it all. She wasn't quite sure how she would do it, only that it felt inevitable. Our little ruse, indeed!

Still, they all filed into the room, as if they were just three girls eager to gossip, though silence reined as Emilia closed the door and Prudence set down the tray. She set to work helping Emilia undress, also silently.

"Well?" Mary prodded.

"Well... what?" Emilia asked reluctantly, not relishing the thought of being in her underthings in front of Mary. It didn't last long before Pru helped her into her stays.

"You two seemed awfully talkative before," Mary prodded again. "Did I hear something about Mr. Byrne?"

"Er... yes," Prudence said. Nothing Prudence nor Emilia had to say could be said with Mary Hartley about, so Emilia wondered how she might play this. "Mr. Byrne had visited the kitchens this morning. We were simply discussing how... odd that was, but it was nothing too strange. It seemed he had some complaints about last night's supper."

Emilia, through several seconds of silence, in which Prudence helped her into a blue muslin dress, wondered if that would suffice for Mary. Really, that was all Emilia knew of Mr. Byrne's kitchen adventures, but she suspected Prudence knew more.

"How could he not?" Mary preened. "I myself noticed how disorganized things were. Dishes being passed about like a free-for-all, and the seating was entirely wrong. This staff here is obviously slipshod."

Emilia felt strangely offended on the staff's behalf, but Prudence got there first.

"Mrs. Baddeley, the hostess, is ill," Prudence said. "I'm sure Sir Anthony did the best he could in directing the staff, who can only do as they are bid."

"Oh, I mean no offense to Sir Anthony," Mary cooed. Emilia noticed the staff weren't excluded as well. "But Mr. Byrne is a man of higher standards, obviously." Mary smiled. "He shall certainly require a hostess for himself that maintains such standards. "

Prudence rolled her eyes. "Poor Mr. Byrne," she muttered, then seemed to correct herself. "It must be hard, having such high standards in a world without them," she finished, taking a sketching pad she'd left on Emilia's night table before sitting on the bed, tossing Emilia a wry glance.

"Yes, it must indeed," Mary said, pouring herself a cup of chocolate and taking yet another biscuit before taking the dressing table chair Emilia wanted to sit in to put on her last clean pair of stockings.

Emilia sat on the bed to finish dressing, wondering what Mary would have thought, overhearing this morning's events. Mr. Byrne didn't seem like a man of high standards at all. Even during his argument with Mrs. Doyle, it had soon seemed obvious he was more annoyed than angry. He would never have tossed her out and she made it obvious that she'd never be tossed. And it was almost endearing, the way he'd seemed concerned about Evie over-exerting herself, as if he truly cared for...

"Why are you forever scratching at that thing?" Mary was now chiding Prudence, getting up. "It's very unladylike to overindulge in one's hobbies."

"But I am not pretty and talented at more ladylike things like you, Mary," Prudence said easily. "This is all I have, wretched, unattractive thing that I am."

"Why must you always turn everything I say into some sort of joke?" Mary huffed. "I simply asked a question."

"Well, if you truly want to know what I'm scratching at, I'm just refining a sketch in my servant life series."

Mary laughed, then. "Who would want to see that?"

Emilia held in an offended scoff as she took the seat Mary had vacated and started dressing her hair. Yes, she might have said the very same thing last night, but it was one thing for her to dismiss her ilk and quite another for Mary Hartley to do it.

Prudence only laughed and replied blandly, "The masses, perhaps. They might like to see it — in some far flung future when all the servants throw off their yokes and the rich are meant to do for themselves."

Emilia had to laugh, herself, then. "That will never happen."

"Perhaps not," Prudence chuckled. "We of the supposed upper echelon will likely always be helpless without someone to do practically everything for us."

Mary seemed to take exception to that. "Really, Prudence. You make us sound like simpletons when it's really that the opposite is true. Servants are born from simple stock, while our birth grants us with superior reasoning and the supreme duty to provide work for those less—"

"Supreme laziness, you mean. I'm not even doing half the work Emilia does in this charade and I'm exhausted at the end of every day." She met Emilia's eyes. "Servants are born from stronger stock. It's we who are the weaker."

"You make it sound as if they are superior to us," Mary sniffed.

"I rather think they are. I doubt you or I could do what even the highest servant does in a day."

Mary stood. "That signifies nothing. As nobility, our constitutions are suited to more delicate—"

"Not that I care a straw for such distinctions," Prudence cut in, meeting Mary's scowl, "but wouldn't it be gentry for you? You have no noble connections that I know of."

Mary moved to the door without another word, though she did take several more biscuits, then put herself on the other side of it with a slam... for which Emilia was a little bit grateful, but still...

"Must you antagonize her so?" she asked, tossing Prudence an annoyed, yet amused, glance.

"At least it got rid of her." Prudence threw herself back on the bed, grinning. "It's really hard to help, and so damned easy!"

"Pru! Such language!"

Prudence only smiled.

"What are you smiling about?" Emilia demanded.

"You called me Pru. I always hoped you'd—"

They both turned silent and still at a knock on the door, staring at each other. It couldn't be Mary. She'd wouldn't have knocked.

There was another knock, then a voice, "Pardon me, but I'm looking... for Miss Finch?"

Emilia turned to Prudence. "That's you... for now." They still hadn't got into Sir Anthony's impending proposal and why this needed to end, nor whatever it was about Mr. Byrne that was so interesting to Prudence, but it seemed Miss Poole had requested to speak to Miss Finch, something which her maid, Dora, seemed a little put out about.

Emilia did try to waylay Prudence as she left. "But what if Sir Anthony—"

"Do what I would do," she hissed as she followed the other maid. "I give you my permission."

And that, it seemed, was that.

Emilia stared at her tray. She was quite hungry, but Mary had drank all the chocolate and there was just one broken lonely biscuit left. She considered going down to breakfast, but what if she met Sir Anthony? Despite Prudence's tacit permission, and even Mr. Byrne's insistence that she let him propose, she didn't want to reject a man who was actually not proposing to her.

Yet, as she stepped out of her room, it seemed unavoidable.

There he was, waiting at the end of the hall.

She sighed. There was no avoiding it now.

"Why, Miss Crewe!" Sir Anthony smiled. "I was just—"

"I was just going down to breakfast," she said over him.

He held out his arm. "Allow me to escort you."

She girded herself and took it. "Lead the way."

"Speaking of that, I think our tour of the house is long overd—"

"I don't like to talk much before I've eaten," she broke in, hoping the length of a meal might be enough time for her to decide how to play the hand she'd been dealt.

"A lady after my own heart," he said, not fazed.

She could only give him a weak smile before turning away. She wished she was more like Miss Prudence at the moment. She'd probably have some clever, ruthless set-down to discourage him. Emilia had no such cleverness, nor such ruthlessness. He had been nothing but kind to her. Perhaps breakfast would fortify her enough to formulate the kindest possible proposal refusal.

Did such a thing exist?

TBC