name?”
The redhead narrowed her eyes on him. She was wearing a bright blue dress with a bright white apron, black slippers, and her hair was caught up in a tight bun on the back of her head. She looked neat as a pin and angry as a hornet. “Ye didn’t answer me question.”
Her accent was working-class with a hint of Irish to it. Beau cleared his throat. He was clearly getting off to a bad start with this young woman. “My apologies.” He bowed. “I am Lord Copperpot’s valet.”
If it were possible, her blue eyes narrowed even further until they were brightly lit slits in her otherwise adorable face. “Yer no such thing. Mr. Broughton is milord’s valet.”
Beau straightened to his full height and folded his arms behind his back. He wanted to seem as non-threatening as possible in order to restore some peace between himself and the spirited maid. “You’re perfectly right, of course. I am merely serving as Lord Copperpot’s valet for the fortnight.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and arched a pale eyebrow. “And where is Mr. Broughton?”
Beau cleared his throat. “Taken ill from what I understand—quite unfortunate, poor chap.” His arms still folded behind his back, he rocked back and forth on his heels, feigning total innocence as to the affliction that temporarily had taken the dear Mr. Broughton from them.
“Ill from the bottle more like,” the redhead replied.
Beau had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing aloud at that astute observation. The reaction surprised him. He normally wouldn’t have to resort to such tactics to control himself.
“Perhaps,” he replied, once again trying to sound nonchalant. “I was not informed as to the nature of his complaint.” Lies, all of it, but this was the first time in weeks he’d enjoyed himself, verbally sparring with someone.
The maid still clearly didn’t trust him. Instead, she glared at him and tapped one slippered foot on the wood floor. He got the distinct impression that she might tackle him if he tried to leave the room. And he just might enjoy that, too.
She was clearly interested in protecting the Copperpots’ welfare. Good for her. He had been peering about the room. She had every reason not to trust him. Obviously, no one had seen fit to inform the female servants that Mr. Broughton had taken ill.
“Wot is yer name, please?” she finally asked, still tapping her slipper in a distrustful rhythm.
“What is yours?” he countered, still taking pleasure in the exchange.
She did not look amused. “Ye didn’t answer me question.”
Very well. There was no sense antagonizing her further. He might not be able to charm his way back into her good graces. “My name is Nicholas, Nicholas Baxter.”
She lifted her chin slightly, but her eyes remained filled with suspicion. “Baxter, eh?”
“Yes, and I’d be ever so grateful if you would tell me your name, please.” He smoothed one hand down his shirtfront and blinked at her expectantly.
“Why?” she asked, taking a step back, and continuing to eye him warily.
He watched her carefully. He was expert at sizing up people quickly. Everything about her told him she didn’t trust anything about him. He’d never met a more distrusting soul, and he’d been around spies for the better part of the last few years, for Christ’s sake.
He smiled and took a step back himself, wanting her to feel as comfortable as possible. “I told you my name, Miss. I think it’s only fair you return the favor.”
She kept eyeing him as if she expected to find his pockets sagging with the family silver, but she finally dropped her hands to her sides and said, “Me name is Marianne. Marianne Notley.”
“Nice to meet you.” He gave her a bright smile.
“That remains ta be seen,” she countered, eyes still narrowed.
Beau sighed. “I was attempting to be pleasant. Apparently, that’s a foreign concept to you.” He couldn’t help making the jab. Her blatant mistrust was beginning to bother him. He was used to charming and being charmed. Even by people who knew he was lying. It was how the game was played. This young lady obviously knew nothing about such intrigues.
Her arms remained tightly crossed over her chest. “His lordship doesn’t take kindly ta folks peeping about his bedchamber when he’s not here.”
“I wasn’t peeping,” Beau replied evenly. Yes. He was. But he wasn’t about to admit it to Miss Disapproval here.
“Ye looked ta be peeping ta me,” she shot back.
Her accent deepened when she was riled. Interesting. But