The following morning Brindle located his quarry with no difficulty whatsoever. Seated at the kitchen table, the page was lending Cook a helping hand as usual, although for some reason seeming less sociable than usual. He didn’t perceive anything untoward in this slightly subdued state. The child had not gone to bed until the early hours, and was no doubt feeling slightly out of spirits through lack of sleep.

      ‘His lordship has returned to the house, Mrs Willard, and requires breakfast as soon as maybe. He will partake of it in the breakfast parlour and desires you, George, to serve him.’

      As this was an undoubted honour bestowed upon one so young and inexperienced, the response was not quite what the butler might have expected.

      ‘Oh, he does, does he!’ Looking decidedly mutinous, the page rose abruptly from the chair, very nearly toppling it over in the process. ‘Well, he can damn well serve it himself, because I’m going out! Come, Ronan!’

      It would have been difficult to say which member of the staff present was most shocked by the outburst. Both the scullery maid and the boots stared open-mouthed as the door leading to the mews was slammed shut by the clearly disgruntled young servant. Even Mrs Willard appeared taken aback by the outburst.

      ‘Well, upon my soul! There’s heat for you, Mr Brindle!’ Cook declared, when she’d recovered from the shock. ‘Have you ever heard the like before? Anyone might suppose the boy doesn’t know his place.’

      ‘And there you have hit upon it exactly, Mrs Willard, because I do not believe he does know his place!’ Napes announced, having entered the kitchen in time to witness the shocking outburst. ‘And he should be made to learn it! It’s no good, Mr Brindle,’ he continued. ‘I know you look kindly upon the boy, and have from the first, but behaviour of that sort cannot go unpunished. His lordship should be told about this appalling breach of conduct.’

      ‘But not by you, Mr Napes,’ the butler countered. ‘Kindly remember I am in charge here; I shall decide how best to deal with the matter.’

      In truth, the highly skilled and diligent major-domo was in something of a quandary. He was fully aware that it was essential to maintain discipline and standards below stairs at all times, otherwise his authority would quickly be called into question. Yet, at the same time, the valet had been so right: he had developed a genuine fondness for his latest protégé.

      Only the day before the boy had joined him at the table, without being instructed to do so, and had helped polish the silver. He had performed the task well. But, then, everything the child attempted he did well, Brindle reminded himself. The page’s culinary skills were quite remarkable in one so young. Even Cook had said he would make a fine chef if he were ever to apply himself. From the first he had proved himself to be willing and able, and so cheerful for the most part. Yet, today, for some reason.

      Undecided how best to deal with the matter, Brindle gave instructions for the selection of breakfast dishes, once prepared, to be conveyed to the small back parlour, and was in the act of arranging them carefully on the side table himself when his lordship entered.

      ‘Where’s Georgie? Not still abed, I trust?’

      After signalling the footman and parlour maid to leave the room, Brindle poured his lordship coffee. ‘No, sir. But he hasn’t—er—returned to the house yet. He’s taken the dog for his customary morning walk.’

      ‘I see. In that case tell him I wish to see him in the library, when he does return.’

      A moment’s silence followed, then, ‘I’ll endeavour to do my poor best, my lord.’

      It was over an hour later when the errant page finally put in an appearance. One glance at those delicate features, set in a mutinous glower, was enough to convince the Viscount that all was far from well, and that was even before he received a terse verbal confirmation.

      ‘Well, you wanted to see me, so here I am!’

      After very slowly returning his quill to the standish, his lordship gave his full attention to the slender figure still clasping the handle of the door. Naturally enough he was not accustomed to being addressed in such a manner, most especially by a member of his own household; and although it would be true to say he didn’t seem able to bring himself to look upon the girl as a servant, he felt it was incumbent upon him to attempt to maintain the status quo.

      ‘I believe I warned you before that I’m not above taking a birch rod to impertinent children,’ he said, oh, so very quietly. ‘I shall not remind you of it a third time, Georgie. So, for your own continued comfort, I would suggest you close the door, come over here and tell me what has put your nose out of joint.’

      At least part of the advice was heeded. She did, after a moment or two, close the door and slowly approach the desk, but remained stubbornly silent. A less tolerant man might have lost his patience at this point. His lordship, however, out of consideration for her sex, was determined to maintain a calm authority.

      ‘And I’m still awaiting an explanation,’ he reminded her gently.

      If anything the mutinous expression became more marked before she finally unlocked tightly compressed lips to say, ‘The only reason I’m here is because I wish to make it perfectly plain that it wasn’t Brindle’s fault that I didn’t attend you at breakfast. So you mustn’t blame him. He passed on your message, but … but I was in a bad mood, and so went out.’

      His lordship sighed heavily when she volunteered nothing further. ‘We progress, but not very rapidly. Might I be permitted to know why you awoke in such a bad humour? You seemed happy enough last night when I left you.’

      When she lowered her eyes and stared steadfastly down somewhere in the region of the standish on his desk, he began to fear he’d learn little else without resorting to coercion. ‘Did something occur on the homeward journey to upset you?’ he asked, grasping at straws. Then a clear memory returned, and he recalled she had seemed rather subdued, after his meeting with a decidedly flamboyant baronet. ‘It wasn’t Sir Willoughby Trent’s nonsensical suggestion about selling you to him that upset you, was it?’

      It took a few moments but eventually blue eyes did meet his above the desk for a few brief moments. ‘Well, it wasn’t very nice, was it?’

      ‘No, it wasn’t very nice,’ he agreed, ‘besides being totally ludicrous. I do not own you, Georgie, you are not my slave. You are free to leave my employ whenever you wish.’

      A further moment’s silence, then, ‘Well, that’s all right, then. We need not dwell on the matter any more.’

      Although