In the Flesh. Portia Da Costa

know who your mysterious boss is?”

      The man unwound himself from Cook’s chair by the hearth and joined her at the airing rack. Without speaking, he reached into the basket, took out a pair of Miss Beatrice’s drawers and, with a salacious grin, hung them up along with the rest of the washing. As he reached for another item, Polly grabbed him by the arm.

      “I asked you a question, Mr. Whoever you are. What’s your real business here and who do you work for?” She held on tight to the solid muscle beneath the wool of his work jacket. He felt good, despite the danger he presented. “If I don’t get a straight answer, I’ll have to fetch Mr. Charles and then we’ll see.”

      The brown-haired man laughed suddenly, as if he knew what she knew. Handsome Charlie meant well, despite his many faults, and he loved his sister. But he couldn’t knock the skin off a rice pudding, much less deal with a couple of toughs on his own.

      A warm hand effortlessly removed hers from his arm.

      “Well, I work for Mr. Ritchie, who’s the gent upstairs. And he works for no one but himself.” He held on to her hand, not in a cruel way but with no sign of yielding. Despite her crossness, Polly trembled with excitement. “And don’t worry, your lady won’t come to any harm. Quite the reverse, he’s here to do her—and this entire household—a lot of good.”

      “What the dickens do you mean?”

      “I’m not at liberty to reveal the particulars, but my Mr. Ritchie thinks very highly of your Miss Beatrice, and only wants the best for her. You needn’t have any concerns on that score.”

      But she was concerned. She couldn’t help it.

      Mr. Ritchie was a handsome bastard, that was a fact, even though for her own taste his friend here was more toothsome. But Miss Bea had been betrayed and exploited already by one despicable, smooth-talking beau, and she didn’t need it happening with another.

      “It’s still not right,” she muttered. “Who knows what that blackguard is doing to her. And even if he isn’t doing anything, she shouldn’t be alone with him without a chaperone. It’s just not right!”

      “Don’t worry, gorgeous, your mistress will be safe with Mr. Ritchie. He never forces women into doing anything they don’t want. He doesn’t have to. They lift their skirts without him even having to ask.”

      “You wicked bastard!” Polly attempted to shake her hand free, and this time her antagonist relaxed his fingers and let her go. “Miss Bea isn’t like that. She wouldn’t lift her skirt for any man except if she were married to him, never mind your pal up there.”

      The man laughed. Obviously he’d seen the cabinet cards.

      “Look, I know what you’re thinking and you’re bloody well wrong! She’s a respectable gentlewoman, I’ll have you know. Posing for artistic photographs is just posing for artistic photographs, nothing more!”

      “I don’t doubt that. But like I said, my Mr. Ritchie is a gentleman, and he’s very taken with your mistress, so there’s no need for you to make a fuss.” He reached down, took the last chemise from the basket and draped it over the drying rack. “There we go. I’ll haul it up for you, if you like.”

      Polly eyed him up. Despite his cheeky smirks and his cockiness, he seemed an honest sort. And easy on the eye too. Despite everything, Polly had a peculiar urge to trust what he said. And he certainly seemed unshakably loyal to his boss.

      “Thank you. That’d be very kind. It’s a heavy old bugger, and that’s a fact.”

      He laughed, then looped his hand in the cord and effortlessly hauled the rack up to the ceiling. Polly imagined him being just as sure and effortless in his dealings with a woman, and beneath her skirts, her belly tightened with sudden desire.

      “Thanks again, Mr … What is your name, by the way? Would you like some more tea?”

      “Yes, I’ll take a drop, thanks,” her new friend said easily as he secured the cord with a competent-looking twist and turned to face her. “And the name’s Brownlow. But you can call me Jamie, if that suits you.”

      Jamie. Such an easy, quiet, innocuous name, yet he looked very far from that. Jamie Brownlow was a man of the world, clearly, and tough. And he had a tricky, clever quality that was exciting.

      “Jamie, eh? I expect I could call you that.” Polly reached for a cloth to push the heavy kettle onto the hottest part of the range. Jamie Brownlow was at her side in the blink of an eye, and before she could protest, he had the cloth and was doing the honors for her. “Thank you, Jamie … My name’s Polly Jenkins, but you can call me Polly, I suppose.”

      “Polly it is then.” Laughing, Jamie reached for the teapot. “Let me make the tea. You maids are always worked to a standstill. Take the weight off your feet, and have a breather for a change.”

      How very modern. Men almost always expected women to do the serving, even if they were belowstairs types like Jamie. Not even Mr. Charlie, when he wanted some comfort, was so courteous.

      “That’s very decent of you, I must say.” Polly settled on the old, ill-stuffed sofa that was set to one side of the fire, opposite from the armchair. “Although I’m not sure that Cook will be so pleased with you handling her pots and suchlike.”

      Jamie grinned over his shoulder as he set about his task. “Oh, don’t you worry, my Polly. I’m fully accustomed to handling a female’s pots and suchlike. In fact I’ve been told I’m quite an expert in these matters.” He winked, and Polly was struck by his provoking, wicked eyes. They were green, quite light, but with an unusual slate-colored cast, and they twinkled with intelligence and guile.