poss—”
“And this letter, for you, sir.” The footman handed her a note and bowed.
Millie recognized Philomena’s writing immediately and tore open the letter, skimming fast.
...decided to leave Paris today instead of Thursday...
No. No, it wasn’t possible.
“Put Mr. Germain’s things in the yellow room,” Mr. Harris was saying to the footman.
...certain you will find yourself very comfortably appointed with the duke...
“Very good.” The footman turned back toward the stairs.
Philomena had left Paris. She’d sent Millie’s bags without waiting to learn how the interview had gone, and she’d left Paris. For a moment Millie experienced that same sensation as when a ship fell after rising on a large swell—as if the deck was falling from beneath one’s feet.
Not that she had any intention of throwing herself on Philomena’s mercy again—not when she had done more than was required in securing Millie this position in the first place. But...
“Is there a problem?” Mr. Harris asked.
There would be no question now. “No,” she said slowly, refolding the letter and tucking it inside her jacket. “No, not at all.”
Mr. Harris nodded and led her a short distance away, opening another door. “Here you are, then. These will be your rooms.”
Her attention shot to the left, toward the direction they’d just come from. Her chamber was just down from His Grace’s rooms. Adjacent to His Grace’s rooms, if she estimated correctly.
She didn’t like that. Not at all.
She followed Mr. Harris inside, endeavoring to remain calm. There was no reason not to be calm, really. “Surely there must be accommodations below stairs that I could occupy,” she suggested. A memory snaked in—the reason she’d left service in the first place, and one of the many reasons she’d balked at the idea of returning.
“His Grace has ordered that you be installed here for his convenience,” Mr. Harris said. “You wouldn’t want to be down there, anyhow. The opportunities are fewer and of a quite different caliber.”
She managed a halfhearted smile—it wouldn’t do for him to think her completely uninterested in the opportunities he valued so highly—and looked at the wall she almost certainly shared with His Grace’s bedchamber. There was no adjoining door, but a large curio cabinet stretched across half its length and rose at least seven feet.
“In any case, as I was saying, I’m already seeing signs of improvement, and I expect His Grace’s social calendar to return to full capacity very shortly.” Another grin, this time accompanied by a wink. “Not to put you on the spot, but Sacks and I are counting on you.”
“Sacks?”
“His Grace’s valet. And not to worry...I’ve no doubt there’ll be plenty of, shall we say, incentive in it for you, as well.” The footmen returned upstairs with her things—just a small trunk and a bag—and deposited them on the floor in the lavishly furnished dressing room done in three shades of gold and yellow.
She cast her eye about the room, into the adjacent chamber that included a bed draped in gold damask, and suddenly had trouble breathing.
“His Grace asked me to discover your fee,” Mr. Harris said now.
Her fee. Of course. Her mind raced for a figure that might make this all bearable and named an outrageous sum.
Mr. Harris didn’t bat an eye. “Very good. I shall return with your advance wages.”
And then she was alone in her new accommodations, with the sounds of the duke’s entertainment filtering through the wall and not a single alternative in all the world.
She strode to the window. Looked out at Paris with its mishmash of buildings, houses, cobbled streets, wagons, pedestrians, all bathed in a gloomy drizzle. The truth was, she did have an alternative, and she was looking at it now.
The streets of Paris. Penniless, to make her way alone in a city that would show no mercy. Out there, without any references or money, the only position she would find would be in a brothel.
In here, on the other hand...
She looked over her shoulder at the room’s grand furnishings, paintings, statuettes, trinkets. Just one or two of the pieces here would go a long way toward financing her education. Not that she would ever consider stealing from him.
But he had what she needed—money—and he would pay her an exorbitant wage to attend him. Before she left his service, she would make sure that he wrote Miles Germain a letter of introduction, as well.
She tightened her hand around the windowsill, looking out at Paris but imagining the Mediterranean’s great cities: Venice, Athens, Constantinople.
With the duke as a reference, her identity as Miles Germain would be cemented for as long as she could maintain her disguise. She could come and go freely, unaccosted, because all the world would believe she was male.
Within a few years, armed with knowledge from Malta’s renowned School of Anatomy and Surgery, Miles Germain would be a well-respected surgeon in practice for himself, and nobody—nobody—would ever take that away.
All she had to do was continue in his employ and make sure he made a full recovery.
A sudden knock startled her, and she turned quickly from the window to find another of the duke’s servants—a very young man wearing a tidy wig and an expectant expression.
“Monsieur,” he said with a bow. “Je suis à vous.”
But she didn’t want him at her disposal! She started forward. “Merci,” she said, “but—”
“I shall put away your things—” He started toward her trunk and bag.
“No,” Millie said quickly, hurrying to block his way. “No, that won’t be necessary,” she told him in French. “I shall put them away myself.” The duke had assigned her a valet?
“I have been placed at your service, monsieur,” the man said firmly. “You have only to tell me what you need. A change of clothes, perhaps...”
“I don’t need a change of clothes. And I won’t need anyone at my service.”
Just then, Mr. Harris walked in. “Ah, excellent. Bernet has found you.”
Already she was imagining the man lifting away her wig to find her shoulder-length hair stuffed inside—damn and blast, she should have cut it completely off—whisking off her shirt and discovering the cloth she’d wound around her breasts beneath her shift to flatten them, and realizing that a maid, not a valet, was the appropriate help.
“Mr. Harris, I absolutely will not require any assistance. I am perfectly capable of looking after myself. In fact, I’m used to it.”
“Of course you are,” Harris
