Chapter Four
Chapter
FOUR
A week of desperately scouring the situations-vacant advertisements later, Portia found herself in the house of a duke on the prestigious and elitist Royal Crescent for an interview.
About to bite her tongue in the vain hope of serving the aristocracy again when she had foolishly thought that all her subservient years were behind her.
However, she had made her bed and, for the good of the cause, she would jolly well lie in it—but the irony of this situation was not lost on her. Earning a wage from someone from the very upper echelons of the aristocracy was the only way that she could afford not to earn one at Equitas.
Assuming, that was, that she got this job over the other candidate sitting several feet away, who had been there when she had arrived and who was still doing her best to ignore her.
“Good afternoon.” It felt churlish not to be polite despite them being rivals.
Her interview for the temporary post of social secretary and chaperone was supposed to have started now, so they were both clearly stuck here until the poor timekeeper who was interviewing them deigned to see them.
“I am Portia.” She smiled her best let’s-be-pleasant-because-we-are-in-the-same-boat smile because she harbored no malice whatsoever for the stern-faced older woman who was dressed head to toe in funereal black. “Portia Kendall.”
“Good afternoon.” Madam Sourpuss could not have made it plainer that she was only answering because manners dictated it.
“I am Miss Strictland.” A name that seemed to perfectly suit her as the woman clutched her austere black reticule closer to her body, almost as if she expected Portia to steal it from her at any moment, and turned back to stare at the wall.
She probably also gargled vinegar to keep her judgmental frown in place constantly while she glared down her hook of a nose.
As glares went, Miss Strictland’s was quite impressive.
It certainly let Portia know that she considered herself far superior in every way possible.
“Have you traveled far today?” As she had never been one for airs and graces, especially among those who had to serve their betters just like she did, she could not resist goading Miss Strictland into further conversation.
“Only from the Circus.” Her rival gave her a slightly smug nod because anyone who knew Bath knew that the Circus was the only residential street in this city that came close to the Royal Crescent in grandeur.
If the Crescent was the shimmering crown that sat atop the city’s biggest hill, the Circus was its diamond choker.
“Where I have been governess to the Marquess of Teignmouth’s three daughters these past twenty years.
” Preempting Portia’s next question, the woman wafted an imperious hand.
“The youngest has recently come out, so she really has no need of a governess anymore. The family still want me to stay, of course.” She wafted her hand again as if it held all the cards, which Portia did not believe for a minute when servants were always disposable as far as the aristocracy was concerned.
“However, when they finally accepted that I was ready for a new challenge and that my skills and experience would be more beneficial to another grand family with exacting standards, they personally recommended me to the duke.” That depressing piece of news was delivered with the semblance of a smile designed to inform Portia that she really did not stand a chance.
Which, if it were true, would not have meant that both of them were here for an interview, so Portia was going to give this her best shot regardless.
Especially because this particular vacancy was ideal for her very particular requirements.
The salary was decent and the advertisement had been clear that her hours would be confined to the daytime.
Such regular hours meant that she would have every single evening free to fulfill her vital and extensive workload for the newspaper.
As much as she loathed the idea of being an aristocrat’s servant again, this position also came with a room and board and that would be a godsend in this expensive city.
The same clerk who had taken her dubious letters of recommendation when she had arrived reappeared and traced his finger down the worryingly long list in his hand. “Miss Strictland—his grace will see you now.”
Well, well, well, Portia hadn’t expected the illustrious duke to be the one conducting today’s interviews.
That was unusual. Men with grand titles usually had minions to deal with unpleasantries like their staff.
At the very best, she had expected his duchess to put aside her urgent needlepoint to spare her five minutes, not the great man himself.
In the normal order of things, he would be doing more important tasks like shooting his pheasants or drinking brandy in his club or tupping his mistress.
But no! Today he was apparently going to honor those so far beneath him with an audience. This would be interesting.
Portia had seen the odd duke from afar, but she had never actually met a real one before and, because she disapproved of the breed and all that they stood for in general, wasn’t overkeen to meet one now—but such was life.
She knew already what he would be like.
Gray-haired and supercilious.
Humorless and superior.
Primped like a peacock as he looked down his pompous, ducal nose at her with more gusto than the lowly Miss Strictland could ever manage, while never quite looking at her directly.
Because, of course, the illustrious Duke of Debden would see her as more beneath him than her rival Sourpuss Strictland did—if he even bothered seeing her at all.
Servants were somehow rendered invisible in the presence of those with blue blood coursing through their idle veins.
“His grace is running a little behind,” said the harried clerk as he reappeared. “It has been a busy morning because he has had a lot of candidates to see.”
“Precisely how many candidates is he interviewing?” Because with each one, Portia’s odds of getting this job were reduced.
“Ten,” said the clerk, rechecking his list. “You are the last—thank goodness.”
Marvelous.
That meant that she had to somehow impress him more than the other nine preceding her had, including Miss Strictland with her personal recommendation from a marquess.
Left alone in the cavernous hallway once more, with only the ominous tick of the nearby grandfather clock to break the crushing silence, she took in her surroundings.
It was always fascinating to witness how the other half lived and if this impressive hallway was any gauge, the Duke of Debden lived in the most glittering of gilded cages.
She counted two Rembrandts, a Titian, and a Gainsborough on the walls of this luxurious marble hallway alone, never mind the impressive bespoke masterpiece gracing his grace’s entire palatial ceiling.
What sort of person had a mural of Mount Olympus piercing the fluffy white clouds of the sky, complete with every ancient-Greek god imaginable floating around it?
The sort who believed they were on a par with the mighty Zeus, that’s who!
A man so full of his own piss and wind that she despised him already.
Sight unseen.
Another painful twenty minutes ticked by, which also did not bode well as clearly Miss Strictland was holding his interest, and Portia had pretty much given up all hope.
This was pointless.
A hiding to nothing.
A fool’s errand.
A complete and utter waste of her time.
The most sensible course of action would be to quietly leave and thus save both herself and the pompous duke from the inevitable misery and disappointment of this pointless interview.
She stared longingly at the front door the same moment a fluffy, white Persian cat wandered down the hallway toward her.
It had mismatched eyes—one brown and one blue—and neither looked impressed as they stared at her in judgment.
Portia held out her hand and made a kissing noise to attract it over to pet it, but the cat merely watched her efforts with disdain before it turned around, lifted its tail, and showed her its backside, which she supposed just said it all.
Then Miss Strictland reappeared with a smug grin. “That went very well. But then I knew that it would be impossible for his grace to ignore a personal recommendation from his good friend the Marquess of Teignmouth.”
“Congratulations,” said Portia, her stomach sinking, but she forced a polite smile regardless. “I take it he offered you the job?” Because if he had, then she had an urgent appointment with that front door as she had wasted enough time here already.
Her rival went back to looking down her nose. “Obviously he couldn’t offer it to me on the spot as he has one last candidate to see.” She flicked her finger dismissively Portia’s way. “Good luck, Miss Pendle.”
“It’s Kendall. Portia Kendall,” said Portia to the woman’s retreating back and then, under her breath muttered, “you ungracious old hag.”
It was, however, that ungraciousness that forced Portia to stay.
She had never been good with being underestimated, and Miss Strictland’s dismissive behavior, combined with that of the equally snooty cat, lit the familiar fire of rebellion in her belly.
Nothing riled her more than being underestimated.
Ready for battle and determined to be victorious, Portia sat straighter in her seat and waited for the clerk to return and take her to the duke.
Then she waited.
And waited.
When the grandfather clock chimed and signaled that she had now been waiting for another hour, it confirmed that she was on a hiding to nothing. Worse, the rude wretch hadn’t even had the decency to send one of his minions out to tell her!
How dare he treat her as if she did not matter!