The man was a menace, she brooded. From the moment he had appeared standing over her like a dark angel, he had bullied, charmed, and unnerved her. And as for his kisses . . . well, that was something best not dwelt upon.

How could she possibly endure the knowledge he might appear at any moment? She would be a twittering ball of nerves by the time she left Kent.

Then, as swiftly as those thoughts would flood through her mind, a more rational voice would abruptly intrude.

How could she simply leave?

She had arrived in Kent with only a few quid in her pocket. Certainly she did not possess enough to purchase a ticket back to London. And she could hardly expect Lady Hartshore to bear the expense or to send her in her own carriage. Even supposing Emma would consent to risking her neck to the unpredictable driving of James.

And supposing she did manage to make her way back to London? She had no position awaiting her. She would once again be forced to depend upon Sarah for support until she could find new employment.

Why not accept Lord Hartshore's proposition? the voice had whispered.

One month would swiftly pass and then she would be free to leave with enough money to tide her over until she could find a more proper position.

All night she had argued back and forth, torn between the indefinable fear of remaining and the knowledge it would be foolish to flee.

At last, as dawn crept into the pretty rose-and-ivory chamber, she made her decision.

She would remain at Mayford for one month.

After that she would flee from this madhouse with all possible speed.

Climbing from her bed, she dressed in a sensible gray gown and smoothed her hair to a tidy bun. Then accepting she was as prepared as she ever would be, she forced herself to leave her chambers and wend her way the long distance back to the main hall.

It was only as she hovered in the gallery that she realized she hadn't the least notion of what she should be doing. Lady Hartshore had firmly refused to discuss her duties, and without knowledge of the household's normal routine she could not presume to guess how best to begin her service.

Was Lady Hartshore an early riser and already bustling about her morning routine? Or did she prefer to linger in her chambers until a more fashionable hour?

She was busily debating whether to simply await Lady Hartshore in the parlor or to seek her out, when the sound of approaching footsteps made her sigh in relief. Surely whoever was approaching could give her some hint of where Lady Hartshore could be found.

Turning, she waited until a large form appeared. She felt her heart sink as she realized it was Mr. Carson. For all her sister's training on how to comport herself as a lady, Emma was uncertain how one was to behave toward a pirate.

With an effort she managed a smile as Bart came to a halt beside her and offered a faint bow.

"Hello, hello," he boomed in his loud voice. "Looking for the galley?"

"Good morning, Mr. Carson."

"Black Bart will do, missy."

"Uh ... yes." She determinedly held on to her smile. "I was searching for Lady Hartshore."

The gray brows shot upward. "Lost, is she? Typical of Cassie, I fear. Kind as a lamb, but no sense to speak of. Bird-witted, that's the trouble."

"No, I did not mean that she was lost," she hastily attempted to clarify. "I meant only that I wished to speak with her."

"Oh."

"Do you know where she might be this morning?"

Surprisingly, her timid question appeared to ruffle his good humor.

" 'Course I know. I ain't daft no matter what those devils might say behind my back."

Emma swallowed an urge to smile. So Bart was not as indifferent to the world around him as others might believe, she silently acknowledged.

"Could you tell me where to find her?"

"In the kitchen, where she is every morning."

Emma gave a faint frown, certain the gentleman had made a mistake.

"Do you mean the breakfast room?"

"Egads, no," he protested with some force. "Can't cook up food and serve it to every wretch who comes by from the breakfast room. Not as long as I'm captain of this ship. No, I told Cassie when she come to me with the notion of filling this house with every scamp and scoundrel who offers her a sad tale that I won't have it. They can come to the back door and get their food and move along. Ain't no poorhouse."

Emma hadn't the slightest notion what he was speaking about, but she did gather that Lady Hartshore was indeed in the kitchen. Eager to locate the woman and sort out her day, Emma gave a small dip.

"Thank you."

"I'm off to the west woods," he announced as he held up a small spade. "Keep an eye on those gardeners for me, miss. A sly lot that has their eyes on my treasure."

"Yes, I will," she weakly agreed, uncertain what else to say.

"Glad to have you aboard."

With the precision that spoke of his military training, Mr. Carson turned on his heel and continued down the hall.

Emma gave a shake of her head as she altered her own course to take her toward the back of the house. Although she found the gentleman disconcerting, there was none of the fear she had expected at being alone with him. Perhaps because she had sensed beneath his bluster he was inherently kind, she decided. It was a pity his brilliant career had been marred by such an odd affliction.

Leaving behind the vaulted elegance of the house proper, Emma followed the distant sound of voices until she at last stepped into the large kitchen. She was not surprised to discover it a bustle of activity. As a governess, she had often witnessed life below stairs and knew that a great house required a vast amount of labor to keep it running smoothly. She was surprised, however, to discover Lady Hartshore covered in an apron as she pulled several loaves of perfectly browned bread from the oven.

Her brows unknowingly rose as the Countess of Hartshore expertly stacked the loaves on the counter and a large, dark-haired woman slid another tray of dough into the oven. They worked in a symphony of ease that assured Emma this was not the first occasion that Lady Hartshore had ventured into the kitchen.

"I believe we will add another loaf of bread and an extra meat pie in the basket for the Colberts, Mrs. Borelli," Lady Hartshore happily chattered. "They have eight children to feed now that Robert has returned home with his young ones."

"And perhaps some peach tarts?" Mrs. Borelli suggested.

"Lovely." Finished with the bread, Lady Hartshore glanced up to discover Emma standing in the doorway. A charming smile that was disturbingly similar to her nephew's curved her lips as she bustled forward. "My dear, I did not imagine you to be such an early riser."

Emma felt a prick of guilt as she guessed that the older woman had no doubt been up for some time. Although she was not thoroughly acquainted with the expectations of a companion, she was certain that most did not lie abed while her employer toiled in the kitchen.

"I assure you that I am usually up quite early," she attempted to reassure the countess. "You must think me the most wretched slugabed."

"Nonsense, my dear. I am delighted to see you are not nearly so pale."

Emma was relieved that her restless sleep was not visible on her countenance. She had no desire to confess what had kept her staring at the ceiling far into the night.

"No, I am quite rested," she said with more enthusiasm than truth.

"And famished, I am certain. Mrs. Borelli will see to your breakfast."

Accustomed to employers who considered her basic needs a necessary evil to be overlooked whenever possible, Emma gave a swift shake of her head.

"Oh, no. A bit of toast and tea will do nicely." She glanced toward the food piled onto the large wooden table. "You appear to be very busy this morning."

Lady Hartshore heaved a sigh. "So many mouths to feed."

The heavyset cook closed the oven door. "Likely to have thirty or better this morning. Winter is a poor time to be hungry."

Emma couldn't imagine there was ever a good time to be hungry.

"Oh, yes, that reminds me." Lady Hartshore turned to her cook. "Has John stacked the coal outside?"

"Aye, he did it afore sunup."

"Good. Now, where was I?" The older woman tapped a finger to her chin, then, as a knock sounded on the nearby door, she flashed the puzzled Emma a sudden smile. "That will be the first. Miss Cresswell, could I prevail upon you to stand beside the table and hand me the food as we need it?"

Still wondering if there was ever a normal moment in this odd house, Emma obligingly moved to stand beside the table. She shivered as the door was pulled open and a young woman with several children clutched to her rough cloak stepped into the kitchen. Taking the basket that she held in her hand, Lady Hartshore directed Emma to fill it with several meat pies, a loaf of bread, and a jug of fresh cream. She then turned to hand it to the young woman, who offered a weary smile. With a skill that Emma could only admire, Lady Hartshore averted the woman's halting words of thanks, her brisk manner ensuring there was no awkwardness as the young family turned from the door and was immediately replaced by an elderly man with an obvious limp.

For the next hour Emma was kept hustling from the table to the oven, where Mrs. Borelli was creating her magic. She had swiftly lost her initial shock that a countess would toss aside her dignity and play the role of a common kitchen-maid. The overwhelming gratitude and relief on the countless faces that appeared at the door was proof that her kindly efforts were of far greater importance than the pomp and ceremony of a more traditional countess.

In many ways the woman reminded Emma of her older sister, Sarah. There was the same overwhelming need to improve the lives of others, the same skill in avoiding the awkward embarrassment of those receiving their charity, and the same lack of regard for what others might think of her efforts.

Indeed, Emma wryly acknowledged, if Lady Hartshore and Sarah ever became acquainted, society might be rocked to its very foundation.

Feeling somewhat weary but surprisingly pleased that she had been a small part of ensuring so many families would go to bed with full stomachs, she brushed back a honey curl that had strayed from her rigid bun.

"Goodness, do you do this every morning?" she asked with a hint of amazement.

Lady Hartshore brushed back her own scattered curls, leaving a trace of flour on her flushed cheek.

"Yes, but you needn't suppose that you are obliged to become part of our madness," she assured her with a small laugh. "If you prefer, you could have a nice breakfast in bed."

"Oh, no, I would prefer to help. But . . ." Emma gave a lift of her slender hands. "Who are these people?"

"Many are from the village, and a few are tenants who have fallen upon hard times," Lady Hartshore explained, her eyes revealing a deep concern for those who came to her door. "And, of course, there are those strangers who have heard of our small efforts and merely appear."

"We turn no one away," Mrs. Borelli added in proud tones. "Unlike that rotter of a vicar."

"Mrs. Borelli," the countess protested.

"It be true enough," the cook insisted without apology. In the past hour Emma had discovered the large woman who claimed to be of Gypsy blood often spoke her mind with little consideration to her station in the household. Not that Lady Hartshore appeared to mind, Emma acknowledged with a wry sigh. "Giving himself airs and not wishing to soil his lily-white hands with the common folk. Might as well have a toadstool at the vicarage."

Lady Hartshore heaved a regretful sigh. "It is true that he concerns himself more with those of position than those in need."

Mrs. Borelli gave a loud snort, her hands already busy sorting through the basket of vegetables that had just arrived from the hothouses.

"Good for nothing more than prosy speeches and condemning those beneath him. Not at all like Mr. Galloway."

"Well, we must make do with what we have," Lady Hartshore attempted to console.

The cook reached for a cleaver and chopped a carrot in half with enough force to make Emma blink in surprise.

"A sad day when he arrived," the cook muttered.

Clearly more accustomed to the woman's habit of venting her displeasure upon hapless vegetables, Lady Hartshore sent Emma a rueful grimace.

"I fear Mrs. Borelli is somewhat prejudiced. Mr. Allensway has condemned her fortune telling as the work of the devil."

The cleaver slammed through a potato.

"A God-given gift is what it is," Mrs. Borelli muttered. "A blessing."

"Yes, we all believe so," Lady Hartshore soothed, moving to link arms with the wary Emma. "Now, we shall leave you to get on with lunch."

Quite willing to leave the company of the cleaver-toting cook, Emma was nevertheless compelled to halt Lady Hartshore from sweeping her from the kitchen.

"A moment, Lady Hartshore."

"Yes, my dear?"

"Your apron."

"Oh, yes." Lady Hartshore gave a tinkling laugh as she struggled out of the voluminous garment. "Bless you, my dear."

"And you have some flour . . ." Emma reached out to brush away the fine white powder.

Once again claiming Emma's arm, Lady Hartshore smiled happily and led them from the kitchen.

"There, I knew you should be invaluable."

"I have yet to do anything."

"Nonsense." Lady Hartshore squeezed her arm as they continued toward the main house. "You have already brightened this quiet household."

Emma gave a wry shake of her head, wondering what the older woman would think if she informed her that she was accustomed to waking at dawn and working until the children were at last asleep. And that even then she was expected to finish the mending or to embroider upon one of Mrs. Falwell's gowns.

The kindly woman would no doubt be horrified if Emma suggested that she provide her with a list of duties each morning.

They stepped into the long hall, and Emma's rueful thoughts were scattered as she caught sight of the sun-drenched parkland visible beyond the long stretch of arched windows.

When she had arrived in Kent she had been cold, frightened, and unnerved by the fog-shrouded landscape. Now, for the first time, she noted the majestic beauty of the rustic gardens, the sparkling lake with its charming grotto, and the nearby woods.

True there was none of the vibrant color and sounds of a bustling city. But there was something very peaceful and charming in the pristine solitude.

Barely aware she had halted, Emma regarded the scene with a peculiar sense of wonder.