'Let me see.' Lucas reached for the pelisse. He had no clue how to remove stubborn stains from ladies' garments-instinctively he was attacking Will's breeches with the same method he'd have used on a muddy horse-but he wanted to keep her there talking. 'Try this fine one, with the thin stiff bristles.'

'Thank you.' She accepted it warily and retreated behind her table, apparently the better to keep an eye on him. 'Why were you creeping up on me?'

'I wasn't,' he denied, attempting to look innocent. He did not have the face for it, he knew. The dresser simply slanted him a look that spoke volumes for her opinion of men, and of him in particular, and bent over the hem again.

'Whose dresser are you?'

'Miss Penelope Maylin's.'

Lucas dropped the brush and dived under the table to retrieve it and get his face under control. The gods were on his side, obviously-not only had he found his quarry without any effort whatsoever, but she was going to be a delight to extract information from.

Not, of course, that this could go any further than a little light flirtation-if that was what it took to win her confidence. In Lucas's code of honour servants were as out of bounds as virgin gentlewomen. On the other hand, she could have been a sour-faced abigail or an old dragon.

'What is your name?' He straightened up and bent over his work again.

'Lawrence. Daisy Lawrence.'

Daisy. It did not suit her. This girl was no open-faced meadow flower. She was something altogether more subtle and cultivated. A honey-coloured rose, perhaps: scented, velvety, but with sharp thorns.

'I am-'

'I know who you are. You are Lord Danescroft's valet.' His surprise must have been evident, for she added, 'You need not be flattered. Miss Maylin remarked upon the time his lordship arrived. But you may tell me your name.'