Amanda Scott Read Online Free PDF

himself, Robert, as you ought to know if you’d a lick of sense. And he deals with him through the post, never in person.”
    Sybilla smiled, taking pity on the young footman. “Never mind, Robert. Show Mr. Beak to the library. I’ll see him there. Mrs. Hammersmyth, we can go over these linen inventories later.”
    “Begging your pardon, Miss Sybilla, but I can attend to them myself, if you like. There’s naught here but lists of what’s been done and what’s to be done.” She didn’t add that she could attend to the business better without interference from her mistress, but Sybilla recognized the tone.
    She smiled ruefully. “You do as you think best today, Mrs. Hammersmyth. After all the years you’ve served this house, you must sometimes think it a nuisance to have to discuss all these daily details with me.”
    “No, my lady. I know my place. Not that I won’t admit that things would sometimes run smoother if it were not necessary to describe—before and after the fact, as it were—every fold of a sheet and every sliver of larding in a fowl.”
    “But if I did not keep my hand in,” Sybilla said with a broader smile, “I should become dreadfully lazy, you know, and then the day will come when it will become obvious to one and all that I have begun shirking my duties.” It would not be tactful, she knew, to point out that if she did not have the details of running the house firmly fixed in her head, when crises arose she would not be able to handle them efficiently. “But here I am gossiping while poor Mr. Beak awaits my pleasure. I wonder what he can want. I do hope Papa has not outrun the constable.”
    Mrs. Hammersmyth looked shocked—as well she might, Sybilla thought, hiding a smile. Rising and shaking out the skirts of her light-blue morning frock, she left the office and hurried up the service stair, pausing before the pier glass on the landing only long enough to smooth her hair before walking at a more ladylike pace along to the library, where Mr. Beak awaited her.
    The library was her favorite room. Its windows, overlooking the street, were draped in velvet the color of ripe peaches. The walls, which were trimmed with painted white molding, were a shade lighter and the Axminster carpet several shades darker. Mr. Beak stood in the center of the carpet, regarding the magnificent Chippendale mahogany bureau bookcase that filled the greater portion of the wall opposite the carved white marble fireplace.
    He proved to be a small man with wisps of brown hair clinging to his balding pate, and a double chin rising above his stiffly starched neckcloth. His dark coat and cream-colored breeches fitted him so snugly that they looked more like sausage casings than a proper suit of clothes, and his tall neckcloth made it necessary for him to hold his head higher than was natural as he turned and hurried forward to greet her.
    “Lady Ramsbury, I am sorry to have disturbed you. “His voice was high and his manner fussy, and he went on without giving her an opportunity to reply, “I made it perfectly plain to your footman that my business is with Sir Mortimer, so I cannot think what he was about to insist upon sending for you.”
    Realizing at once that she would deal better with Mr. Beak from a position he would recognize as one of authority, Sybilla moved to the desk, saying nothing until she had seated herself. Then, gesturing toward one of the straight-backed chairs, she said with gentle dignity, “Do be seated, Mr. Beak. Surely, Mr. Haviland must have told you that my father does not see people.”
    “Mr. Haviland has been ill,” he said, taking his seat with finicky care, “and his doctors insist that he remain away from the bank until he is fully recovered.”
    “I see. Is there some trouble with my father’s account?”
    “Trouble?” He blinked at her. “Certainly not, ma’am. Haviland’s Bank never has trouble with its customers’ accounts.”
    “Then …”
    “Please, Lady Ramsbury,