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Goodness, where had he come from?

He was quite a tall man, and he was dressed in a loose-fitting, er … dressing gown? No, it was more akin to a painter’s smock except it covered him entirely, from his feet to the voluminous hood pulled over his head.

She hovered beside her abandoned settee, frozen with indecision. If she moved, he’d almost certainly see her, but if she didn’t … well, he’d almost certainly see her then, too.

Dash it, how had she managed to get herself into such a scrape?

They’d only just arrived at Hawthorne Castle, and she’d already made a grievous error. She’d sneaked into the duke’s conservatory without a word of invitation, even knowing it wasn’t meant to be enjoyed by a servant.

Why couldn’t she learn to accept her place?

There was nothing for it but to make a hasty retreat and pray he didn’t notice her. He did seem to be rather preoccupied with his baskets, or … were they baskets? They were woven from straw as one might expect, but they didn’t look like any basket she’d ever seen. These were cone-shaped, rather like an upside-down flowerpot. There was no opening at the top, only a small notch carved out of the bottom.

They were arranged in a neat row atop a series of wooden tables, and there was some sort of insect buzzing around them.

Insects that looked very much like—

No, surely not.

But there was no mistaking those tiny, furry black-and-yellow bodies. “My goodness, are those bees?”

She slapped her hand over her mouth, but it was too late. The man whirled around, and the deep voice that had been speaking so soothingly only moments before barked, “Keep back!”

She took a hasty step backward, speechless.

He was wearing a mask. Or no, not a mask, exactly, but a thin piece of woven straw was fixed to the inside of his hood, entirely covering his face.

How strange! He looked quite frightening.

If an encounter with this faceless stranger wasn’t enough to convince her she’d much better have remained in the servants’ quarters as she’d been told to do, then nothing ever would.

“Who are you?” His deep voice echoed in the enormous space. “Where did you come from?”

Oh, dear. He sounded angry. “I … I beg your pardon! I shouldn’t have—”

“I asked you a question, miss. Who are you?”

Oh, no. She’d have to tell him her name now, and one way or another Phillippa would get wind of her little foray, and she’d be forced to spend her Christmas locked alone in a freezing attic.

Much as she’d done last Christmas, and the Christmas before that.

One would think she’d have grown accustomed to it by now, but still, she’d just as soon avoid giving this man her name if she could possibly manage it.

“My name is Stella Harley, but I’m no one of any consequence, I assure you.” She edged closer and peered over the man’s absurdly broad shoulder to the baskets behind him. “I’ve never seen so many bees in one place before. What are you doing with them?”

For a long, tense moment he didn’t say a word, just stood there staring at her, a cloud of suspicion as thick as London fog hanging about him.

At last, he spoke. “What do you know about bees?”

Not much, unfortunately. Her father had taken a passing interest in entomology at one point, and she’d picked up a few bits of knowledge here and there, but she’d gladly pretend to be an expert if it kept him from questioning her further. “They’re, er … black and yellow and rather adorably plump and furry.”

“Adorably furry?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Is that your official entomological assessment?”

He was raising his eyebrow at her, wasn’t he? She couldn’t see his face through the straw covering, but the heavy skepticism in his tone gave him away. No one could speak with such condescension without raising their eyebrows. It wasn’t physically possible.

“No, that’s my official Apian assessment.” Yes, that was very good, indeed! Her father’s vast collection of scientific tomes was proving useful at last.

“Your Apian assessment,” he repeated flatly.