Penelope Goes to Portsmouth by M. C. Beaton Page A

packing any time I want.’
    He suddenly leered at Hannah, who gave him a slow smile and fluttered her short sandy eyelashes. The servants who had once been under her command would have been amazed to see the stern Miss Pym trying to flirt.
    The housekeeper’s room was on a half-landing on the back staircase. The butler followed her in. ‘I shall just prettify myself, Mr Biggs,’ said Hannah with a coy titter, ‘and then I will join you in the servants’ hall.’
    The butler grinned, pinched Hannah’s bony bottom, and shuffled out.
    ‘I shall slap his face before this night is out,’ muttered Hannah. She opened her trunk and took out a length of stout cord and then fastened it to the handle. She opened the window, noticing with relief that it overlooked the front, and lowered the trunk down into the bushes. Then, squaring her shoulders, she went down to the servants’ hall.
    Her heart sank when she pushed open the door. Mr Biggs was alone. She guessed he had sent all the other servants off to bed so as to indulge in a little dalliance with the new housekeeper.
    ‘A little brandy, Miss Pym,’ said Biggs.
    ‘Yes, I thank you,’ said Hannah. ‘But first, may I have my keys and a tour of the house? I am anxious to begin my work early.’
    Biggs scowled, but he could not risk Lady Carsey’sfinding a housekeeper in the morning who did not know where anything was.
    Hannah followed him around the house, or rather tried always to keep behind him, for if she moved in front, he pinched her bottom. If I really were going to be housekeeper here, thought Hannah, noticing dirty hearths and cobwebs, I would make some changes. Although she appeared to listen intently, she had no interest in which keys fitted which doors on the upper storeys. Back downstairs she insisted on examining the still-room. ‘Why do you not have a brandy yourself until I examine all these bottles,’ said Hannah. ‘What if my lady should want, say, rose-water?’
    ‘Don’t be all night about it,’ growled the butler, but he retreated to the servants’ hall. Hannah’s sharp eyes ranged over the bottles. She took down a little bottle of laudanum and put it in her pocket. Then, fastening the keys firmly at her waist, she went into the servants’ hall. ‘You have not shown me the cellars,’ she said.
    Biggs stiffened. ‘That’s my preserve,’ he said suspiciously. ‘What was you wanting to see the cellars for?’
    ‘Because, my dear Mr Biggs, should you fall ill, I would need to know which wines were which and in which bins to find them.’
    ‘Sit down. I’m never ill. Tell you what, two days’ time and I’ll take you down. Finished then.’
    ‘Finished with what?’ demanded Hannah.
    ‘Finished cleaning them cellars.’
    ‘Oh.’ Hannah sat down at the table and looked into his eyes and smiled. ‘What about that brandy, Mr Biggs?’
    ‘Give us a kiss first.’
    ‘Oh, Mr Biggs,’ said Hannah coyly. ‘You are the veriest rake. One little drink to give me courage.’
    He grinned and poured a glass for her and refilled his own.
    ‘What’s that?’ cried Hannah suddenly, pointing over to a door that she was sure led to the cellars.
    The butler started up with an oath, tipping his chair over, and ran to the low door. He pressed his ear against it and listened hard. Hannah took out the bottle of laudanum and tipped a generous measure into the butler’s glass.
    ‘Nothing there,’ he said, coming back and sitting down. ‘Rats, most like.’
    Hannah gave a feminine shudder. ‘La! I do so detest rats.’ She raised her glass. ‘To you, Mr Biggs.’
    He drained his glass in one gulp. ‘Now,’ he said, edging his chair next to her own, ‘what about that kiss?’
    Hannah screwed her eyes up and puckered up her mouth. She would just have to endure it. His mouth approached her own and she shuddered as brandy fumes fanned her face. Then his lips descended on hers. Hannah’s stomach heaved with revulsion. She thought she could not bear