Playing to Win by Diane Farr

clothes, but, to her relief, had chosen morning dress rather
than formal attire. She need not apologize for her long-sleeved
muslin after all. The cut of his coat reminded her of the gorgeous
gentleman she had seen in the tobacconist's shop in London. Mr.
Whitlatch, however, looked much nicer in the close-fitting clothes
than the other gentleman had.
    With his characteristic directness, he
lost no time in proposing an immediate raid upon the larder. She
readily agreed. If she had not been so nervous, she fancied, she
would be uncomfortably hungry by now. Clarissa followed as Mr.
Whitlatch wended a crooked path through several rooms that opened
into one another, then down a short flight of steps to the kitchens
at the back of the house.
    The kitchens were immaculate and
completely free of clutter. Clarissa halted in the doorway,
clucking her tongue in amazement. Here at the western end of the
house, the last light of day poured through high-set windows and
illuminated surfaces of gleaming steel and copper, polished enamel,
and well-scrubbed wood.
    "Your Mrs. Simmons is a treasure!"
exclaimed Clarissa. "Did you say she is your cook as well as your
housekeeper?"
    "Yes, but she employs several village
girls as dailies."
    "Well!" Clarissa gazed round the room
in admiration. "She must be a very exacting supervisor."
    Mr. Whitlatch hopped casually up to sit
on a countertop. "She may be. I certainly am."
    Clarissa stared at her host, perched on
the countertop as if it were perfectly natural for a grown man to
sit there. She had never before encountered such shameless
informality! It was extremely unsettling. But his voice continued
prosaically, taking no notice of his companion's
perplexity.
    "I can afford to hire the best, and I
generally do. It makes life simpler. A staff that cannot perform
its tasks flawlessly puts one to a great deal of inconvenience. I
dislike wasting my valuable time repeating tasks that should have
been done right in the first place, and by someone
else."
    "I daresay," murmured Clarissa,
thinking of the luggage.
    "I am very fond of having things just
so," he explained.
    This, from a man seated on a
countertop! She bit back a smile. "Yes, I can see that," she said
politely.
    "I don't mind paying high wages for
excellent work. It is well worth it, I think, to hire a staff that
follows one's instructions to the letter. I treat my people well, I
pay my people well, and as a result I have a loyal staff that
doesn't need to be told more than once how I like a thing to be
done."
    "Another of the advantages of wealth, I
suppose," remarked Clarissa. "One can afford to be a
despot."
    Another chuckle shook Mr. Whitlatch.
"Are you certain you wish to join the ranks of my staff, Miss
Feeney?"
    Oh, heavens, she had forgotten that!
This was no casual conversation. She was being interviewed by a
prospective employer! It was difficult to keep in mind, somehow,
while addressing a man seated on a kitchen countertop. She
hurriedly snatched up an apron.
    "I beg your pardon," she said, with
dignity. "You are right to chide me, sir. I will adopt a more
respectful tone."
    "Chide you! Heaven forbid," said Mr.
Whitlatch. "But if you adopt a respectful tone, I will spank you
soundly." Ignoring Clarissa's gasp, he picked up a spoon and
pointed it at her. "Spare me your propriety, Miss Prim! I can think
of no worse fate than to be confined in a cottage with a servile
woman."
    Now thoroughly ruffled, she rounded on
him and spat out the first words that rose to her lips. "I can
think of no worse fate than to be confined in a cottage with a
mannerless yahoo!"
    Horrified by her own rudeness, Clarissa
clapped her hands over her mouth. But Mr. Whitlatch roared with
laughter. "Bravissima!" he cheered, saluting her with the spoon.
"It's always best to say exactly what you think."
    "But it’s not what I think!" cried
Clarissa, distressed. "I beg your pardon, sir. I must be very tired
and hungry. I don't know what made me say such a thing to