After Three Years of Silence, the Housekeeper's Revenge Wrote Itself

"Why?"

Steward Hargrove rubbed the bridge of his nose, looking uncharacteristically sheepish.

"She said you're just a nanny, and that the salary you're already getting is more than generous. No need to, as she put it, 'feed your appetite.'"

"Feed my appetite?"

I murmured the words back.

Me?

The woman who'd spent three years working herself to the bone, helping the lady of the house manage every last detail?

The one who crawled out of bed at dawn the moment Joseph so much as whimpered, rocking him back to sleep?

The one who'd been worked like a mule and never once complained?

I had no idea my appetite was so enormous, my ambition so glaring that the lady of the house felt the need to guard against me.

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. Steward froze.

"Mrs. Lambert, what are you laughing about?"

I wiped the tears that had come with the laughter.

"Nothing, Steward. Since that's how the lady of the house feels, let's see who really has the bigger appetite."

He gave me a disapproving look.

"Mrs. Lambert, there's no need to act out of spite—"

His mouth opened to say more, but I didn't give him the chance.

"Steward, this isn't spite. Every word I've said comes straight from my heart."

I offered him a smile, then turned and walked away.

The house was quiet. Mr. Dickerson and his wife were at work; the children were at school.

The walk from the living room to the foyer—I'd made it a thousand times over the past three years.

This time, I let my gaze linger on everything it touched, etching it all into memory one final time.

At the entryway, I bent down to change my shoes and noticed a scatter of slippers beside the shoe cabinet. Without thinking, I crouched and lined them up neatly.

When I straightened, I went still.

The irony wasn't lost on me. Three years of instinct, drilled so deep it had seeped into my bones.

I closed my eyes, opened the front door, and left without a shred of longing.

Three years ago, I'd arrived with nothing. Now I was leaving the same way—empty-handed.

Passing through the garden, I caught two maids whispering nearby.

"What do you think Steward Hargrove called Mrs. Lambert in for?"

"I know—they were going to give her a raise."

"Seriously? I heard her salary hasn't gone up once in all these years."

"No way. That means she's still making three thousand a month? She does more work than anyone around here..."

One of them dropped her voice deliberately, but every word still reached me.

"Keep it down. Mrs. Dickerson said before that Mrs. Lambert's from the countryside—paying her three thousand is already doing her a favor. Give her any more and she'll get too full of herself..."

I didn't stay to hear the rest. I walked straight back to my quarters.

My quarters—a cramped little room behind the garden at the back of the Dickerson estate.

Three years ago, when I first arrived, I looked every bit the country woman I was: plain clothes, wide eyes that betrayed I'd never seen anything like this world.

The one who'd hired me was Nora Dickerson, the family matriarch.

Nora's reputation had never been spotless. As the old patriarch Marcus Dickerson's mistress—even though she hadn't known he was married at the time—she'd been the subject of endless gossip.

Things only began to shift after she gave birth to Les. She took the Dickerson family's settlement money and struck out on her own, raising her son independently.

But fate had a cruel sense of humor. Marcus Dickerson's legitimate sons either died or disgraced themselves, and by the time the old man lay on his deathbed, Les was the only one left who was even remotely presentable.

Just like that, Les became the Dickerson family heir.

Outsiders marveled at Nora's luck. Only she knew whether this windfall of fortune was truly a blessing—or a curse.

By then, Les and Constance were already married. Nora had never imagined the family legacy would fall to her son, so she'd let him marry whomever he pleased.