His morning tea was but half-finished but wholly necessary, the footman having worked late the night before. Were it up to him, Callum Spinnet would still be abed—ideally with company—but there could be no rest for the wicked, and he was serving at a luncheon that afternoon. Tired though he was, Monk's paper did manage to spark some degree of curiosity; Cal took it, skimmed over it.

Then read it again, more carefully—Merlin, was the handwriting rough.

"I would hope his housekeeping tidier than his handwriting."

In theory, Callum was not in the least bit opposed to squeezing extra bodies into the house—the less rent he had to pay, the better, so long as he kept his own comfortable room, one of the larger in the rowhouse, to himself.

Another glance at the notice—"Banges as in the shop, d'you think?"