Of course she bloody did. Robert mentally cursed her, cursed her luggage, cursed his colleagues, cursed his father, cursed Joe Sister-canoodling Blacke, and cursed God, if the old bugger existed. The entire universe had clearly conspired to break his back.

“Sorry to disappoint,” he muttered under his breath when she said he didn’t sound like the others.

He grabbed the handle of one of the trunks. It didn’t budge. Jesus Christ! If he didn’t sound like the other porters, it was because he wasn’t like them. He didn’t have the stout packing mule figure of the working classes! The natural resistance to pain! The doggish need to exert himself! He wasn’t made for heavy physical labour like this!

He took a break and turned to her. “Don’t know any Blackes that you would know, Madam,” he said, eying her up and down. God, he hated the very name! But luckily those Blackes had nothing to do with this. If those Blackes had had a wealthy family member, they wouldn’t have had to steal one.