Nirah had got loose, thanks to Stephen’s latest prototype endeavors. Jacob cupped a protective hand around the hedgehog hiding in the pocket of his leather apron. He didn’t want to alarm the new client, but he did need to find Nirah before the surly creature scared Tickletums. Or the client.
Perhaps “client” was too strong a word. She hadn’t yet shared so much as her name, much less the reason for her visit.
Jacob gazed at her as surreptitiously as he could, trying his best to repeat the divination trick that she had performed so easily.
Observation #1: Did he mention incredibly beautiful? Her smooth, soft skin, the hue a deep walnut, a few shades darker than his own. Her eyes were a gorgeous brown with amber flecks. Her hair was as black and curly as his own, but parted into geometrical sections, each with a spiral coil of expertly twisted long, thick hair cascading over her shoulders.
She looked younger than his two-and-thirty years. Perhapsmid-to-late twenties? Her form, voluptuous. Her face… Well. That formidable scowl led him to:
Observation #2: Despite apparently having arrived at their front door of her own volition, the gorgeous woman seated before him patently did not wish to be here. She was glaring as iftheywere the villains in whatever nefarious plot was afoot. Jacob could not fathom her obvious animosity. She had come tothem. Showing up just to sneer made no sense.
Such conflicting signals were precisely why he preferred the company of animals over humans. He understood animals. They were straightforward, with simple needs that he could easily fulfill. They didn’t disparage him or look down their noses at him, as tended to occur when Jacob ventured into the finer parts of town. Or visit his own sitting room, apparently, in today’s case. Which led him to:
Observation #3: She wasn’t from around here, at least not initially. The faint Caribbean accent had given that much away. Her English was perfect, but she did not develop that musical lilt in London.
Perhaps her obvious dislike of him and his siblings was due to some sort of cultural difference. Or perhaps she was here on holiday and had been treated horridly, leading to a general distrust of all Britons, regardless of name or background.
Then again, if she were here on holiday, would her natural accent have faded so much, so quickly? And given her attire—an absolutely breathtakingly tailored lilac day dress, worn thin in places and faded by the sun—did she really seem the sort of lady who would book a passenger ship and sail across the Atlantic on a lark?
Gah, this divining-of-secrets-in-a-single-glance trick was madness. Jacob had less idea than ever how she’d managed it. He’d been gazing at her openly for a full five minutes straight and still hadn’t the least idea who she was or why she was here.
The traditional Wynchester code was to give clients their time andlet them proceed at their own pace, but this woman appeared content to sit ramrod straight and glare daggers at them from now until infinity.
“May we please know your name?” he blurted out.
Her amber-flecked brown gaze snapped to his. “Miss Vivian Henry.”
There. He’d accomplished something. At least he knew what to call her.
And that she was unmarried.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Philippa said gently. “We’re here for you.”
Miss Henry gave this claim a look of such unbridled skepticism, it took one’s breath away.
She clearly was not yet ready to trust them with whatever trouble had brought her to their door. Nor had she bolted. Was she waiting for some sort of sign?
“Where do you live?” he asked in a low, soft voice. “Are you a London native?”
“Cheapside,” she responded. “And, no. I am from Demerara, in the West Indies. Though London is now my home, and has been so for a decade.”
Jacob was doubly pleased with himself: not only had the Wynchester most likely to hide from social interaction in a barn actually verbally engaged with a client, he’d even been a little bit right about what her light accent might mean.
“Do you live alone?” he asked, emboldened.
She sent him a flat look. “Do you mean alone in the literal sense, or the way wealthy people claim to be ‘alone’ when in fact they are surrounded by butlers and maids and valets and footmen?”
Jacob scooped Tickletums to his chest and pretended he hadn’t spoken. Miss Henry was pricklier than a hedgehog. Let someone else have a turn.
“I live with my cousin,” she continued, surprising him. “Quentin is ten years younger than me, though technically I am his dependent and not the other way around. He has a small trust, but until he reaches his majority in three years, I am his guardian.”
At this last word, she winced and pinched her lips shut tight.
Jacob wondered where the trust money came from and made a mental note to follow up later if its origin proved relevant.
“I’m sure guardian of an adolescent boy is a round-the-clock post,” Tommy said.
“You probably would think so,” Miss Henry answered. “You probably think governess and housekeeper and cook are also full-time posts.”
