Beck blinked again rather than answering. After a moment, he took a breath and continued. “My sister has trained her entire life to be a governess, as it happens. She was one for the last year and served in some capacity as one for many years prior to that during her schooling. She also enjoys a tidy schedule. So, if it is a woman to manage you that you wish for, I believe she could accommodate that desire without issue.”
“You want me to hire your sister to be my governess?” Ambrose asked, grinning.
“I want you to marry my sister,” Beck said again, grinning right back so readily that Ambrose’s own smile immediately evaporated.
Ambrose looked down at what was left of his water and tipped it into his mouth, forcing himself to swallow. “Why?”
“Because she refuses to go back to work as a governess and instead wishes to find a rich, impressive husband to facilitate her aspirations for the life she wants,” Beck replied, so candidly that Ambrose was certain at least half a dozen Society matrons spontaneously fainted dead away on the streets of Mayfair. “She wants fine gowns, invitations to fashionable events, and a husband impressive enough that anyone who ever looked down on her will choke on their mistakes.”
“She sounds terrifying,” Ambrose said politely.
“She is,” Beck answered. “Thank you.”
“I suppose it would be something to do,” Ambrose said, though he was not certain.
“It would be something to do other than coming here, gambling a bunch of money you are just going to give back at the end of every night, and occasionally getting punched for the effort, you mean?” Beck asked, raising his dark brows.
“I only got punched the once,” Ambrose said immediately, crossing his arms. “You and your freckled thug are always interrupting otherwise.”
Beck sighed. “Aster, itwouldbe something to do. Something better than whatever the hell it is you’re doing here night after night. My sister would also take the burden of your impending knighthood ceremony off of your shoulders entirely. All you would have to do is show up and let her steer you around.”
Ambrose tilted his head.
“My mother could do that, if I asked,” he pointed out. “But it would be unbearable. My manservant will do it otherwise, I think.”
“And how will that be?” Mr. Beck asked, though he did not sound truly curious.
“German,” Ambrose answered with a flip of his hand. “Efficient. Dry and boring. But somehow never as quick as you hoped. Excellent desserts, though.”
“Fascinating,” said Beck.
Ambrose nodded, sighing and leaning back against the chaise. “Is she pretty? Your sister? Or does she look like you?”
Beck chuckled again.
Ambrose was finding he didn’t enjoy that chuckle at all.
“Come and find out over dinner,” he said. “You ought to meet her, at least, before you formally agree to anything. She has to agree as well, after all.”
“The devil do you mean, she has to agree?” Ambrose demanded, watching the other man stand and stretch, spinning that chair back around like it was no heavier than a twig in his oversized hand. “Are you setting me up to be rejected by your giant sister, Beck? Don’t you ignore me!”
Beck paused, a look of sudden curiosity on his face. “Stand up,” he said. “Just for a moment.”
“Why?” Ambrose asked, though he was already obeying. “Are you going to hit me?”
Beck walked up to him, almost toe to toe, and peered down at where the top of Ambrose’s head reached about the level of Beck’s shoulders. He took a step back and considered him again, and gave a brisk nod.
“Just checking,” he said absently, then turned to retrieve his coat. “Dinner is at seven. The Tod and Vixen, here in St. James. Do not be late.”
“Checking what?” Ambrose demanded, looking around for his shoes. “What are you … Beck!”
To his credit, Thaddeus Beck did wait at the door until Ambrose was shod again and skittering toward the exit, harried and still confused, but he didn’t answer until the door was shut behind them and they were set to go in opposing directions at the forking end of the drive.
“She is tall for a woman,” he said with a shrug. “But you are a bit taller. I was just curious.”
“Well, that’s very considerate!” Ambrose said, disoriented and a little affronted. “Are you going to tell me her name?”
“No,” said Beck. “Good day, Aster. I’ll see you at dinner.”
