Gabriel ducked behind a tree.
Then he straightened his top hat and pulled down his tightly fitting coat. Blast Freddie! He’d ordered the tailor to make it tighter than he normally wore, and now it stretched uncomfortably across his chest and arms. But apparently, it was all the crack, as Freddie had assured him earnestly. The young man had accompanied him to Inverness to make sure he was clothed properly.
“You must have a Weston coat,” Freddie had insisted. “And Wellington boots. Is there a Hoby’s in Inverness?”
Gabriel had no clue. “Who, or what is Hoby’s?” he’d countered testily.
Freddie had nearly had a heart attack. “Hoby’s, Your Grace, is London’s most esteemed bootmaker,” he’d explained after he recovered from the shock. “He makes the best Wellingtons in the entire kingdom. They are made of the finest, softest calfskin leather and are shined to glossy perfection. Don’t settle for anything less.”
Gabriel had been rather irritated. The last time he checked, Wellington was the name of his field marshal, not of a boot. He knew for a fact that Wellington’s boots had been mud and blood splattered. It eluded him entirely why those boots, sensible as they were, had to be this tightly cut, as well as polished to such an extent that he could see his mirror image in them.
But oddly enough, he rather trusted Freddie’s sense of fashion more than his own. If it were up to him, Gabriel would’ve kept on his linen shirt, which sported holes, and his black leather trousers which had grease spots that refused to come out. Blast it, but Freddie was undoubtedly right; he needed to improve his wardrobe.
He’d also had his hair cut in the newest fashion. The hairdresser who, most irksomely, had been French, had insisted that he wear his hair à la Brute. This meant that his hair would be brushed forward, so that it cascaded over his right temple and down his cheek, hiding the ear and semi-covering the burn scars.
“Eet weel look most fetching, seigneur,” the toad had said and danced about him with scissors.
“Bah,” Gabriel replied, unnerved at the thought that some years ago he may have shot this man’s kin without a second thought.
Thus pruned, plucked, primed, polished, and primped, Gabriel stood in front of Miss Hilversham’s Seminary for Young Ladies in search of his wife.
The maid who opened the door looked at him cluelessly. “One moment, sir,” she mumbled, and bid him wait in the corridor.
It smelled of paper, wax polish, and a feminine smell that he couldn’t quite decipher. Something flowery. Maybe violets.
A tall, slender woman quietly descended the stairs. She looked ageless with silver hair and silver eyes and looked at him inquiringly in a straightforward, regal manner. This, no doubt, must be Miss Hilversham.
Gabriel gulped. “Ma’am.” He took off his hat.
“The Duke of Dunross, I presume.” Her voice was cool and clear.
He was taken aback. “How did you know that?”
“If you would follow me, Your Grace.” She turned without answering his question.
Gabriel followed her, feeling his nervousness rise.
They walked down a corridor, with doors to his left and right.
One door was open, and he saw oaken tables, a blackboard, and shelves stuffed with books. Girls in similar pale blue dresses bent their heads over the books. A silent hush told him they were studying.
“It is quite extraordinary,” said Gabriel. “A girl’s school like this, I mean. It isn’t too common.” Blast it. That woman made him nervous, but one had to say something.
The woman threw him an assessing look. “No, it isn’t too common. This is the best academy in the country. If you will have a seat, Your Grace.” She pointed at a chair that stood in front of a rather large writing table. He sat down and felt rather small.
“Miss Talbot studied here for several years. She was one of my best and brightest students.”
Gabriel sat up proudly. “Of course, she’d be.”
“We teach the girls more than just the belle arts. Languages, History, Natural Sciences. Geography, and Advanced mathematics.”
“That is an impressive list.” Certainly more than he’d ever learned.
“The school has currently less than twenty students. I like to keep the numbers low, though some may say twenty is large enough.” Miss Hilversham picked up a quill and pulled it between her fingers. “I hire the best teachers in the country. None but the best will do for my girls.”
“Naturally.” He did not know where this conversation was going.
“Excellent education like we provide here requires a considerable number of resources, such as a lapidarium where the girls may study at their own pace.”
