Slowly, Philip crawled out and scurried to the chair beside her. Arthur watched them for a full minute, his lip curling in a pout, before he scrambled down the shelves with the agility of a monkey. He sat across from her, shoving the muddy boot aside.
“I’m not sorry,” he muttered.
“I didn’t ask you to be,” Imogen replied gently, handing him a piece of orange chalk. “I asked you to help me with the history lesson.”
By Thursday, Arthur’s testing of her had escalated. During their midday meal, Arthur decided that he was no longer a boy, but a wolf. He refused to use utensils, attempted to lap his soup from the bowl, and snarled at any servant who approached with his teeth bared.
The footman, a young man named Benjamin, looked ready to bolt. “Miss, His Grace wouldn’t like this. He says the boys must learn to be gentlemen. I do not want to get in trouble.”
“His Grace isn’t here,” Imogen said, her eyes fixed on Lord Arthur. “And it seems we have a guest today. A very hungry wolf.”
She didn’t scold Arthur. Instead, she pushed her own plate aside and leaned forward.
“I’ve heard that wolves in France are very clever. They don’t just eat. They listen to the sounds of the forest. Did you know that even the King of Wolves knows how to hide his tracks so the hunters can’t find him? He is smart, not impulsive. He thinks, then acts.”
“Really?” Arthur paused, a drop of broth hanging from his chin. “Hunters?”
“Indeed. And a messy table is like a trail of broken branches. If a wolf wants to stay safe in a Duke’s house of all places, he must learn to eat with the quiet grace of a true predator.” She picked up her spoon and moved it with exaggerated, silent precision. “Like this. Not a sound. Can a wolf be that quiet? Can he hide himself fromThe Titan?”
The challenge worked. Imogen watched as Lord Arthur spent the rest of the meal in intense, silent concentration, trying to use his spoon without making a single clink against the porcelain.
The Duke is a ghost in his own home.
As the first week drew to a close, the pattern that began to emerge bothered Imogen more than the boys’ behavior.
She occasionally saw him in the mornings, crossing paths in the breakfast room or in the hall as he headed to his study. Against her will, she would breathe in his woodsy, pine scent, with a hint of brandy, as she passed, and feel the heavy weight of his gaze on her back even though she never turned to see.
He never entered the nursery or schoolroom. He never joined them for afternoon tea. He never asked the boys what they had learned. When the twins’ laughter echoed too loudly through the vents, she would hear his study door shut with a firm, final thud.
One rainy afternoon, as she sat in the window seat watching the boys build a fortress out of sofa cushions, she saw ’the Duke’s carriage pull away from the house.
Leaving for his club again, no doubt… how does he not see… how much these boys need his presence?
“Will Uncle Ambrose like the fort?” Philip asked suddenly, clutching a pillow to his chest. “I think we did a swell job!”
Imogen turned, her heart sinking. “I’m sure he would find it very sturdy, Lord Philip.”
“He won’t come in, Philip. He won’t see it,” Arthur said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. He kicked a cushion, toppling a corner of the wall. “He wants us to be quiet, so he can forget we’re here.”
“That isn’t true, Arthur,” Imogen said, though a part of her feared it was.
She understood now. The boys weren’t trying to misbehave for any other reason than to make an impression upon the Duke. They were screaming for the attention of the only man they had left in the world. They acted out because a scolding from a Duke was better than being ignored by their beloved uncle.
How can he not see what he is doing to these boys by ignoring them?
The realization made her blood simmer, and she began wringing her hands together. Her thoughts raced, and she thought of her own father, how he had kept her in the house but refused to look her in the eye or acknowledge her in any tangible way. His silence had been a more effective weapon than any of Julia’s shrill screams. She shook her head at the thought.
Now, while she was one house over, the same thing was happening. The Duke, perhaps out of guilt or grief, was starving these children of the only thing that could tame them.
That evening, after the boys were tucked in, Imogen didn’t go to her room. With a new sense of resolve, she marched down to the main floor, her footsteps echoing on the marble as she charged. She saw light spilling from beneath the library door and took a deep, steady breath.
She knew her place. While now a governess, she was still a servant, a woman with a false identity and a precarious future. She should have gone to bed and been grateful for the fifty pounds a year. But as she looked at the closed door, she saw thefaces of two lonely boys who needed her to use her voice. And she would find it.
She did not knock as a maid would, softly, tentatively. She knocked with the sharp, clear rap of a woman who had been a ’Viscount’s daughter, and she surely didn’t wait for a “come in” before she turned the handle.
I am on a mission.
“Miss Lewis?” he asked, his voice gravelly. “Is something wrong with the boys?”
