The comment was a mild one, for him, but as he turned to usher Rose toward the steps, her blue eyes filled with tears. Lucien stifled an annoyed sigh. Sometimes one’s memories remained perfectly accurate, despite the passage of time.
“He doesn’t like my gown, Mama,” she wailed, her lower lip trembling. “And Miss Brookhollow said it was the very thing!”
Lucien had meant to behave himself, at least for today. So much for his good intentions. “Who is Miss Brookhollow?”
“Rose’s governess. She came highly recommended.”
“By whom—circus performers?”
“Mama!”
“Good God,” Lucien muttered, wincing. “Wimbole, get their things inside.” He returned his attention to his aunt. “Does all your attire match so…vividly?”
“Lucien, I will not tolerate your insulting us five minutes after we’ve arrived! Dear Oscar would never tolerate such cruelty!”
“Dear Uncle Oscar is dead, Aunt Fiona. And as you well know, he and my father conspired to see that you would end up here in that eventuality.”
“‘Conspired?’” Aunt Fiona repeated, in an ascending voice that could shatter crystal. “This is your familial obligation! Your duty!”
“Which is precisely why you are here.” He climbed the steps unaccompanied since they seemed content to stand about bellowing in the rain. “And only until she”—and he jabbed a finger in his soggy cousin’s direction—“is married. Then you can be someone else’s familial obligation and duty.”
“Lucien!”
He glanced at his sobbing cousin again. “Would this same Miss Brookhollow be the one who has taught you everything necessary to ensure your success in society?”
“Yes! Of course!”
“Splendid. Mr. Mullins!”
The solicitor emerged from behind one of the marble pillars. “Yes, my lord?”
“I assume our dear Miss Brookhollow is cowering in the second coach. Give her twenty pounds and the directions to the nearest spectacle shop, and send her on her way. I want a posting in theLondon Times. Advertise for a finishing companion for my lovely cousin. Immediately. Someone knowledgeable in music, French, Latin, fashion, and—”
“How dare you, Kilcairn!” Aunt Fiona snarled.
“—and etiquette. Have them apply in person to this address. No names. I bloody well don’t want the world at large to know that my cousin has the appearance of a poodle and the style of a milkmaid. No one in his right mind would want to be leg-shackled to either animal.”
Mr. Mullins bowed. “At once, my lord.”
Lucien left the screeching females behind and strode into the house. That had certainly deteriorated nicely. The headache with which he’d awakened resumed with a vengeance. He should have had Wimbole pour him a whiskey, as well.
At the top of the stairs he paused, leaning his wet backside against the mahogany railing. A series of paintings covered the opposite wall, part of the vast portrait gallery in the Great Hall at Kilcairn Abbey. Two of them, hung several yards from one another, bore black ribbons across their top right corners. One was a passing likeness of Oscar Delacroix, his mother’s half brother. He’d barely known the man and had liked him even less, and after a brief moment Lucien turned his attention to the nearer portrait.
His cousin James Balfour had died a little over a year ago, so Lucien should have had Wimbole remove the ribbon by now. The mourning band served as a reminder, though, of exactly what sort of predicament James had left him in.
“Damnation,” he murmured without heat. His nearest male relation, James would have—and should have—inherited Kilcairn Abbey. His young, headstrong cousin’s thirst for adventure, though, had collided fatally with Napoleon Bonaparte’s quest for power. As the inheritance now stood, once the weepy pink confection downstairs was married, her offspring would have the Balfour titles, lands, and wealth. But after setting eyes on her again, Lucien was of no mind to allow that to happen.
And so the inconsiderate mortality of all his male relations had effectively trapped him into taking the one road down which he’d sworn never to venture. The Earl of Kilcairn Abbey needed a legitimate heir—and so, by logical if unfortunate extension, he needed a wife. But before he could begin that task, he needed to conclude his obligation to Rose Delacroix and her mother with all possible haste.
Alexandra Beatrice Gallant stepped down from the London hack she’d hired and straightened her pelisse. The blue morning dress was the most conservative one she owned, and the high neck scratched at her. Uncomfortable or not, though, she’d been on enough interviews over the past five years to know that a conservative appearance and manner did wonders for one’s employment prospects. And at the moment she needed all the help that she could get.
Shakespeare, her white Skye terrier and most faithful companion, jumped down beside her. Without a backward glance, the hack driver turned his coach back out into the light midday traffic. Alexandra looked up and down Grosvenor Street. “So this is Mayfair,” she mused, eyeing the staid facades of the massive homes.
Though she’d taken positions with landed gentry and minor nobility in the past, nothing compared with this. Gilded Mayfair, the favorite haunt of England’s wealthiest and highest born, bore little resemblance to the rest of noisy, crowded, dirty London. From the hack’s window she’d spied numerous pleasant walking paths for her and Shakespeare to explore in Hyde Park. Finding employment in Mayfair could have definite benefits, provided the young lady and her mother weren’t completely reclusive.
She pulled the folded newspaper advertisement from her pocket and read the address once more, then tugged on the terrier’s leash and strolled up the street. “Come along, Shakes.”
This would be her second interview of the day, and the ninth of the week, with one more prospect in Cheap-side remaining. If no one wanted to hire her in London by the end of the week, she’d have to use her scanty savings to go up north. Perhaps they had never heard of her in Yorkshire. Lately, though, she’d had the sinking feeling that every household, or at least those needing a governess or a companion, knew every blasted detail of her life—and the best she had come to expect was a polite refusal to offer her employment.
