I write in response to your inquiry regarding the position of governess at Ashford Manor. Should you still be desirous of an interview, you are requested to present yourself tomorrow afternoon.
Respectfully,
Mrs. Channing
Housekeeper to His Grace, the Duke of Averleigh
Tomorrow.
Charlotte read it again, her brow creasing.
Tomorrow?
Her breath caught. She glanced toward the window, where the sky was only just beginning to pale. She had written scarcely two days ago—hardly enough time, she thought, for such a prompt reply. The speed of it set her nerves humming.
Before she could second-guess herself, she crossed the hall and knocked on Beatrice’s door.
It opened almost at once, her cousin already awake, shawl drawn close around her shoulders.
“Charlotte?” Beatrice said, alarm flickering across her face. “Is something—”
Charlotte thrust the letter toward her. “Read this.”
Beatrice took it, her eyes scanning quickly. Her brows rose.
“Tomorrow?” she echoed.
“That is what it says.”
Beatrice frowned slightly. “That was … quick.”
“Too quick,” Charlotte agreed. She sank onto the edge of the bed, the letter still trembling faintly in her hand. “It is hardly proper. They must have written back at once.”
Beatrice folded the page carefully. “Or they are in desperate need.”
Charlotte looked up. “Desperate?”
“Well,” Beatrice said, hesitating. “You know of how it is spoken.”
Charlotte stiffened. “How is it spoken?”
Beatrice sighed, settling beside her. “The duke is said to be … withdrawn. Cold. Not much given to society since his wife’s death.”
Charlotte absorbed this in silence.
“And the child?” she asked at last.
Beatrice made a face. “The rumors are less charitable there. I have heard him described as unruly. Wild. A terror to staff.”
Charlotte blinked. “How old is he?”
“Eight.”
Charlotte snorted before she could stop herself. “Eight?”
Beatrice gave her a look.
“I mean,” Charlotte said quickly, sitting straighter, “how dreadful can an eight-year-old truly be? He cannot be plotting revolutions.”
