Two, fit in it as best you can, excelling only as far as you’re allowed and never drawing attention to yourself. The perfect quiet bastard daughter, the best-behaving stepsister, a stern governess who kept the children in line.
Three, never question the rules. Their order offered sanity, protection. To defy them was chaos—a cold street for a bed and an empty belly, just like the life she’d known before her father had taken her in, before her stepmother had taught her how to avoid her mother’s fate.
And four, never accept red stockings from a stranger. That last rule a new one, but terribly important. Midnight intruders were rule breakers, chaos makers, and she wouldn’t let the allure of sparkling eyes and a well-formed quirked-up mouth tempt her to disobey.
But… tonight chaos had looked like mercy, like love. Somewhere out in the dark night, a Christmas angel existed, and just the thought of his finely shaped arse sneaking in through the window made her feel a little less alone.
1
BUT WHAT ABOUT HER STOCKINGS?
December 10, 1835
Christmas fast approached, and Sir Nicholas Bowen was ready. In a fortnight, he’d slip through the window once more, heaping modified coal into the stove and leaving new toys on the children’s beds. This time, they’d know better than to show off their prizes. This time, they’d keep the damn things. And surely the soused secretary of the foundling hospital wouldn’t notice the new long-burning coals for several days at least.
Nico predicted a successful run this year.
If the governess would cooperate.
He saw her as soon as he entered the hospital courtyard. Miss Dean stood in front of the large door, behind a small boy, her hands on his shoulders. A vision of prim propriety. Everything about her average from her height to her features to the brown gown encasing her frame. What people saw who weren’t good at seeing.
Nico saw a rare sort of woman, the kind with a heart as strong as her spine and a brain as sharp as her tongue. Her primtrappings hid well the sumptuous beauty of her honeyed hair. No coiffure could be more severe than hers, no shoulders more set. If she only knew what he was thinking every time he saw her.
What color are her stockings? Red?
God, he hoped so. But she never flashed them. Never gave more than a peep of her practical little half boots. The length of her skirts was infuriating, demonically precise, supernaturally prudish. What magic did she use to keep them eternally in place? No magic. She had none. Just sheer will alone. Or perhaps some speck of her family’s transcendent blood inhabited her veins, laying mostly dormant, focusing itself entirely on her hemline. Didn’t matter that women couldn’t inherit transcendent magic. If anyone could defy nature, it would be her.
If she just lifted her damn skirts a half inch, he might see red. His mad impulse of a Christmas gift might encase her calves, which were, in all likelihood, finely shaped, the perfect size for his palm as he ran his hand up her leg. Governesses didn’t need toys, he’d told himself a year ago; they needed things of a practical nature. As if a man secretly gifting a woman stockings was practical. As ifred—he removed his hat and ruffled a hand through his hair—was practical. As if knowing a woman for a mere fortnight and wanting to kiss her was practical.
Good God,focus, Nico. Courtyard. Orphans. Task at hand.Focus.
“Good morning, Miss Dean,” he said, sweeping low for a bow.
Her brown eyes glowed in welcome, but her pink lips thinned. They always did, their tightness growing or lessening depending on how far he took his flirtations. He’d rein it in for now. Business first.
He smiled at her small charge. “Good morning, Timothy. My friend Lord Knightly will soon be here to sweep you away to London. Are you ready for an adventure?”
The young boy’s head bobbed up and down, a duck on a choppy waters.
Miss Dean gently tugged his earlobe. “Timothy is quite excited to begin his apprenticeship with Lord Knightly’s father.”
“Mr. Grant is one of the best alchemists in England, and Timothy will become an excellent alchemist under his tutelage.” Nico had noticed the boy’s aptitude earlier that summer when he’d sent sparks flying off a copper cup. “Lord Knightly’s sister, Miss Grant, is traveling with him. She bakes excellent biscuits. I would wager she’s made some for you.”
The boy grew solemn as he looked up at Miss Dean. “Can I have one? It’s still morning, and you say we can’t have sweets until afternoon.”
Miss Dean’s gaze flashed to Nico, softened. They both knew damn well the boy never had any opportunity for sweets. Biscuits were not merely a rarity, they might as well be nonexistent. “You may have as many as Miss Grant pleases to give you. You’ll be in her care starting today.”
Timothy’s eyes brightened. Likely, he already salivated.
“And where is the hospital’s illustrious secretary this morning?” Nico asked.
“Mr. Jameson is sleeping.” Miss Dean’s voice possessed a sigh across every syllable.
Jameson enjoyed brandy a little too much. He was supposed to control the day-to-day operations of the foundling hospital since its owner, the Duke of Morington, lived in London or at his country seat. He merely controlled the already too-tight purse strings while Miss Dean managed the children.
Miss Jane Dean.
Did she recognize him? A question his mind rolled over and over whenever he saw her. She’d never even hinted that she suspected he was the man who’d kissed her last Christmas. It had been dark. His veins had pumped with the exhilaration ofdoing something… inadvisable. He’d tried to give the toys to Mr. Jameson the day before, had been rejected. Children of the sort housed in the hospital, Mr. Jameson claimed, should become used to doing without luxury. Toys were luxury.
