“Secret, Celia. Society will not look favorably on the lack of our unladylike comportment.” Irene carried herself with that of a well-trained debutante in her third-plus Season. Baffled by such wisdom from the starchy-demeanor miss, Brock could only stare. She turned back to him with her hands folded before her. This child needed shaking up in the worst way.
He narrowed his eyes on her prim muslin dress. A wide blueish-green sash was tied into a large bow at her back. She needed to be ruffled, to get dirty without hysterics. Hysterics? He almost laughed. Rising from his crouched position, he slowly circled her. She followed his movements with her head. “You are correct, Lady Irene, our lessons are secret. Perhaps we should speak about that.”
Her brows needled. “I don’t understand.”
“Well, I’m trying to decide if I should teach you to escape or give you pointers in what a villain might hoodwink you into believing to lure you away.”
“I wish to know how to escape,” Cecilia announced with the familiar echo resounding.
Brock waited, his anticipation palpable. Irene was a fascinating study in the sense of witnessing the soul of a dowager in the body of a child. A tiny sound touched his ear. It could have been the last and softest ringing of Cecilia’s demand. To Brock it sounded almost like a snort, but Irene’s expression never flickered.
“I should like to hear how someone thinks they could outwit me.” Her lips tipped up in a small curl. It didn’t really count as a smile. Perhaps he could change that by the end of their lesson. If they didn’t run out of the house and into the square screaming.
He shoved away his black thoughts with a sharp nod. “Then that is where we shall start.” A small sitting area had been set up for them, and he directed them over, waiting politely for them to sit before following suit. He lowered himself across from them, contemplating how to word the horrors flitting through his mind at breakneck speed.
Cecilia opened her mouth. He was quick to stay her with an open palm. “We shall address this portion as Lady Irene requests.” Her mouth snapped shut. Irene had trained her well. He contemplated them, his fingers steepled. “Tell me. What are your passions?”
Irene’s frown was censorious.
“Ilovedogs!” Cecilia said.
Perfect.He swiveled to the five-year old and took up her hand. How tiny it was to clutch his heart and draw blood.
“Suppose some ordinary bloke, or dandy—”
“What’s a dandy?”
“Not dandy, but gentleman. What if a gentleman approached you and said he had a hurt puppy? A puppy that could only use the touch of a little girl’s hand. Would you follow him to check on the puppy?”
“A-course,” Cecilia said.
From the corner of his eye, Irene frowned.
“And if the gentleman was lying?” he asked Cecilia.
Her blue eyes widened. “But why should he lie?”
He squeezed her hand, leveled Cecilia’s gaze with his. “Because his intentions are disreputable.” Tears pooled in her eyes; he couldn’t have hated himself more.
“What does ‘disreptble’ mean?”
“Nefarious?”
She shook her head, causing her tears to fall.
“A not very nice person with wicked intentions.”
She swiped the back of her hand across her nose. “But why? I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
“Of course you don’t, sweeting. But not everyone is nice like you and your sister.” He pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed the tears from her cheeks. “What else?” he forced himself to ask, keeping a covertly watch on Irene.
Irene’s face remained impassive, not an encouraging sight. Then she said, trepidation marked in her frown and her quiet tone, “If something happened to Mama.”
Cecilia’s gaze shot to her sister’s, and Brock’s followed. “Yes,” he agreed softly. “Someone could fabricate the well-being of someone you care for deeply and use that to their advantage.”
Irene’s gaze met his head-on with a long, long pause. “Your point is made, Lord Brockway,” she finally said with a tightness that worried him. “Perhaps we should convene to the portion of the exercise for a physical need to escape.”
He glanced at Cecilia, whose thumb had found its way to her mouth. Her widened gaze missed nothing, flitting between him and Irene. “Will that meet with your approval, Lady Cecilia?”
