“Hello, darling. Young children do seem prone to avoiding the worst of mishaps.”
“I suppose that is fortunate,” she returned. “How was your shopping excursion?”
Ginny made a mental note to speak with Miss Lambert in supplanting Irene with language more appropriate to her age of nine, not forty. “I survived, but I’m more interested in how your safeguarding instructions fared.”
Irene frowned. “’Tis more complicated than I expected.”
“Oh?”
“I broke Lord Brock’s snare,” Celia crowed.
“Snare?” Ginny asked faintly.
“He showed us how to escape someone who might grab our wrist.” Ginny took no comfort in Irene’s unpretentious discourse. In point of fact, Ginny thought she might need her smelling salts as she fell into a nearby chair, her gifts clattering to the wood-planked floor.
“Did Lord Brockway happen to explain how one might end up in such a situation?”
Irene slipped a fan in Ginny’s hand. “You look pale, Mama.”
“He ’splained how someone might try to hoodwink us to do their bidding,” Celia said.
Ginny snapped open the fan and frantically fanned her face.
Irene took Ginny’s face in both hands, eyeing her critically. “Mother, are you certain you are up for this?”
Ginny’s dread deepened. She tried for a steadying breath, having to settle for a weak nod.
“He used two examples an ordinary person might fabricate in a situation to take an unfair advantage.”
Ginny rubbed her temples. “Irene, could you simplify your meaning? I’m afraid the inside of my head must resemble a mesh of mashed vegetables.”
Celia scrunched her nose. “Eew.”
With one look, Irene quelled her. She turned back to Ginny. “He said someone might tell us something has happened to someone we love.” Ginny should have been stunned at her pronounced affront. Instead, she felt ill.
“He was talking about me, wasn’t he?” she whispered.
“Not just you, Mama,” Celia said, clearly undisturbed. “He said someone might use a hurt dog or kitty too.”
“I’ll kill him,” she said under her breath, hating herself more because it was herself she wanted to shoot. He was only doing what she asked of him.
“Celia, I believe Mama needs a… a hug.” For once Irene was unnerved.
She snatched both girls into her arms. “Yes, that’s exactly what I need.”
Irene held herself stiff while Celia squeezed her neck until she couldn’t breathe. Within a minute, Irene’s hug was just as tight. Ginny shut her eyes against her own tears, terrified at what she’d unleashed. Right now, she held the child of nine, not forty.
Ginny nodded just as a tap sounded at the door. Peg peered in. “Ma’am. Kipling sent me to inform you that Lord Brockway awaits you in the parlor. He also said to mention he is dressed for a night on the town.”
Irene’s head jerked up. “Thank you, Peg.”
Eyes skyward, Ginny stood. Irene was definitelynota child, if ever she’d been one. “Thank you, Peg. Tell Kipling I’ll be down momentarily.”
“He’s with the baron and baroness.”
Good heavens.She almost tripped on her gown racing from the room.
The urge to pace or not was a physical pain. Brock planted his feet and stared out the windows, wishing he could smash his fist in Wimbley’s pug nose. How could Ginny have sprung from the loins of this simpleton? Her mother, a pretentious baroness, was even worse.
