Nervous laughter sounded from her daughter. “’Tis exactly how it sounds.”
The next day, rain hit with the force of Mother Nature’s full countenance. Brock refrained from accompanying Kimpton back to the village chapel. He just couldn’t shake the uneasiness that had swept through him the day before and into the night. The odd chanting that sang through the trees hadn’t seemed to breach the walls inside the house, but that failed in comforting him.
Lady Alymer, Lady Kimpton, and Ginny were having tea in the library surrounded by tall shelves filled with books and a blazing fire in the hearth. Irene and Celia were intensely ensconced in their lessons with their governess. The last he’d checked, they were studying French. That had been fifteen minutes ago. The baby was sleeping soundly in his crib with Peg keeping vigil. So why was he so on edge?
He paced the hallways, half expecting specters to float out from the study, the dining hall, the empty bedrooms, up the stairs to the nursery, and back down the stairs to the library. Everywhere dancing shadows were made deeper with flickering candlelight.
On his third trek past the nursery, the door flew back, startling him. Celia bounded out, catching sight of him. “Lord Brockway.” She set her stance and drew up her fists. “Show us how to punch a blighter in the nose.”
He glanced over her shoulder at Miss Lambert, whose lips tightened and eyes narrowed. Just as quickly, her expression cleared, and she faced him solemnly, blankly, with her hands clasped before her.
Perhaps that was the answer, then. Vigorous exercise. Safeguarding lessons. It hadn’t occurred to him that he might not be the only restless one on the premises. Obviously, Miss Lambert did not fall within that category.
He glanced at Irene. “What of you, my lady? Are you up for another lesson?”
“Yes, my lord. I think that may be just what’s needed.”
“Excellent. Change your clothes and meet me in the ballroom. Will ten minutes suffice?”
“Yes.” Celia dashed to her bedchamber.
Irene following serenely in her wake, called over her shoulder, “After I check on Nathan, my lord.”
For the first time since they’d arrived, the tension eased from his shoulders. Today, he would show them how to break free if someone was truly forward and grabbed them by the waist.
“What on earth is that racket? Your daughters must have completed their lessons.” Maeve’s fingers moved quickly, efficiently, and impressively across the sampler she was stitching.
Ginny angled her head, smiling at the distinct patter of steps thumping down the staircase. To her surprise, they didn’t burst through the library door. Instead, muted voices moved past, Celia’s exuberance being the most distinguished, followed by the deeper tones of Brock. Irene was too soft spoken for Ginny to hear, but she knew her older daughter was close on their heels. Composedly, of course.
The image had her grinning. “I suspect they are moving into the physical aspect of their lessons,” she said.
She exchanged a look with Lorelei, and they broke out in a laugh.
“Again, I find myself at a loss,” Maeve said, her fingers never breaking stride.
Lorelei kept silent, and Ginny appreciated her respect in deciding whether or not to bring Maeve into their confidence. She studied the too-bright red of her hair that was clipped back from her face and hung down her back, the myriad freckles covering her nose. “Lord Brockway is instructing Irene and Celia in safeguarding themselves.”
Her flying fingers halted. “He’s what?”
“Teaching them to defend themselves against nefarious scoundrels and their deeds.”
“How on earth is he…?” Her words sputtered off in a trail of disbelief.
Ginny was struck with a mischievous inspiration. She leaned forward and set her tea on the table, then shot them a conspiratorial look. “Would you like to see?”
Lorelei jumped to her feet. “My curiosity outranks decorum.”
Maeve set her embroidery aside and rose too. “I can hardly pass up such an opportunity. Truly, this is… scandalous.”
“A word of warning. I suspect the girls have donned knickers. Keep your gasps to openmouthed,silentgapes.” Ginny led them out of the library. “My guess is the ballroom,” she whispered.
They nodded and followed, all tiptoeing as if they walked on eggshells.
Ginny twisted the knob and cracked the door, listening, then proceeded in, her slippers moving stealthily over the carpet.
The Kimptons’ country house ballroom was not as large as their London home ballroom. The solid wood floor was covered with a brilliant Aubusson, and only two chandeliers hung from the barrel-shaped ceiling. Each corner sported elaborate lattice woodwork that wound up from a decorative cornice border that wrapped the room. Floor-to-ceiling arched windows covered the far wall. That was where Ginny spotted Brock and the girls working. No fire burned in the large grate, so the room was cool, but that didn’t seem to affect the ensuing lesson in progress.
She put a finger to her lips then waved Lorelei and Maeve in. Ginny slammed her hand over her mouth as the spectacle registered from across the room. This was what things had come to. Teaching her beautiful daughters to fend for themselves.
