Still,somethinghad propelled him to the entry hall to wait for her.
Fear, likely. Fear that she’d turn up to say all the wrong things. Fear that she’d turn tail and run the moment she met Imogene and Ivy. The girls were fragile, for all that. Theperson he ultimately hired to train them would require a very particular brand of patience and compassion.
Or perhaps he was afraid that she might not come at all?
Oh no, he thought. She must come. Surprise royal assignment or not.
If she didn’t come, he’d be alone with the girls.
For the fourth time, Ian paused to squint through a rain-streaked window into the street. He checked his pocket watch. Ten o’clock. He looked again and—
And there she was.
Right on time.
The raindrops on the windowpane distorted her to a smear of orange and burgundy. She’d come on foot. Apparently, she was not deterred by rain.
Ian stepped back, and let out a breath.
“Greenly!” he bellowed, summoning the butler.
“Aye, Your Grace,” the old man called, shuffling to the door with glacial slowness.
“You’re sacked, Greenly,” Ian said.
“Pray do not tease, Your Grace,” said the old man.
“All staff. The lot. I’m replacing you with a wagon of circus performers. They couldn’t do worse.”
Miss Trelayne’s knock was firm and professional, and Ian froze for half a beat. It was a confident knock. Prepared. Intentional. No wonder it startled him; didn’t she know everyone in this house flew about by the seat of their pants?
“Her, too,” Ian grumbled, leaning against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. “Sacked.”
“Very good, Your Grace,” appeased Greenly, pulling open the heavy door.
Ian would sack no one, of course. His problem was too few people in his life to help him, not too many.
Or, hesupposedthat was the problem.
If I knew the bloody problem,he thought,I would solve it.
“Yes?” Greenly called to the stoop.
“Hello,” said the voice of Miss Trelayne.
The sound conjured up the image of flame-orange hair, lithe tallness, a jarring splash of freckles on pale white skin.
Ian frowned again. He was not fond of red hair. Or freckles. He didn’t like remembering the distinctive details of people he barely knew. Given the choice, he preferred to forget most people.
If only he’d not devoted quite so much time in Kew Palace to studying her distinctive orange hair, and freckles, and litheness. But there had been nothing else to do.
“How do you do?” Miss Trelayne continued to the butler, “I am Miss Drewsmina Trelayne. I’ve an appointment with Lady Tribble and her daughters, Miss Imogene and Miss Ivy. It was arranged by His Grace, the duke.”
Of course she would not ask for him. Naturally,rightly, she would ask for Timothea and the girls. It was for the girls that she’d been hired. In a normal household, inhabited by a normal family, the girls would be under the purview of their mother. She’d said exactly the correct thing.
And maybe that was why he’d been lying in wait; he’d wanted someone, anyone, to come here and say and do the correct bloody thing.
“Very good, miss,” said Greenly. “The family are expecting you. Follow me, if you please.”
