As LaCroy earned a firing for being a spy. Sad eyes and a fine figure wouldn’t save her.
CHAPTER 10
THENURSERY
Stairs were awful, evil things.
That was Busick’s new opinion of them. The steep treads to the third floor were nearly impossible. He hastened his steps, but midway up, he tired and slowed his rhythm—breath held, crutch pointed, strain, breath released. Again. He repeated this until he’d reached the third level.
He started to pull out his watch to see how slow his timing had been but decided against it. Since Busick set the schedules, he’d break them today.
At the nursery door, as softly as possible, he pushed it open.
His pique diminished at the sweet scent of lavender.
Freshness. He pushed inside.
Piles of sheets lay on the floor, balled and rolled up as if there had been a struggle. Doors to a wardrobe lay open. Drawers pulled out and emptied. It was chaos as if she’d been looking for something.
Then he spied the crib.
It had been polished and scented with orange oil. His soldier lay fast asleep on fresh sheets. The little fellow’s snore was sweet, like a tune cranked from his mother’s music box.
The nanny spy had her back to him, and she looked out the window. Her chin was raised, and whatever she saw through those wide eyes held her captive.
Easing a little more into the room, he couldn’t help but admire her profile. Long auburn tresses, curly and thick, had escaped her mobcap and rested upon a slim neck. Her posture was straight, as if she’d been taught to do so. A printed fabric of blue checks draped gentle curves that screamedwoman.
How could he ever have thought LaCroy was a man? Busick’s senses must be slipping.
Stepping closer, he noted her lengthy lashes. They could curl about Lionel’s pinkie, maybe Busick’s, too.
How long he studied her, he didn’t know. But her appeal had nothing to do with her hiring status. “The room doesn’t pass inspection, Mrs. LaCroy.”
She didn’t look at him. Her face remained steady toward the glass. “I have to start with the basics, Your Grace. Everything must be cleaned and dusted. Nothing in here was up to my standards, so I know it fails yours.”
Oh, she was a good spy. For how would she know what he liked? He stepped over one of the piles. “I despise disorder. This reeks of disorder.”
“It r-reeked of a great deal more. Once I’m done, it will r-reek no more.”
The rolling of thersound was faint and soothing like a stream lapping upon the shore. This woman had spent some time abroad, but where? Spain? One of England’s colonies?
“I trust that you’ll have this done in a timely fashion.”
“I will, sir.”
He cleared his throat, but she still did not turn. Her attention remained committed to what was outside the glass. “I’ve come to talk . . . about schedules.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Her voice sounded tired, and her gaze remained distant.
A panic stirred inside near his well-developed sense of vanity. Maybe she couldn’t look at him. Perhaps she, like Gantry, couldn’t engender respect because of his injuries.
Anger stirred in Busick’s gut. A missing limb didn’t limit his abilities. It did not change his stature. He navigated closer. “I’m your employer. I demand your full attention. I’m due that.”
When she turned, there were tears in her eyes. Those polished stones leaked, and his heart shook.
It seemed as if he intruded, but on what? Was it grief for her lost child? Something else?
