Balancing on his crutch, he slapped his lower thigh, the one I knew was missing. He wore boots, both boots.
“Mrs. LaCroy, you know from your skulking of the underbelly of Hamlin, the catacombs have a gentle slope. That’s a much less taxing way to enter Hamlin when I have this on.” He hit that leg again, and it made aclick, clacksound. “I tire more with this Potts’s artificial limb. One of the reasons I choose not to wear it.”
Blinking at this admission, I set down my sheets and came down the stairs as if all was normal, like I hadn’t examined my employer from head to toe and that he hadn’t volunteered a private truth.
There was a rhythm in my head, sweet and danceable, matching the uptick in my pulse. “Did you have a good morning, Your Grace, drilling for imagined raids of the castle?”
“Imagined?” His brow cocked. “Napoleon has not surrendered. If he wants Russia, his eyes very well could be set on England. Hamlin will be prepared. My staff and my ward shall be protected.”
I stood near him and wished I had one of my fancy silks, one with Mechlin lace on the sleeves, something that made me look dainty and as fragile as I felt. Then a man like the duke would understand how I cherished words likeprotectionandsecurity.
“If you say so, Your Grace. I do feel safer.”
He turned and walked under the chandelier. The tiny sound of clicking surrounded him.
I followed. The scent of snow, maybe a few bush clippings, fresh and herbaceous, hung on him. It felt honest and true.
“Safe with me, LaCroy? It’s good to know you trust me.” As he spun to face me, his jaw had tensed. “You do trust me, don’t you?”
We stood together, two people in each other’s confidence beneath an unlit chandelier. It didn’t seem odd or humorous. The moment held a touch of normalcy, something I could grow used to, if he wasn’t my temporary employer and I wasn’t masquerading as a nanny.
“Well, madam?”
“With my position hanging in the balance,trustis not a word that fits us, but I do take comfort in your preparedness. And I appreciate that you’ve made your men camp in bedrooms, but they need to leave the cannons and muddy boots outdoors.”
“These are serious drills, ma’am. Tomorrow at two, meet me again in the drawing room, we’ll discuss more changes to my ward’s schedule.”
That would make a whole week without being terminated. “Yes, sir.”
He adjusted his hat, a half-moon shako. “I’m going to review the troops from the rear balcony. You and Mrs. St. Maur could come watch me . . . my troops.”
The invitation was fraught with that strange tension that made it harder to breathe. “We have work to do that can be accomplished more efficiently in a quiet house.”
“Then, perhaps, we’ll have to add some time in your schedule for a review. Keep avoiding conspiracies, Mrs. LaCroy. The drawing room at two tomorrow.”
He smiled a knee-weakening smile, then headed down the rear hall whistling my lullaby. The tiny clicking of his stump disappeared.
His voice was strong, not quiet like Colin’s. Maybe that’s why I liked hearing it.
I turned toward the stairs to help Jemina. Should I let her know we were promised another day’s employment and protection against Napoleon?
What more could a girl want?
I didn’t hear the duke’s voice anymore, and I wondered if he dismissed nannies while singing.
CHAPTER 12
THEDRAWINGROOM
Isauntered into the drawing room at ten minutes to two. The duke and his men had finished in here earlier.
My nerves for this meeting should have lessened after seeing the way Repington and his soldiers gobbled up my bread for dinner and my rolls for breakfast. They loved coconut bread, the gooey sweet texture beneath a hearty crust.
But this drawing room was Colin’s. He was always so distant after spending any time in here. I hadn’t been allowed inside when he resided at Hamlin, only when he left.
The last time I saw him go into the drawing room, he argued with a man and Markham. He scolded me for entering, even though it was to bring him and his guests tea.
“Ma’am.”
