CHAPTER ONE
“The governess has been an instructress for some years and has deeply studied the duties of her situation.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
No. 14 Hanover Square, Mayfair, London. May 1817.
“So tell me, Miss Jones, why should I employ you as governess?”
Curse it.
And Amelia lowered her gaze to the mahogany desk in order to portray thoughtful repose.
What a devious question.
Especially as there were countless reasons why the gentleman should, in fact,notemploy her as governess.
She’d never educated a young lady in her entire twenty-four years of life, knew naught concerning the history of art, caredless about the proper use of semicolons, was quite hopeless at all musical endeavours and hadn’t the faintest idea what…tatting was.
Yet how arduous could it be to keep a fifteen-year-old girl occupied?
Just give her a book to read, surely?
So, with a surreptitious intake of breath, Amelia clasped her hands in what she judged to be a suitably demure fashion and raised her lashes to the gentleman who prodded her so.
A Mr Hugh Cadwalader.
His lustrous blue gaze caused that intake of breath to hitch somewhat, so she pursed her lips in a prim manner and sniffed. Governesses always sniffed. But as to his question… “I am well-versed, Mr Cadwalader, in all subjects that a young lady might have need of during her Season.”
Such as how to evade a marriage-obsessed mama at a ball, the varied usages for a yard length of silk sash and the extrication of oneself from the clutches of a lascivious duke with merely a dance card pencil.
“I see.”
Amelia thought that reply most enigmatic. “You have my references?”
“Yes,” he drawled, gathering the papers before him. “My man of affairs has attempted to verify these references, yet it seems your past employers are either not of the living or not currently residing within these isles.” With agile slender fingers, he leafed through them. “Lord Fowler is pursuing parakeets in the Amazonia, Lady Bassett is sifting through sand dunes in the former Mesopotamia, Lady Clifford is combing Constantinople for the Ark and Lady Palin is combing Paris for her errant husband.”
Amelia held his gaze. “How unfortunate.” And tilted her head. “But if you find me acceptable on all other counts, mightI suggest a period of probation until my references can be verified?”
That should give her enough time to search this townhouse, question the servants, note Mr Cadwalader’s movements and read any of his pertinent correspondence, all in order to write a comprehensive report for her superior at the Foreign Office.
For Amelia’s talents lay not in punctuation or musical endeavours but in subterfuge for the Crown.
She could decipher messages coded by the finest that French Intelligence had to offer, incapacitate a man with solely her reticule ribbon, and mingle unseen at society balls and gambling hells alike, just listening and observing.
“A period of probation might be a satisfactory solution,” her prospective employer murmured, returning to the references with narrowed eye, his blond lashes glinting gold.
Outwardly, Amelia allowed no flicker of disquiet but within, her heart pitter-pattered and patter-pittered.
As a rule, her assignments for the Foreign Office were more…unassuming. She played the nondescript wallflower one never noticed until her seat became vacant, the disinterested barmaid who listened in as she poured, or the jaded shopgirl who asked for a signature on the bill of credit.
So to calm the pitter-patter, she turned her eye to this study.
Masculine mahogany bookcases lined one wall, crammed with gilded spines, while a few grouchy portraits fought for attention above. The leather-topped pedestal desk was a palatial affair and as she’d entered the room for the interview, she’d noted its graduated drawers with neat locks that would require no more than the most rudimental of her cracksman’s tools to open.
In one corner was a luxurious chaise longue, a landscape painting of verdant hills above – was the safe hidden behind it? – while a vase of roses sat atop a Sheraton cabinet, the earlyblooms surely costing a pretty penny in this uncommonly chill spring weather.
