“So, how do you find Phoebe? Have you a plan of lessons for her?”
The band of amber in those irises narrowed. That happened a lot, he realised.
“I am in the process of forming just such a plan, Sir, but am still evaluating Phoebe’s level of knowledge. She appears keen on Shakespeare, wishes to expand on her aptitude for…mathematics and has a dislike for etiquette.”
“Can’t say I blame her.” Hugh leaned forward. “What she needs is subjects to challenge her. Keep her…distracted.”
Because Phoebe was the result of what happened when two spies got shackled and popped offspring: intelligent, ambitious and cunning. He recalled her as a tot, inspecting the four walls of her nursery as though it were a maze to find her way out of.
She had done. The window.
His governess smoothed back a lock of hair. “Distracted from what, Sir?”
“Mischief, Miss Jones.”
“I shall do my utmost then.” And she lowered her lashes to her snuff-hued skirts.
Hugh stared, eyes lingering on her smooth skin. Yet, like the interview, she neither wriggled, blushed nor fidgeted.
Miss Jones was inscrutable, an enigma to be unravelled, a rose of furled crimson petals.
At the Heywood’s affair yesternight, Lady Thurwood had been nothing but candid, hands fluttering and words effusive. An open white flower of summer.
He’d paid her attention, dare he say flirted, as she was one of the ladies on the torn page from Ross’ notebook. She had a cousin who worked in the Home Office, that young chap from Records, but he could find no connection with the Brotherhood of Ravens.
Only as a last resort did he seduce as unfulfilled promises shadowed one’s heart, a short step to losing it in the darkness altogether. A touch of flattery, however, never hurt a soul. Indeed, it could bring a shy wallflower to bloom and a bluestocking to a pink flush.
He redirected his gaze to his governess who stoically studied her skirts, hair prim and hands clasped. An unrufflable closed bud.
“Are the schoolrooms agreeable? Do you require any more writing paraphernalia? Quills?”
“All is perfect, although…paper is always required, Sir.”
Gads, he’d already made sure she had a drawerful. How much could two females get through?
“Very well. I shall instruct Cruikshank to procure more. And I’m afraid I shall be out again this evening – till late.”
Her gaze flicked up at his words. “Thank you, Sir. That’s good to know.”
Hugh just hoped he would return in one piece as tonight was the meeting of the Brotherhood of Ravens and although he considered his disguise more than adequate, had told no one of his search for answers, all it would take was a slipped word from himself and he could find a dagger in his gizzards.
And from previous experience, that could hurt.
More so than his leg. Which had owed naught to sabre-wielding ruffians in Russia but blade-wielding assassins in Shoreditch.
“And,” continued Miss Jones, “perhaps a visit to the modiste for Miss Thornton? She is wearing her great-aunt Rebecca’s mourning attire.”
Hugh shuffled his boots. “I have tried, but I… I do not wish to force her, Miss Jones. Her parents died in swift succession so if she wishes to cling to something for comfort, I will not take that away from her. I did have one small success with the ‘Dusk Blue’ drapery, however.”
Miss Jones’ lips curved to a smile.
It took his breath.
For that smile lit her face, the subdued prettiness transforming to shamelessly captivating.
Hugh cleared his throat.
Then hoped his housekeeper, Mrs Dawkins, wasn’t eavesdropping in the hall or he’d find some peculiar tonic on his breakfast tray tomorrow morn. Invariably cured a fellow, mind, but best not to dwell on the ingredients.
