“Well, that will be all. Perhaps just a weekly meeting will be sufficient from henceforth?”
If the previous smile had taken his breath, this one blinded him.
“Perfect, Sir,” she nigh cooed, rising to her feet. “Weekly is perfect.”
He stood as she curtseyed but narrowed his eyes as his governess and her well-rounded posterior positively sashayed from his study.
One could almost feel insulted.
As he’d mused, Miss Jones was an enigma but…
Too many crowded his plate as it was, so he locked the desk drawer, shoved the key to his fob pocket and left the study to ready himself for this evening.
He wouldn’t be seeing Miss Jones with her captivating smile and amber gaze for another week and that was a good thing for all concerned.
Hugh setone boot out the kitchen door and–
“Uncle Hugh, why are you wearing a tatty soldier’s uniform? And why haven’t you shaved? And why are your gloves holey? And why–”
“A masquerade ball, Phoebe.”
She scrunched her nose as she approached him. “Are you telling me the ladies like that unwashed look?”
“Well, yes,” he replied quite honestly. “And why aren’t you with your governess?”
“Miss Jones is placing cutlery for me to practise with.” She rolled her eyes. “I mean, there’s only one way to wield a bread knife.”
In fact, there were several but he digressed. “Do you like her, though?”
Her nose waggled and her arms swung as though she were about to impart a profound secret. “She’s…tolerable. AlthoughI still don’t believe she knows what tatting is. Or crewel embroidery. Or tambour work. A most odd governess, if you ask me.”
Hugh stifled a smile. “Well, I’m gratified she’s tolerable, but you should return to her.”
She stayed put and instead took up her favoured stance of folded arms. The candlelight illuminated her ashen skin and forlorn gaze. “Are… Are you going out searching for those who killed Papa?”
His eyes closed for a moment before he spread his arms wide to draw Phoebe into a fierce hug. “Ah, my precious blackbird, I can hide nothing from you, can I?”
“Of course not,” she spluttered into his coat before drawing back. “That smells of mothballs. And I know… I know about Papa’s death. What they said about him.” Her lashes drooped. “Great-Aunt Rebecca relished telling me.” Then they lifted with fierceness. “But I also know Papa would never have done anything like that.”
Hugh cursed her great-aunt, knew that even if she recovered from her illness, he’d never send Phoebe back. When Ross had died, he’d not stood in the way of her great-aunt but now he wished he’d kept a closer eye.
“You are correct, Phoebe. On all counts. But this is between us alone.”
She harrumphed. “Of course. Mama told me discretion is a spy’s first rule.”
“Please don’t tell me your mother also told you of…rules.”
“Well, bits and pieces. She believed some would be useful in whatever I chose to do: beware of those who seem too good to be true and always answer a question with a question.”
“Gads, any more I should know?”
She pursed her lips. “Why are you asking?”
Hugh grinned and hugged her tight, despite the splutter. “I suppose next you’ll be badgering me to come along on these nights.”
“Lud, no. I’m only fifteen.”
He heaved a sigh of relief.
