“My ward is…” With jaw taut, he glanced away. “I have been her guardian for less than a month, since her great-aunt became too ill to look after her, but she is…unlike other young girls.”
Amelia cocked her head. She’d researched this wardalready. A girl of just fifteen, her mother had succumbed to a fever two years past but her father had been lost to her only eight months ago, the circumstances of which, Amelia had not been informed of.
“How so? Is she shy?”
Those perfect lips grinned all of a sudden, eyes tempering to wicked mischievousness, and Amelia abruptly understood why a plethora of handkerchiefs were strewn in his path by the prettiest ladies of theTon, and why he was pursued with invites to the most scandalous parties held by the loftiest dukes in the land.
And yet, what the handkerchief-discarding ladies failed to grasp, what the deferential dukes who chortled at his droll tales failed to realise, indeed what the entireTonfailed to see…
Was that the Scandalous Mr Hugh Cadwalader was also a spy for the Home Office, and the sole reason for Amelia’s assignment was to assess whether he was moreover a traitor to his country.
“I’ll leave that for you to decide,” he said with a laugh. “But my ward did have an unusual upbringing.”
“So did I,” replied Amelia, her first sincere remark of the interview. Perhaps she and this ward would deal well together.
Though if the worst came to the worst and an element of governessing did happen to be required, she’d purchased a colossal tome on the subject, costing her six shillings and seven pence in expenses.
EntitledPrivate Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies, Edition 1815bya Miss Elizabeth Appleton, she had read two chapters thus far and realised that the knowledge to be acquired by a future debutante would keep this young lady busier than a horse’s tail in summer.
So, while this ward was occupied with finding suitable matches from Debrett’s1814 Baronetage of England, Amelia would carry out her assignment, pen her report and depart forthwith.
Mr Cadwalader drew a hand through his dishevelled blond hair and scrutinised her with that indolent azure gaze.
Yet within those azure depths, something…dark and perilous lurked.
That flare of flame lit within her once more.
A voice whispered…
Caution, Amelia. Caution.
Hugh ruminated.
He ought to offer Miss Jones the position of governess without a moment’s hesitation.
She held superlative if not presently verifiable references, a demure mien, intelligent amber eyes, perfect answers to his earlier questions and, to be blunt, he had more urgent demands upon his time.
Yet a certain unease had crept to his shoulders.
An innate warning that had stayed his tongue, so he glanced down to the supplementary questions that his Aunt Enid had stated were crucial in gauging the suitability of a modern educator of young ladies.
Of course, it would have been easier if Aunt Enid had conducted this interrogation herself, but the moment he’d mooted the idea, she’d dashed for the door faster than a maid on her day off.
So he frowned at Aunt’s scribbles.
Gads.
“Just one or two further questions, if I may…” He cleared his throat. “Have you a broad knowledge of…tatting?”
Her amber irises widened. “But of course, Sir.”
Good enough for him, and in all frankness, she could have told him it was a newly discovered moon of Saturn and he wouldn’t have known better.
“What blessed fortune. And secondly, how would you address the fourth duke’s third son’s wife at a ball?”
Those amber irises were briefly shuttered.
A little underhand, perhaps.
