Apparently, this was a test of great cunning, although Hugh had no idea of the answer. Fortunately, Aunt Enid had written it at the bottom of the page.
“May I use my notepad to chart the lineage?”
“By all means.”
As she rummaged around in her carpetbag for writing accoutrements, he studied this likely candidate. Although he should amend that to sole candidate as yesternight he’d had to turn away the employment agency’s Miss Harvey when she’d staggered up the steps late and reeking of gin. Then not an hour past, a promising Miss Kane had arrived, slapped his left cheek and stated she’d never work in such a filthy den of iniquity.
The injustice of it! His housekeeper kept this townhouse spick and span.
Miss Jones returned from rummaging and bit her lip. It was an agreeable lip – sweet and pink as a rose, his favoured flower – and his eyes lingered upon her.
Dainty. Most pretty. But in a subdued manner that may cause some men to overlook her. Blond hair, lighter than his own, was sleekly knotted at her nape, and her demure eyes flickered a true amber that even from across the desk he could see harboured golden flecks. Her skin was of an English rose also, and though the gown was a voluminous rainy-day grey, he could perceive a diminutive but exceedingly well-proportioned figure.
A comely woman.
No.
A governess.
A perfect governess.
Yet…
Her countenance showed no expression. Just that perfect demureness combined with an additional stillness that surely could not be natural. He could not say for certain if she was content or melancholic, at ease or troubled.
It was…unusual, such perfect stillness, and he tapped his lip.
An enigma.
“I would need to know if he was a soldier or vicar.”
“Eh?”
Her eyes shimmered like swirling whisky – smoke-infused and complex – before the shimmer vanished like a Welsh dawn mist. “This duke’s third son.”
Hugh peered to Aunt’s scrawled question. “Er…”
“And had he a title bestowed for any other accomplishments? In natural sciences or astronomy, for instance.”
“Well…”
“And was his father, this fourth duke, deceased or non-deceased? And did the son have the same mother as his siblings?”
“Might have?”
“Were the rest of the family non-deceased?”
Hugh shrugged.
Miss Jones’ lips thinned. “I’m afraid I cannot possibly give an answer without full clarification of the circumstances, Mr Cadwalader. If a deadly fever had struck the fourth duke and also his two eldest sons, then the third son could now be the fifth duke for all I know, and the lady in question would therefore be addressed as Your Grace.”
Which was exactly what Aunt had written at the bottom, so he should make haste and offer her the employment.
He owed his ward’s deceased father so much, and Phoebe needed a governess, a feminine presence in her life now that her great-aunt had recently become too ill to provide a home for her.
But gads, why did all this have to happen now? He thrust a hand through his hair, watching Miss Jones as she sat in perfect bloody stillness. What might it hide? he wondered. For in his native land of Wales, the lakes so still on the surface could conceal a myriad beneath – dark treacherous depths or sweet restorative welcome.
Hugh shook his head.
