At any other time, he would travel with Phoebe to his family in Wales, let her breathe in the pure air and allow it to heal her sadness over her father, let her regain her laugh with his kith and kin, as he could never just send her off to some soulless school. Besides which, his ducal cousin had married a governess for devil’s sake, and Isabelle would, without question, offer to assist but…
The whole lot of them were in the Mediterranean and weren’t due back for another month or so.
If only he could give Phoebe more, give her all his time, but he was getting closer…
Closer to the Brotherhood of Ravens and–
Accompanied by a knock, the door opened and his butler Cruikshank popped his gaunt physog around it. “Sir? A message.”
With a nod to the governess, he rose and strode to the butler, read the note and pondered. Then he returned his eyes to the back of this governess’ perfectly pinned blond hair, and although she must have felt the weight of his stare, she neither shifted, wriggled nor stirred.
With the corner of the re-folded note, he scratched his jaw.
Perfection did not exist; a sweet rose always hid thorns.
And that unease crept to his shoulders once more.
“Well, Miss Jones, thank you for your time. I will send word with my decision in a day or so, as it seems I have another governess to interview.”
She spun in her chair and, just for a moment, he thought to see a profound golden fire burn in those eyes…before it was doused in a blink. If there had been, it blazed deep within her, and he briefly wondered if that lick of flame would scorch a man to ash.
“Of course, Sir.” She rose. “Might I enquire as to her name? We governesses are most familiar with one another.”
“Ah, it’s a Miss Webster. Are you acquainted?”
“No.” Her lips quirked, the first hint of expression he’d observed. “But I’m quite sure I’ll be making her acquaintance soon.”
After a shallow bow from him and a deep curtsey from her, Cruikshank held open the door and she walked from his study with measured step, before the clack of her boot heels upon the hall tiles paused, doubtless to collect her bonnet and coat from the maid.
Hugh reached for the whisky decanter, filled a glass, slugged a good measure and with it clutched in hand, meandered to stand by the window overlooking Hanover Square.
The softest of clicks sounded from behind the wall with the stuccoed mouldings and he glanced over one shoulder as the hidden door set within was pushed ajar.
Nigh-silent footsteps crept to his side.
“I suppose you were listening in, my little blackbird?”
“Of course, Uncle Hugh.”
Despite the moniker of Uncle, there was no shared blood between him and Phoebe, and together they turned to watch the governess as she descended his townhouse steps, continued her measured walk across pavement and cobbled road, before pausing at a gate to the Hanover gardens in the centre of the square.
He brought the whisky glass to his lips, but then likewise paused as Miss Jones pitched her head back and scowled at the scudding clouds, the cold spring wind whipping her grey skirts, fist clenching on the handle of her carpetbag.
And that perfect demure expression fell to downright peeved as she stamped her boot.
Hugh felt his lips curve. It appeared the rose wasn’t so perfect after all.
His ward merely snorted. “I don’t believe she knows what tatting is, Uncle.”
“To be fair, Phoebe, my love, neither do I. Some kind of feminine hairstyle perhaps?”
“That’s plaiting.”
“Vermin elimination?”
“That’s ratting.” A rare snigger emerged, a pleasure to hear, so he slung an arm around her slender shoulders, her abomination of a black dress rustling.
“Well, we have a second governess to interview tomorrow afternoon, so perhaps she’ll know.”
“But I don’tneeda governess for my future, Uncle. What can they teach me but endless etiquette and pointless punctuation?”
“Oh, Phoebe. You know I must, my blackbird. I agree about the punctuation but you also need feminine company and a broad education to be whoever you wish to be.”
A harrumph.
Hugh pinched his nose. Perhaps it was fortuitous there was a further interviewee, as his intuition sensed too beguiling an enigma beneath the still waters of Miss Jones.
Phoebe’s arm linked with his, her dark hair coming to rest upon his shoulder while his eyes shifted to the window once more.
To find that Miss Jones had simply vanished from sight.
