His partner hurried down the street, folders of papers flapping in the breeze his pace created. “See?” Hugh cried. “It’s perfect. We’re not far from Holyrood. A brand new row of terrace houses will be snapped up by statesmen, at the very least.”
“How many of those flats are empty?” Now that he had time to consider, Drew was pretty damned certain the poor devils living in that squalor wouldn’t know where to find a solicitor, even if they could afford one, which they couldn’t.
Hugh blinked, pulled out his reports, and shook his head when he couldn’t find the answer in his numbers. “I don’t know.”
“If people are still living in flats with no wall, then they’re desperate, and I’m going to assume every room in every building is taken.” Counting the floors in the three buildings, Drew made a hasty calculation. “Not counting the shops on street level, I estimate seven floors of ten rooms each, times three buildings, minimum one person per room—at least two hundred people. Quite likely two or three times that.”
Hugh glanced nervously up and down the alley. The street was so narrow that women had hung clotheslines across it. Overhead, skirts and long underwear flapped briskly in the breeze. A gaggle of children kicked a rock down the street. Drew waited for his assistant to grasp that people lived in these piles of crumbling stone.
Surely Lady Phoebe didn’t. If that was her he’d seen, she must be one of the bored philanthropists determined to improve what couldn’t be improved. She had no case.
Hugh was no doubt right. Tearing down these cesspools would be doing everyone a favor.
Loud voices emerged from the tenement Bennett had entered in pursuit of the eccentric female who might or not be Lady Phoebe. A shoe flew out an open window, followed by a flower pot. The shoe was a man’s.
“Will he throw the tenants out the window next?” Drew asked, watching with the morbid fascination of a spectator unable to prevent out-of-control vehicles from colliding.
An enormous raven swooped low, screeching in its raspy voice, landing on the rotten frame of the open window. The argument escalated. Drew wondered if he should intervene, but he wasn’t entirely certain if he’d know which side to take—the story of his life these days.
A moment later, the raven screeched and entered the building. The shrieks that followed were decidedly masculine.
“Looks like it’s Bennett who will be flung out,” Drew decided.
“Do we rescue him?” Hugh asked, staring at the building with incredulity.
Drew considered it. “No, I think we insist that Bennett relocate the tenants. We can’t afford to be sued.”
He walked away, leaving the manager to whatever fate the odd female chose for him.
Still fuming over the early morning encounter with Bennett, Phoebe pedaled furiously across the bridge, toward the almost rural environs of the veterinary schools. Before she even considered committing herself to servitude, she needed to speak with someone in charge of the schools. Perhaps she could owe the tuition.
And if nothing could be worked out now, she needed to remind herself of why she must accept Mr. Blair’s damnable contract in hopes of her future education.
There were actually two schools for animal doctors in the same area. She had heard that the university was now accepting women, even if they wouldn’t give them degrees. The vet schools were private, but they associated with the university. Times were changing. Maybe it wouldn’t matter if she was female.
Heart pounding so hard she feared she might pass out, Phoebe entered a door marked Office. A woman sat there, and her hopes rose.
She walked out five minutes later, shattered. They did not take women. They did not have scholarships, even if she were a man. They taught courses on horse anatomy and breeding, which were not at all proper for ladies. They gave their degrees to farriers with the ability to deal with large bovines, not to frail females who would undoubtedly faint if they smelled dung.
Trying not to weep in frustration and despair, Phoebe walked her bicycle toward the newer veterinary school, when she heard a mewling cry. Students brushed past her, too caught up in their own affairs to notice or even care. It was quite obvious these men didn’t consider small animals worth studying.
Never having had a need to stick to any schedule, Phoebe lingered, listening.
Would she be able to wander and linger once she had a contract? She was supposed to be on her way to speak to Mr. Blair’s partner now.
Heedless of the time, she leaned her penny farthing against a wall, lifted her skirt, and clambered down a grassy hillside. A tiny wet kitten clung to the bank of a stream. It appeared to be a lovely ginger. Glancing up at the bridge she’d crossed earlier, Phoebe uttered as many curse words as she could summon while gathering the poor creature into her skirt to dry it off. She didn’t need to read the creature’s mind to know that it had been flung into the water—possibly with its siblings.
There were no signs of other kitty survivors. She hoped they’d escaped on their own. Distracted from her own woes, she wrapped the trembling creature in her handkerchief just as the castle’s one o’clock gun went off. She was late.
Striding up the bank, she tucked the kitten in her other coat pocket and reclaimed her bicycle. “Where will I keep you if I sign this contract?” she asked Piney and the new kitten. They didn’t answer, of course.
Above, Raven screamed, and she frowned in memory of the morning’s confrontation with Mr. Bennett. Her pets needed a home.
“Mr. Blair has a lovely rooftop,” she told the bird. “I’ll bring you treats. You were brilliant today.”
The raven was smarter than the marten. Phoebe didn’t know exactly how much the bird understood, but he’d known to attack Bennett when she called him.
“He thought he could threaten me,” Phoebe said, still amazed at the landlord’s audacity. “I think we showed him. Maybe I should ask the lawyer about the other tenants. Surely they have rights too.” Only her pets would listen to her radical notions.
Maybe she couldn’t be an animal doctor anytime soon, but she could see about suing her landlord and the consortium. She would visit the family solicitor right after she met with Mr. Morgan, which gave her another idea.
Remembering Mr. Blair’s admonition about hiding her bicycle, Phoebe chained it to a decorative fence in the park rather than wheel around to the carriage alley and traipse back to the front again.
Mr. Blair lived in a row of attached terrace houses constructed of ashlar stone, each one with identical windows and pilasters and steps up to the first floor. Pretty, but boring, Phoebe decided as she climbed the well-scrubbed marble.
She’d had Raven check the roof as she rode up to be certain the children weren’t attempting flight again. The only thing interesting about this position was the children. For them, for her aunts, for her future, she would go through with this. Somehow.
The same petite maid answered the knocker. This time, she didn’t argue with Phoebe but bobbed a respectful curtsey and led her down the hall to a small dark office.
Phoebe tried to reach out to the children with her mind, but she’d never been successful with anything other than the simple thought-images of animals.
A large, auburn-haired man with mutton chops and spectacles stood to greet her, looking vaguely uncomfortable. “Lady Phoebe? Hugh Morgan. I was expecting you earlier. I have another meeting and don’t have time to go over the finer points of your contract now.”
Feeling rebellious and not ready to be pinned down, Phoebe nodded knowingly. “Of course. I’m only here to pick up the papers and deliver them to my solicitor. I never sign anything without his advice.”
Her family solicitor would fall on his face in shock if he heard that bouncer.
Mr. Morgan blinked in surprise, removed his spectacles, and polished them. “Naturally, yes,” he spoke slowly, as if finding his way around the words. “I suppose that is wise. He can explain the details, although he may not understand their necessity. Mr. Blair is most concerned about the wel
fare of his wards.”
She needed to remind herself of why she was even touching these papers—the children.
“Commendable. In that case, perhaps you could show me to the nursery floor and whatever accommodation you have in mind? We shouldn’t delay the children’s education over minor details like pieces of paper.” Without giving the poor man a chance to protest, Phoebe turned on her heel and headed for the stairs.
Having no memory of the earl who had fathered her and died adventuring, Phoebe was a stranger to discipline. Her mother had been an invalid in Phoebe’s adolescent years. Their servants, such as they’d been, had no hold over her. She knew exactly how to get her way.
Poor Mr. Morgan didn’t have a chance of holding her back.
She swept into the nursery where Enoch idly bounced a ball without touching it, and Clare and Cat whispered to a wall, while a bewildered nursemaid looked on.
“Are you ready for a walk in the park?” Phoebe cried, appalled that their active minds had been reduced to such tedium.
As the children shouted in excitement and raced for their coats, poor Mr. Morgan coughed and sputtered. “Mr. Blair doesn’t want them introduced to the public just yet.”
With a militant gleam in her eye, Phoebe tightened the ribbon on her hat. “And that is why a contract will not suit at all.”
Five
With Miss Higginbotham’s gloved hand on his coat sleeve, Drew matched her small steps and strolled—minced might be a better word—toward his neighbor’s house. Miss Higginbotham was everything a wife needed to be—quiet, thoughtful, well-versed in society, fashion, and etiquette, the kind of well-bred female who would support his projects and impress his investors. She would mind his household while he devoted his attention to inventions.
Maybe she’d even persuade Cook to feed him when he was ready to eat.
Behind them, her aunt, Mrs. Dalrymple, drilled holes in their backs. It was damned difficult to court with the scheming besom watching their every move.
Miss Higginbotham was a pale blonde with a generous dowry from her deceased merchant father. Her uncle, his neighbor Dalrymple, had helped Drew when he’d arrived in the city. He also belonged to the investment consortium. The lady was a respectable match.
As Rose had been, but she’d vanished the instant Simon’s brats had descended upon him. He needed to introduce Miss Higginbotham to his household under controlled circumstances that wouldn’t send her screaming into the street.
How likely was that?
Hearing childish squeals, Drew frowned. The nannies had been told to keep the children hidden, for excellent reason. He’d have to see that this never happened again.
He hurriedly steered the lady up the stairs to her aunt’s home. The lady resisted, peering over her shoulder to the park. “I never hear children playing. This neighborhood is so very staid and elderly.”
Her formidable aunt glared in the direction of the fenced patch of greenery shielding the respectable terrace houses from the noise of the street. “Children should be seen and not heard,” Mrs. Dalrymple announced ominously.
“I’m sure they’ll be in a classroom soon,” Drew said, eager to park the ladies so he could redirect the children. “I had a lovely time this afternoon, Miss Higginbotham. I hope you will allow me to call on you again.”
“What is that woman doing, climbing a tree?” Mrs. Dalrymple continued to glare at the park. “Since when are riff-raff allowed in the park? Isn’t there a key to the gate?”
Drew desperately tried not to look in that direction. “I have a meeting shortly and must leave you at your door. I will send a note around tomorrow, shall I?”
It was no use. Mrs. Dalrymple sailed off to clear the park of riff-raff, which Drew was pretty certain meant his wards and their new governess.
Lady Phoebe was a teacher, so he couldn’t call her a nanny, right? Never having grown up with them, the complexities of servants eluded him.
“My aunt is quite opinionated on the matter of proper behavior for children,” Miss Higginbotham murmured apologetically.
Since those were more words than he’d heard from her all afternoon, Drew was forced to heed them. “I’ve never given the behavior of children any thought,” he admitted. “But I should think they ought to be allowed to play.”
“Oh no, that encourages rebellion,” she whispered. “They must be taught to mind at an early age.”
For the second time that day, he heard heated voices raised in argument.
“This park does not belong to you, madam.” Lady Phoebe’s ringing vowels were apparently meant to carry over the din of screaming children. Polite remonstrations didn’t stand a chance against that foghorn voice when she chose to use it. “If you continue to frighten the children in such a manner, madam,” the governess continued with ire, “I shall be forced to call a constable. Come along, children, we shall sing a merry tune and disperse all angry vibrations.”
Vibrations? Drew winced as the governess launched into a nursery song that his wards knew well enough to scream at the top of their lungs, however untunefully.
Since the dainty woman on his arm wasn’t in any hurry to miss the circus, Drew surrendered in defeat and turned to watch Lady Phoebe and the weans marching from the park, singing at the top of their lungs. The tawny-haired twins were adorable in matching pinafores. How could anyone scold them? Enoch. . . well, the sturdy lad looked just like his dark father, who had the devil in him.
The governess had removed her faded duster and flat hat. Considering what she was wearing, he almost wished them back.
Today, she wore a completely unfashionable short walking dress in cherry-red with no ruffles, crinoline, or panniers to conceal her boots. Admittedly, the pretty striped bodice accentuated her girlish figure. She did not sport the puffed-up foolery other ladies wore, so he could see her slender bosom and waist were as nature made them. He discreetly glanced down at the pouty pigeon bosom of his companion and wondered how much was lace and wire and how much was real.
As the children marched toward him, he faced his doom.
“Ah, Mr. Blair,” his new governess called happily. “You are home in time for tea. The children wish to show you what they have learned today.”
“Mr. Blair!” Mrs. Dalrymple cried in horror, waddling after them. “Surely these creatures do not belong to your household.”
Damnation. He’d hidden the creatures for nine months. One rebellious governess. . . and the secret was out. He could strangle her.
Lady Phoebe didn’t look the least concerned as she approached his fashionably dressed companion. Like any other privileged aristocrat he’d ever known, she stuck out her gloved hand as if everyone would be pleased to meet her. “Hello, I am Lady Phoebe Duncan. You must be Mr. Blair’s neighbor. I hope we will become better acquainted.”
Dashitall, the woman had more nerve than a carnival barker.
Miss Higginbotham automatically bobbed a curtsey. “Dahlia Higginbotham,” she whispered, in obvious awe of being addressed by a noble.
“Dahlia, go inside at once. This is no lady.” Mrs. Dalrymple swung on Drew. “And you, sir, are no gentleman to keep such. . . creatures. . . as this in your household.”
Ow.
With a big, bright smile, the governess addressed her nearly apoplectic accuser. “You may write my uncle, the Earl of Drumsmoore, to verify my identity, but I warn you he will find it extremely obnoxious behavior. Our family is well known, although due to their courageous and often reckless behavior, my father’s side is small.”
Lady Phoebe turned her smile away from Mrs. Dalrymple to Drew. “We shall meet you over the tea table.”
Turning to the children, she gestured for them to hustle up the steps next door. Eyes wide in curiosity, they hastened to obey.
Drew wondered where the ferret was. Or weasel. Or whatever.
He glanced at the lady’s skirt but couldn’t see if she had pockets. He could tell, however, that she had well-rounded hips that swayed delect
ably. How the hell did he reprimand an earl’s daughter?
“Is she really related to an earl?” Miss Higginbotham whispered as her aunt grabbed her elbow and dragged her toward the door.
“And probably half the aristocracy, including the queen,” Drew said with a sigh. Hugh had looked up her genealogy. Lady Phoebe very definitely existed.
Both women managed to look horrified, for different reasons, as they retreated inside.
Muttering about aristocratic arrogance, Drew stomped down his neighbor’s steps and up his own.
Phoebe held back a sigh. She really needed to learn to resist temptation. But the children had looked so bored, she’d impetuously set aside her intention to visit her solicitor. And then she’d seen the imposing Mr. Blair walking with that insipid piece of fluff and the dragon lady—and all sense had flown out the window.
She’d mentioned her uncle. She never did that. She despised the old miser.
But she’d taken an instant dislike to the harridan calling her students insulting names, and one thing had led to another. . . and here she was, with Mr. Blair glaring down at her as if she’d developed two heads and horns.
She tugged at her gloves and smiled mindlessly up at him. Even though she’d worn her best heels, he was taller. “Are you too busy for tea? I can teach them proper etiquette in the nursery, but they are very eager to make you proud of them.”
“Doesn’t a governess belong in a nursery?” he asked with what almost sounded like genuine puzzlement.
She suspected from Mr. Blair’s less-than-polished accent that he’d never had a governess or a nursery. She really shouldn’t take advantage of him, but she simply did not approve of pretending children didn’t exist.
“Perhaps an ordinary governess and ordinary children might be hidden from sight,” she said brightly. “But I am a tutor, and your wards are not only gifted, they are exceptionally intelligent. They require extra attention. As I said, we can have tea in the nursery, but it might be advisable to know what they are learning.”
Lessons in Enchantment Page 4
