A Governess Should Never… Lure a Spy by Emily Windsor

Author:Emily Windsor [Windsor, Emily]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Senara Press
Published: 2024-04-11T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“The opportunities for instruction in a walk are not to be enumerated.”

Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.

Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.

“When are you marrying?”

Du sublime au ridicule. “Did we not have this conversation last week, Aunt Enid?”

“No harm in repeating oneself,” she replied with a sniff, “especially when you are seen at the art soiree of nitterwits like Lady Tremblelip.”

“Tremlach.”

“Just so.” She raised her amethyst-encrusted quizzing glass from where she sat ramrod straight upon the breakfast room Chippendale chair.

Hugh fidgeted beneath the intense stare and briefly wondered if he could distract her by asking for any hearsay on Lady Twyford as the two were of a similar age. Yet he’d vowed long ago never to involve Aunt in his work. She was damn astute and would likely probe him further, which, considering the dangers, was unwise and–

“Oh, Hugh, you’ve bruises and cuts upon your person. Again.”

“Ruffians in Hanover Square, Aunt.”

She peered from their first-floor window to a benevolent square of tranquillity – children played hoop, ladies promenaded the central garden and a flower girl peddled daisies.

Hugh cleared his throat. “It was somewhat late.”

“Pshaw! That is where gallivanting gets you, my boy. Marriage and babes. That would settle you.”

Amber eyes flitted for a moment but before he could cogitate what that meant, the door opened to display Phoebe wearing her habitual black.

Although…

His gaze widened as her frock did appear to be of this era, if not this season, with a high waist and fitted sleeves. In a deep, rich velvet, it sported a modish square neck but with an ebony lace fichu. It was sombre but elegant, and suited Phoebe perfectly.

“Well, what a fine young lady,” Aunt lauded while accepting a kiss to the cheek. “Been to the modiste’s, have we?”

“Not quite, my lady, although if I’d known they had such a splendid selection of blacks, I might have done so. No, my governess brought this in and, well, I thought I’d try it on.”

Hugh limped forward to give his ward a fierce hug. “You look beautiful. I shall have to rename you my bird of paradise.”

“They’re not black,” she said with a giggle.

Hugh gazed over Phoebe’s shoulder to Amelia with her familiar carpetbag in hand.

“I will ensure you are reimbursed, Miss Jones. My utmost thanks.”

“No need,” she demurred. “I first asked Madame Devy if she had any returns that Phoebe could try on, but she told me you kept an account there to charge purchases to. So, I did.” Her lashes flicked up. And batted. “For other ladies, perhaps?”

Hugh grinned. “For Phoebe in the years to come, needless to say.”

Wide-eyed innocence met his gaze, which he now knew to be an utter sham. “But of course, Mr Cadwalader.”

Aunt’s sharp eyes – with or without the quizzing glass narrowed – so Hugh sought a seat at the table as Cruikshank trundled in with the tea trolley.

“Hugh! Why is this the Wedgwood Imari? I dislike all the brash angles. The Spode Porcelain Peacock pattern is more fetching. Do

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