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“As it happens, I do.” Excellent. The man was clearly besotted, and men in love often spoke of the object of their affection ad nauseam. “I occasionally fancy a match—usually of an evening over a brandy.”
Sharpton’s smile broadened. “Happy indeed was the day Mrs. Hayton chose you for her new tenant. With the exception of Madame Trouvère, I’ve not had a decent opponent in years, though I’ve been trying to teach Freddie—my shop assistant. Poor lad is hopeless, but he tries.” He lowered his voice. “His mind, I think, dwells much upon the daughter of the milliner across the street. Her parents would oppose a match between them, I’m afraid—a shop assistant has little to offer the daughter of a well-to-do milliner, yet Freddie persists in his hope.”
Mr. Sharpton was definitely a romantic. Led by his heart and, therefore, conveniently soft in the head. “I’m a confirmed bachelor, myself,” Will told him.
As expected, his companion frowned. “You seem to me quite an amiable fellow. Why should you not someday marry?”
Throwing him a rueful smile, Will closed the jaws of the trap on his unwary prey. “For the same reason as any man in my position—I’ve little to offer a woman besides my charming self. You’ve got your shop, at least.”
“My shop,” the man scoffed with a self-deprecating laugh. “It’s hardly bigger than a snuffbox. I do well enough for a man alone, but a wife?” He shook his head. “I’d have to set up shop in Little Britain Street, and I cannot afford the rent there. No, no. ’Tis best I stay where I am.”
“Well, perhaps one day we’ll both be in a better position to marry, but for now I’m glad enough to have befriended a kindred spirit. We’ll be bachelors in solidarity.”
By the end of the dinner Will decided he liked his new neighbors, even disagreeable old Mr. Watlow, whose quiet sarcasm made him more amusing by far than anyone else. The man was a curmudgeon, but he had a keen eye and razor-sharp wit—and very little restraint when it came to giving his opinion.
For this reason, he was also someone Will determined to be extra careful around. Despite his having called her “another damned foreign invader” it was plain the man liked Madame Trouvère. He’d have no compunction about telling her of any suspicious behavior on the part of her new employee.
Upon returning to his room, Will opened his wardrobe and stared at the academic robe hanging there amongst his other clothes. A mathematics teacher. Of all the things he’d done since joining Gonson’s Boys, perpetuating this fraud was the most preposterous—and he’d played many roles including, most recently, that of a highborn wastrel.
Scooting his chair closer to the window, he sat and took out his journal to record tonight’s findings. According to Mrs. Hayton, Trouvère had arrived a little more than three years ago from France. A snort broke free as he wrote. He knew French expatriates who hadn’t adopted English manners so well after more than a decade of living here.
A singularly stubborn people, the French. Unlike most emigrants who cheerfully followed the “when in Rome” philosophy, they almost always persisted in clinging to their native ways. That Trouvère would be so…English in her manners was a curious incongruity. Either she was really an Englishwoman who’d adopted a French accent to sound more sophisticated—or she’d been here much longer than three years.
Another incongruity was her conspicuous disinclination to speak of herself. Most females couldn’t resist any opportunity to talk about themselves. Miss Witherspoon was a perfect example. She was always happy to expound upon her “accomplishments” in excruciating detail any time he was within earshot.
But Trouvère was frugal with her words and hadn’t once bragged of her achievements. Having grown up with a houseful of females, Will knew the only time a woman was silent about herself was when she was concealing something she didn’t want others to know.
Mr. Sharpton had described Trouvère as possessing a keen intellect. It was an assessment with which Will, having met her, could only agree. He must take care to never underestimate her.
Chapter Four
September 20
Jacqueline stared at her reflection in the small mirror above her vanity.
Vanity. That she should possess anything with such a name was irony at its finest. The glass was large enough for her to see only her face and hair, a deliberate choice. She had no wish to see the latticework of scars crisscrossing her body.
The man she’d hired was coming today. Having verified his references, she’d written an official offer letter and, in spite of serious misgivings, had sent it. His acceptance had come the following morning, at which point she’d been forced to at last face the reality of her situation and the decisions it had precipitated.
To lose both Mrs. Farrow and Dr. Whitehall had been a sore blow indeed. Despite the difficulties, however, fortune had smiled on her, first in the form of the doctor’s protégé, Basil Horton. Once Whitehall had informed him of her need, the young man had been eager to help.
A quiet prayer of thanks winged heavenward from Jacqueline’s lips. It was a tricky business, letting an outsider in on the secret of her school. Unlike the new teacher, a physician couldn’t be kept in the dark concerning the students’ origins. Dr. Whitehall had treated her own injuries several years ago, and she trusted his judgment, as did Lord Tavistoke.
As for Mr. Woodson, Tavistoke had given his approval for the hire. While not on familiar terms with Lord Mulgrave, her business partner was acquainted enough to feel the gentleman would never write a letter of reference for any man who was less than perfectly honorable.
Smoothing a stray lock into place, she pinned it down and then secured her high collar with a small gold brooch in the shape of a bird in flight, a gift from her friend Lady Montgomery. The tiny blue gem representing its eye winked at her in the mirror, as if to say all would be well.
Gowned from neck to toe in a blue so dark as to appear almost black, she looked every inch the stern school matron. Such severity was intentional. Firm boundaries must be immediately established and then maintained—and not just between employer and employee. The other teachers had been warned not to become too friendly with Mr. Woodson. Civility was expected and indeed encouraged; however, familiarity must be avoided. God forbid any of them should fall in love with the man. She was running a school, not a matchmaking enterprise.
A glance at her mantel clock told her it was time. Woodson would be arriving shortly, and she wanted to be downstairs to greet him. She hurried to reception, and heard his smooth baritone before rounding the corner.
“Thank you, Mrs. Sloane, but I’
ve already broken my fast,” he was saying.
Assuming a pleasant but cool expression, she made the turn. “Perhaps a cup of tea, then?” she offered. “Good morning, Monsieur Woodson.”
His smile was entirely too broad. “Good morning, Headmistress. Tea would be delightful. The walk was short, but chilly.”
