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Isabelle wasn’t sure either. Well, she was, but it was a nonsensical reason.
Tugging a handkerchief from her sleeve, she skirted the school pianoforte, dashed over and dabbed the blood from her charge’s fingers. “When a gentleman calls, a lady should always have her needlework nearby. This keeps one’s hands from flapping about, demonstrates one can apply oneself diligently to a task and moreover displays one’s ladylike accomplishments.”
A groan rent the schoolroom air. “Perhaps I won’t be a lady. I’ll be an adventuress. Or an actress. Something different!”
Personally, Isabelle thought her charge would go down a storm at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane but… “You are a duke’s niece, Mari, ergo a lady by birth. Now, tie off the griffin’s claw on the sampler and then we’ll enact a rehearsal of how tonight’s banquet with the guests will most likely proceed – focusing on correct usage of cutlery, conversation topics and ten ways to sip soup without slurping.”
“But whhyyyy? It’s so unfair!”
If Isabelle had received a guinea on each occasion she’d heard that whine, she could’ve retired to the Mediterranean and grown oranges herself.
“Life is unfair, ma petite, notably for a woman.” She twisted to face her charge. Perhaps it was time. “You will need to use all stratagems at your disposal in this world of man, especially if you wish to be different. Not only your intellect but your manners, social position and wit. You will need to learn how to maintain a calm disposition amongst the wily Ton and be immune to preposterous male flatter–”
“From the realms of eternity, such beauteous ladies I do behold. Bequeath me your angelic hands so that I might, for one brief moment, know the touch of heaven.”
“Cousin Hugh!” Mari’s sampler sailed to the schoolroom desk as she bounded up and dashed for the doorway, flinging her arms around a most handsome gentleman.
A worse for wear one.
For his skin was waxen, stance slumped, blond hair rumpled and blue eyes glazed.
“Mind my shoulder, Moppet. Had a bit of a…mishap. Just thought I’d pop in to tell you I was here.”
“Was it another duel with an irate husband?” Mari gushed. “Or a lovelorn contessa?”
“Now, now, you’ll have your governess thinking I’m a libertine of the first order.”
Isabelle merely raised a brow as the gentleman disentangled himself from her charge and sketched a low bow. “Pray allow me to introduce myself. For I am the Scandalous Mr Cadwalader, the duke’s distant cousin and heir.”
As an introduction, it was rather a good one and so Isabelle returned her second-finest curtsey. “A pleasure, sir.” But she cocked her head. “You’re not a Cadogan?”
“For my sins, I am a Cadogan also, but the family name of my mother is preferable,” he answered rather enigmatically.
“Well, I am Miss Beaujeu, the new governess.”
“Beaujeu?” He tapped his lip, voice a throaty drawl. “That name rings a bel–”
“There are many of us, I’m certain,” she assured, lowering her eyes to the floorboards.
“No need to be coy, Miss Beaujeu. I also heard your rousing speech to this young lady and must agree.” He twisted to Mari. “You will indeed require all stratagems, Moppet, to survive a London Season with its ever so wicked libertines…” The Scandalous Mr Cadwalader winked. “Scheming debutantes and overly creamed lobster patties. And talking of debutantes…” He staggered to the window. “Have a goggle at this shady lot.”
Below, emerging from the dank mist like engorged snails, were three carriages, one ornate with gold crest, another a muted green and the other a bright yellow.
“Not more guests,” mumbled Mari. “We watched the first onslaught arrive. Poor Uncle Rhys. They’ll eat us out of mansion and home. He’ll end up in debtor’s prison for this.” She dropped her head into her hands. Then glanced up. “And in any case…why come all this way just in the hope of marrying Uncle?”
The Scandalous Mr Cadwalader raised a world-weary brow. “Shall I?”
Isabelle smiled. “Be my guest, sir.”
“Mari, Moppet. He’s a duke. Some say handsome – I won’t put Miss Beaujeu to blush by asking. He broods like Byron, owns lots of acres and I hear tattle of a huge…income.”
The young girl curled a lip. “I’m going to be an actress and never marry. I shall be famous and have pink roses thrown at my gilded slippers.”
Isabelle closed her eyes. Mayhap this employ would be her first failure as a governess.
The Scandalous Mr Cadwalader lifted an unsteady finger to a lady alighting from the green carriage with tremulous step. “That’s the dainty Miss Alys Brecken. Pots of money, no title. Sweet but terrified of her own shadow.”
“Best not introduce her to Mrs Pugh then,” Isabelle muttered before she could halt the words, abruptly realising it would be all too easy to treat the Scandalous Mr Cadwalader with the same informality that he exuded.
