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Mrs Pugh shook her head and sipped her tea.
“But I don’t understand. You are a valued retainer in this household. He will listen.”
“Hah! When all’s said and done, I’m no more than a servant, so I’m not so sure. The Pughs have cared for the Llanedwyn earls since the dragons soared but if Lady Elen hears of me interfering in family matters, she could convince the duke to throw me and Mr Pugh out on our Pen ol.”
Isabelle could guess what that meant.
“I can’t afford to cause trouble. Not at my age. And my Mr Pugh has bad eyesight. He’d never get employment elsewhere.”
“Well, I suppose I could have a word as I was going to request a mee–”
“Splendid,” said Mrs Pugh, snatching the biscuits away. “You could go now.”
“Now?”
“Aye. No time like the present, for he’ll doubtless be in his study. Scribbling.”
Isabelle stared longingly at the tasty morsels, but Mrs Pugh merely clutched them tight to her black-clad bosom, so with a scowl, Isabelle rose to her feet. Never in all her years as a professional governess had she been subjected to such underhand tactics…
Blackmail by cinnamon biscuit.
When one wishedto avoid a duke, Isabelle mused, a duke would appear in the most unexpected places, and yet when one required an audience, a duke was nowhere to be found.
For not only had she to convey her own and Mrs Pugh’s concerns over this letter, but also to interrogate him – ask him, she meant – as to why he’d not told her of Mari’s nightwalking in the first place.
As per Mrs Pugh’s instructions, she’d knocked on the study door but with no answer, she’d peeked into the breakfast room to find solely a yawning Lady Nesta harpooning kippers. The entrance hall lay deserted but for five footmen, all standing in idle attendance of the guests’ forthcoming morn needs.
Isabelle dithered.
Mayhap her employer had gone for an early stroll and those cinnamon biscuits would have to be held hostage till luncheon. Besides, if she ceased looking for him, the duke would likely appear from nowhe–
“Miss Beaujeu, were you looking for me?”
See.
She patted her skirts.
The duke entered through the main portal like some Eastern Pasha with his concubines – the bold Lady Bronwen and the timid Miss Brecken – on either arm, as though he couldn’t quite decide which temperament he preferred for breakfast.
His hair was wind-tousled, cravat untidy and lips parted.
Isabelle lowered her eyes. “It can wait until you are…less occupied, Your Grace.”
“No, no. My niece takes precedence. Do excuse me, ladies…” he said, disentangling himself, “we shall continue our conversation during our visit to the village.” After a hasty bow to them both, he strode for the study door, thrusting it wide. “Shall we?”
The prospective duchesses curtseyed to his spine, glared at Isabelle as though willing her to perdition before twitching their skirts and stomping towards the breakfast room.
Isabelle stepped into his study, so different to that of his London townhouse. Less…neglected, this had more daylight and more books stacked in precarious piles. Two magnificent globes book-ended a rich-red velvet chaise longue and the desk was scattered with papers bound with ribbon.
The duke rounded his desk and wafted a palm. “Please, sit.”
Tendering her gratitude, she did as requested, keeping Mari, Mrs Pugh’s concerns and those captive biscuits in mind.
“Your Grace, I wish to talk with you as I… I discovered your niece late last night…in the corridor.”
He sat heavily in his chair, the leather creaking. “Ah.” And stared across the desk, eyes as pitch as a raven’s wing. His features showed no softness – all was sharp planes and rugged dips.
She straightened her shoulders, folded her hands and returned his stare, vowing not to let her temper come to the fore. “As governess to your niece, I feel you ought to have informed me of her nightwalking. At our interview, I daresay?”
