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The impression she gave of constant movement, as if she were a flickering flame, licking at his library furniture as well as his composure.
“Poor Michel.” India rose from her chair. “I didn’t know he suffered from night terrors. I’m sure Miss Perkins will set him to rights.”
He shook his head. “I can’t hire her.”
“And why not?”
“You saw what she did to my model engine. Too troublesome.”
And tempting. Far too tempting.
“Footmen, eh?” India tilted her head. “I rather think it would be dukes she’d distract. Give her a chance. What can be the harm? You’re gentleman enough to resist a pretty face.” She laid her hand on his arm. “You’re not like Father.”
“Precisely,” he said shortly. “I’m nothing like Father.” And never would be. Everything he did was done in opposition to that man’s cursed memory.
The late duke had been a drunkard—Edgar never imbibed. His father had been a lecher with a taste for serving girls—Edgar would never make advances toward a servant.
His father had believed a nobleman should never dirty his hands with trade, and almost ruined the family in the process. Edgar had rebuilt their fortune with his foundry.
“Shall we see how Miss Perkins is faring with the constable?” asked India.
“More like how the constable is faring with Miss Perkins.”
As they descended the stairs, India paused. “Oh I almost forgot to tell you the other reason I visited today. You’re hosting an antiquities exhibition for me.”
She drew a card from inside her jacket and handed it to him.
His Grace the Duke of Banksford is pleased to extend an invitation to an evening exhibition of the antiquities discovered by Lady India Rochester on her recent expedition to the temple complex at Karnak...
“I can’t host a society event here. You know that,” said Edgar.
“You’re turning into a hermit. All you do is work on those engines. It might be diverting. Mrs. Fairfield would enjoy planning a party, I’m sure.”
“I don’t want a herd of inquisitive antiquarians poking about my house.”
“Well they’ve already accepted their invitations, so there’s nothing to be done,” she said breezily. “Oh look.” She pointed toward the entrance where the constable stood with his arms crossed over his leather belt. “Miss Perkins is lecturing the constable.”
Indeed, the constable had a chagrined expression on his ruddy face, while Miss Perkins’s blue eyes blazed with cold fire. The children stood on either side of her skirts, and Mrs. Fairfield hovered nearby.
“Poaching?” Miss Perkins exclaimed. “I must have misheard you.”
“They was poaching, all right, miss,” said the constable. “Shooting pigeons in Hyde Park, bold as you please.”
Adele jutted out her chin. “We weren’t poaching.”
“We were hunting snakes,” explained Michel.
“You shot a pigeon with your sling, young sir.” The constable leaned forward. “And you clipped my ear in the process.”
“They are dreadfully sorry about that. Aren’t you, children?” asked Miss Perkins, bending to stare at first Michel and then Adele. “Apologize to the constable.”
Michel scuffed the carpet with his boot. “I’m sorry for shooting you, sir. I was only trying to rescue our snake from that mean old pigeon. And I did it, too!”
He reached into his pocket and extracted something slender and olive green in color.
Something which proceeded to twine over his wrist and rear a shiny black head.
“Snake!” shrieked Mrs. Fairfield, leaping with surprising alacrity onto one of the carved wooden chairs that decorated the entrance hall.
