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“Lady Samantha—” he said, starting toward her.
“It was lovely to meet you,” she cheerily replied before slamming the door in his face.
CHAPTER7
The porter ushered Braden into the entrance hall of the Penwith Charitable Foundation, a distinguished old building that once served as the residence of a Scottish nobleman. Though sparsely decorated, the hall retained an air of grandeur, with its impressively high ceiling and a magnificently carved oak staircase that decades of polishing had mellowed to a smooth patina.
Braden handed over his coat, hat, and blasted new walking stick. Logan, the old fusspot, had insisted he begin carrying the thing.
“A sturdy cane can be very handy if you don’t have your pistol,” Logan had said to him the other morning at breakfast. “Especially if it’s got a good knob on it.”
Little Pippa had scrunched up her nose. “But, Papa, you don’t carry a walking stick.”
“Papa just uses his fists, darling,” Logan had replied. “That usually does the trick.”
“I’d like to note that I’m quite handy with my fists,” Braden had then pointed out. “I was on the boxing team at university.”
Logan had flashed him a smile. “Were you? Well, that’s splendid.”
Needless to say, Braden now carried an ebony walking stick with a heavy silver knob.
“That’s a dandy stick,” the porter said in an admiring voice. “Ye could give someone a right good clobber with that one.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve been speaking with my brother, have you?”
The man frowned. “Er, what, sir?”
“Pay me no mind. Where’s the boardroom?”
“I will take you up, Dr. Kendrick,” came a voice from behind him.
Braden turned to see a woman approaching across the hall. She stopped a few feet away and dipped into a graceful curtsy.
“Good afternoon,” she said in a low, well-modulated voice. “I am Mrs. Girvin, the housekeeper for the foundation.”
She was a remarkably attractive woman, probably in her early forties. Her wheat-gold hair was neatly braided, and her features were lovely enough to grace a lady’s magazine. She also possessed a lush figure that didn’t square with Braden’s image of a housekeeper—at least the housekeepers he’d known over the years.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Girvin.”
She gestured toward the staircase. “Lady Samantha and the board are waiting for you.”
A medical emergency had delayed him. He almost wished his late showing would get him kicked off the board, but he doubted John—or Lady Samantha—would tolerate that.
For such a dainty lass, Lady Samantha certainly was masterful. While he’d initially thought her a bit awkward, the lovely widow had soon rolled him up. When she’d hustled John out of the clinic, it left Braden gaping after them like a booby.
“As you might already know,” Mrs. Girvin said as she led him up the stairs, “this building serves as the girls school.”
“Yes, and the orphanage is next door.”
“The boys are both housed and taught next door. As you would understand, it makes sense to keep our facilities separate. Most of the rooms on this floor are given over to classrooms,” Mrs. Girvin explained when they reached the first floor. “Kitchen and service rooms are on the ground floor, and offices and a dormitory for some of the girls are on the upper floors.”
“Do you also serve as housekeeper for the orphanage?”
“I manage both institutions,” she replied in a rather clipped tone.
For a moment, Braden thought he’d offended her. Then he realized that her speech carried a very precise inflection, as if every word had been weighed and measured before it emerged from her lips.
“How many boys live at the orphanage?”
