Seven Minutes in Heaven, Page 3

  “Dissecting, as in, cutting to pieces?”

  “Exactly. Though I think Miss Lumley found Lizzie’s attempted conjuration of the rabbit’s ghost more disturbing,” Mr. Reeve added, as if it were nothing out of the ordinary.

  “I see,” Eugenia said. “I gather the conjuration was unsuccessful?”

  Mr. Reeve’s sudden grin kindled a hot cinder in her stomach. “No phantom rabbit appeared, if that’s what you mean. Lizzie’s brother Otis is eight, and far more conventional. He’ll go to Eton in the fall, but since neither of them has had any schooling, he has to catch up first.”

  Eugenia was thinking about ghostly rabbits, but her attention snapped back to him. “No schooling?”

  What? Had they been raised by wolves? Mr. Reeve’s initial letter had only said that he needed a governess, not that he needed a miracle worker.

  “No formal schooling,” he amended. “They both know how to read. Otis seems to be quite good at mathematics. A few days ago he opened a betting book in the stables, offering proper odds.”

  “What bets are involved?”

  “The question of which horse would produce the most dung collected ha’pennies from every stable boy.”

  A gentleman never mentioned excrement before a lady but, of course, Mr. Reeve didn’t think she was a lady.

  “Until it was discovered that Otis had gifted his chosen steed with fistfuls of carrots in the middle of the night. The bets were returned,” Mr. Reeve added.

  “My uncle is a member of the Thames River Police,” Eugenia said. “I could arrange to have him give Otis a stern talking-to. Has your brother been informed that gentlemen do not take money from stable boys, no matter how interesting the wager?”

  “That’s a very good point,” Mr. Reeve agreed. “Perhaps I should explain that our mother spent the last decade of her life in a traveling theater troupe.”

  Oh, for goodness’ sake.

  She had known—all polite society knew—that Mr. Reeve was the illegitimate son of an earl. But the information that his mother was an actress had been concealed.

  Once people learned about his mother, Mr. Reeve would never receive another invitation. He clearly didn’t care—which explained why she had never met him, and why he had apparently never heard gossip about the widowed lady who opened a registry office.

  In fact, she’d guess that Reeve was so arrogant that he didn’t give a damn what society thought of him.

  No, “arrogant” implied that he had an inflated sense of his own abilities. Eugenia had a shrewd feeling that he judged himself in relation to other men without exaggeration.

  “Do Snowe’s governesses tutor only the children of the rich and titled?” he asked. A note in his voice made Eugenia’s nerves flare in a primitive response, like a rabbit cornered by a fox.

  She was no rabbit.

  She gave him her frostiest look. “Certainly not. My governesses can be found in more than one irregular household; the Duke of Clarence’s five children share three Snowe’s governesses at Bushy Park.”

  Amusement lit his eyes and the air of danger about him evaporated. “I am far more proper than Clarence. There is no counterpart to the lovely Dorothea in my household.”

  Her heart skipped a beat at his lazily flirtatious reference to the royal duke’s mistress.

  “Do you expect commiseration for your household deficiencies?” It was a feeble answer, but all she could come up with.

  Ward shouldn’t be teasing a respectable former governess, but Mrs. Snowe was irresistible. That peony pink in her cheeks was the prettiest thing he’d seen in weeks.

  And she was widowed, after all. He never flirted with married women, or members of his household, but she wasn’t his servant, no matter how much he had paid her for Lumpy’s lachrymose services.

  “I suppose I shouldn’t have mentioned my lack of companionship,” he offered. Her scent was sweet and elusive . . . like dewberries. Tiny berries that smelled sweet but were tart on the tongue.

  “Gentlemen do not bemoan their lack of companionship. Nor, I might add, do they speak of excrement in the presence of ladies.”

  He let out a bark of laughter. She was tart, indeed. “I can tell what you’re thinking, Mrs. Snowe. You think that I need a governess.”

  “It’s too late for you,” she said roundly. “More to the point, I’m afraid that it’s also late for your siblings. How can your brother possibly go to Eton if he’s had no schooling whatsoever?”

  “Otis will learn anything required in no time,” Ward said. “Both children are remarkably intelligent.” After a pause, he qualified reluctantly, “Not that I know any other children their age.”

  She smiled at him—for the first time?

  When she smiled, her whole face changed.

  Every damn bone in Ward’s body—including his most private one—flared with heat. Mrs. Snowe had eyes, a nose, a chin . . . all the ordinary features every woman had. But that smile turned her face into the most beautiful he’d ever seen.

  Maybe they weren’t ordinary features.

  Red lips. Porcelain skin. Hair the color of autumn leaves on fire. She was speaking and he should be listening, but instead he was—

  What the hell was he doing?

  Simmering with desire for a governess, albeit a former governess? He’d lost his mind. At least she was a widow; he’d truly disgust himself if he found himself lusting after a married woman.

  He’d never felt this madness when he was with Mia—

  He seized on that idea with relief.

  This all had to do with his former fiancée. He’d been rejected. This extreme wave of desire was the result of that unpleasant surprise.

  It explained the insistent beat of his heart, which echoed right down his body to—

  It made sense.

  More or less.

  He’d always enjoyed bedding women, and clearly the months of abstention during his betrothal to Mia had taken a toll. He needed to take a mistress.

  Or perhaps make an appointment with a cheerful, welcoming tart. A woman who expected nothing but guineas, and would be surprised by pleasure.

  With an effort, he wrenched his mind back to the present.

  “Miss Lumley is capable of teaching both of them everything they needed to know,” Mrs. Snowe was saying. “She is an excellent teacher of Latin, history, and etiquette—as well as crucial skills such as how to run a household, play tennis, and bake a cake.”

  “Bake a cake!” Ward said. “Why on earth would they be taught that particular skill?”

  Eugenia watched as Mr. Reeve’s face cooled into that of an offended peer. Susan was right: he had a distinct resemblance to an earl.

  “I can assure you,” he stated, “that my siblings have no need for culinary skills. I had a succession of governesses as a child, but not one ventured into the kitchen.”

  “Snowe’s children all learn to bake a sponge cake,” Eugenia explained. “Baking requires concentration and precision, and it has the potential for serious injury. Children enjoy it.”

  He gave her a wry smile. “Knives. Fire. I suspect I would have loved it.”

  “I suppose that you were a very naughty child,” Eugenia observed, despite herself.

  “‘Wicked’ was the word most often employed,” he offered. That smolder in his eyes should be outlawed. It sent a frisson, a little shock, right down to her toes.

  Occasionally she would catch a glimpse of a gentleman turning the corner in front of her, and something about the set of his shoulders or the gleam of his hair would make her remember the excitement she felt on seeing her husband for the first time.

  No gleaming hair here. Mr. Reeve had tumbling brown curls that he clearly hadn’t done more than glance at. Probably no valet.

  Definitely no valet, she amended, glancing at his neckcloth, which was tied with a knot. Not a gentlemen’s knot, but the knot children learned how to tie.

  “Snowe’s cakes have become something of a secret code,” she said h
astily. “An excellent way by which Lizzie and Otis can fit in with their schoolmates.”

  Mr. Reeve shrugged. “They show no signs of anxiety about their manners and are, in fact, astonished when dealt a rebuff. I doubt the ability to bake a sponge cake will prove a magic talisman.”

  “Social bonds come from shared experiences,” Eugenia said. “In the normal course of events, most children will never touch a kitchen implement again, though they are hopefully more respectful to kitchen workers than they might have been. What I have been trying to say, Mr. Reeve, is that I think you should take Miss Lumley back, if she will agree to return.”

  He frowned at her.

  “I have some twenty families waiting for a governess,” she added, “and I think we’d both agree that you have a pressing need.”

  “Miss Lumley will not do.”

  “I exchange governesses only in extremity,” Eugenia said. And, in answer to his raised eyebrow, “For example, one governess attended an extraordinarily compelling sermon on her day out, and thereafter swore off dancing and French lessons. I moved her to a Quaker household.”

  “I wouldn’t mind that one,” Mr. Reeve said. “Lizzie and Otis could do with a reminder of the Ten Commandments, especially the one about honoring your older half-brother.”

  “Which doesn’t exist,” Eugenia pointed out. “My point is that no one rejects a Snowe’s governess merely because he doesn’t like her. ‘Liking’ is not the point.”

  “Tears roll off her like fleas from a wet dog,” Mr. Reeve said flatly.

  Eugenia narrowed her eyes. “None of my governesses should be compared to a canine under any circumstances. Nor a flea.”

  “My siblings have recently lost their mother.” He gave Eugenia a plaintive glance that didn’t fool her for a second. Susan was right; he was used to getting his way and he had no scruples about how he got it. “A sobbing governess—who faints at the slightest distress—is a drawback, to say the least.”

  Eugenia felt a prickle of misgiving. “I know that Miss Lumley is plagued by nerves, but I wouldn’t have thought her anxiety would take the form of constant weeping.”

  “You can take my word for it. It’s not a good example for Lizzie. My sister is already preoccupied by death.”

  “It’s unfair to condemn Miss Lumley for fainting at the evisceration of a rabbit. It’s likely a messy business.”

  He shrugged. “Everyone else managed to stay on their feet.”

  Mr. Reeve had an air of defiance about him now, as if he expected Eugenia to censure his little sister, but she couldn’t hold back her smile. “Lizzie sounds like a most unusual and interesting child, something of a natural philosopher.”

  She almost confessed to her own childhood interest in mathematics, but thought better of it.

  “My sister has arrived at an intriguing theory about bone formation and blood circulation. I am virtually certain that she is wrong, but it hardly matters.”

  “I wish that I were able—” Eugenia began, but she was interrupted.

  Mr. Reeve clearly realized she was about to refuse his request for the last time. His face changed, all its humor gone, his mouth thinned to a tough line. He leaned forward and met her eyes.

  “The children have no family on their father’s side, but their maternal grandmother is pressing to become the guardian of Lizzie and Otis. Given my irregular birth, she has a strong case.”

  “Oh dear,” Eugenia said.

  “She attempted to wrench Lizzie’s veil away from her, and I only found my sister hours later, hidden in the attics. Otis has a pet, Jarvis, to which he is deeply attached and his grandmother has demanded that Jarvis be disposed of.”

  Eugenia frowned. “A dog or cat can be a wonderful companion for a grieving child. If you’d like, I could—”

  Again, she was cut short. “Jarvis is a rat.”

  “A rat,” Eugenia echoed faintly. She had a horror of rodents, having nearly died of rat-bite fever as a young girl.

  “If Jarvis is banished to the stables, Otis will follow,” Mr. Reeve said. “I have no parental experience, but I believe that taking Lizzie’s veil by force was not a good idea.”

  Eugenia nodded.

  “Their grandmother is a harridan, Mrs. Snowe, who has already expressed her belief that the children should be whipped into shape. Whether or not she means it is hardly the point: she is not a suitable guardian for children who have lost both their father and mother in a matter of a few years.”

  “You make a very good argument,” Eugenia said, adding, “None of my governesses employ corporal punishment under any circumstances.”

  “I need a governess,” he stated, eyes still focused on hers with unnerving force. “When you signed a contract giving me Miss Lumley, you promised me just that. A woman in constant floods of tears cannot persuade the House of Lords that my household is a suitable place to raise Lizzie and Otis. I need a governess with backbone, who can stand up to their grandmother during her visits.”

  He was right.

  “I believed Penelope Lumley would do well because she is loving and an excellent model for conventional behavior,” Eugenia explained. “I do see that she was not ideal under the circumstances. I shall find you a replacement.” She hesitated. “Is there anything else I should know about the children? They are eight and nine years old, am I right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps you could tell me more about the veil?”

  “It is black lace, falling to Lizzie’s shoulders. She removes it only for meals and dissection.”

  Eugenia felt a sudden twinge, remembering how she herself had longed for a mother as a young girl. “She must desperately miss her mother,” she said softly.

  “So it seems,” Mr. Reeve replied.

  That was an odd answer, but Eugenia didn’t have time to investigate; she had a prickling awareness that the Duchess of Villiers had certainly arrived for her appointment by now. One did not keep a duchess waiting.

  “I shall do my best to find you a new governess,” she assured him, holding out her hand. “In three days at the most.”

  He shook it, briskly. “I appreciate that, Mrs. Snowe. I shall return on Monday.”

  Chapter Four

  Early evening, two days later

  Eugenia stared down at the proposed advertisement for the registry office that Susan had plunked down on the desk. Snowe’s . . . By Royal Warrant of Appointment was inked at the top, with a flourish.

  Below that an artist had drawn her profile—with a halo of flourishes.

  It wasn’t a terrible likeness, though her maid wouldn’t recognize that tight chignon. Eugenia touched her hair lightly, just to make sure that her loose curls hadn’t transformed into a head of snails, à la Medusa-turned-governess.

  “Lady’s Magazine is requesting approval,” Susan said. “And the afternoon post has arrived.”

  She put it on top of that morning’s post, still untouched.

  At the bottom of the advertisement, under Eugenia’s portrait, an ecstatic mother was raising her hands heavenward. Oh, Rhapsody! My darling Daughter is betrothed to a Lord!

  “Is that woman supposed to resemble Mrs. Giffton-Giles?” Eugenia asked. “Because I doubt she’ll enjoy discovering her likeness in print.”

  “Certainly not! That lady represents all of our happy mothers.”

  “At least those whose daughters married lords,” Eugenia corrected. “Won’t it foster unrealistic expectations?”

  “Last season alone, girls in our charge became the new Lady Bartholomew, Lady Festers, and Lady Mothrose. Everyone knows that our governesses launch a girl better than anyone else can.”

  Eugenia pushed the advertisement across the desk. “I suppose it will do.” She hated the use of her image, but the truth was that her standing as the widowed wife of a lord was the backbone of the registry office’s success.

  Without warning, her heart gave a little jerk. How could she be a widow? Even after seven years, it still seemed impossibl
e. Surely Andrew would stride through that door any moment—

  “Genevieve Bell has agreed to go to the Duchess of Villiers, though they’ll have to wait a month since she’s in Bath with an elderly aunt,” Susan said, interrupting her train of thought. “Alithia Midge will join Mr. Reeve in Oxford, but only if he agrees to pay her a resettlement bonus every month until Michaelmas term begins and his brother leaves for Eton.”

  “Excellent,” Eugenia said, pulling her thoughts back to the present.

  “I’ll send a note by post asking that Mr. Reeve pay us a visit at his earliest opportunity,” Susan said. “Or would you prefer I send a messenger directly?”

  “The latter,” Eugenia said. “Charge it to his account.”

  Her remarkable attraction to Mr. Reeve was surely the result of exhaustion. That man merely walked in the room, a twinkle in his eye, and she had felt slightly dizzy.

  It was only natural that she felt a bit unsteady at the thought of seeing him again. She would be calm, cool, and professional.

  “Right,” Susan said. “It’s time for a sherry.” She headed to the other side of the room. In the last few years, the two of them had fallen into the habit of sharing a glass of wine at the end of the day.

  It wasn’t always easy to determine which governess to send to which household, as well as contending with imploring letters sent by those governesses a week later, asking for advice. Any of them could handle a routinely wet bed, but a boy who takes to pissing on the walls, for example?

  Snowe’s—in other words, Susan and Eugenia—had to weigh in with advice. (In that case, it took two glasses of sherry to decide that one nursery wall should be temporarily sacrificed until bribery lured the boy to a chamber pot.)

  “I’ve been thinking,” Susan said, once they were both settled in front of the open French doors facing the back garden, “how odd it is that the two of us are such good friends.”

  “I don’t find it odd in the least,” Eugenia replied.

  “My father was a gentleman, but you—you’re nobility.”