“But Mrs. Dart?—”
“I’d do as she requests, brother.” Atlas leaned against the squabs, his big arms crossed over his chest, his eyes like marbles. Was he playing Mrs. Dart’s protector? From Drew? Absurd.
Best not to cross Atlas, though, when’d he’d chosen a cause to champion. Drew stroked his index finger down his nose, over the bump there he tried to forget, tried not to see in the looking glass every morning. Noses broke easily beneath fists. So, too, did other things.
“Very well, then,” Drew said. He could drop the matter. For now.
They discussed the various properties until they stopped before the door of the Waneborough Charitable School of Art. The coach creaked as Atlas stood and stepped down. “You’ll help me interview the candidates?”
Drew straightened his gloves, pulled out and checked his pocket watch. “I’ve my own business to tend to.”
When Atlas offered no response, Drew snapped the watch closed and looked at his brother. Damn him, standing there looking… soulful.
Drew sighed. “Very well. I’ll help.”
Atlas grinned, nodded. “My thanks, brother.”
“We’ll return this afternoon.” Drew slipped the silver watch back into his pocket. “Mrs. Dart is to stay here during our time in London, and I will stay with Maggie. I assume you will, too?”
Atlas nodded. “I won’t be here long. A night or two at most.” He tipped his hat as the coach lurched forward once more.
“How long will we be in London?” Mrs. Dart asked.
“Hopefully not long. But I’d like to have acquired a property before we return to Manchester. No longer than a fortnight.”
She nodded and looked out the window. She seemed… agitated. Her hands were clasped so tightly together in her lap, the thread that held those little pearls at her wrists seemed in danger of snapping. Her lips had turned into a thin line. She reached over and picked up her bonnet. It had idled on the seat beside her—between her and Atlas—all trip long, and now she fastened it to her head, something she never did until momentsbefore descending the coach. She was hiding from him beneath that shadowed brim. But why?
“Mrs. Dart?—”
“We’re here. This is the first address. Two of them, of course. At Aster Square.” She slipped her hand inside her pocket, pulled out the watch he’d given her for her birthday two years ago, an exact replica of his own. “And we’re on time. And having come all the way from Briarcliff. Perfectly punctual as usual, Lord Andrew.”
The coach slowed, and they sat in silence until they could disembark and stare together up at the row of terrace houses. They set off for the door together, too, their strides matching in length and pace, the only difference between them trousers and skirts.
“Do we really need so much space?” Mrs. Dart asked. “A third- or fourth-rate townhouse would be quite sufficient.”
“Not if we wish to impress the families who hire our employees. They need to see the noble sides of their governesses and tutors. They come from titled backgrounds, but for one reason or another, they must work. They no longer have the affluence bestowed on them once upon a time by their names. We must provide them with the appearance of all that they have lost. To remind the families seeking their services of who they are—individuals worthy of their respect. First-rate townhomes only, Mrs. Dart. It’s just good business.”
The door to the townhome swung open, and a balding man with a wide grin stepped out. “Lord Andrew?”
Drew nodded and the other man bowed. “Mr. Beggsly, I assume,” Drew said. “May I introduce the woman who runs the agency for me—Mrs. Dart.”
Mrs. Dart curtsied with the same efficiency that clipped each of Drew’s words.
“Ah yes.” Mr. Beggsly, a man of business for the Earl of Whitmore, the owner of the residences they would view, offered her a deep bow. “Excellent to meet you. Would you both come inside? We have much to see today. Three other residences. But this one I think you’ll like the best.”
They entered the house, their footsteps echoing on marble floors, those echoes rising to an arched ceiling and roaming up the carpeted stairs. The polished wood of the banister shone, and the light-blue walls gave the appearance of airy elegance.
Mrs. Dart gasped. “It’s lovely. And is there a second? Just next door?”
“Notnextdoor.” Mr. Beggsly laughed, a short, false sound. “A mere few doors away. The only flaw.”
Drew frowned. “So far?”
“A short walk only,” Mr. Beggsly assured him.
“I’ve seen enough.” Drew turned and left, ignoring Mr. Beggsly’s gurgling, inarticulate response and Mrs. Dart’s mute protests. She spoke her displeasure with the arch of an eyebrow, just as he would.
She hurried after him, set her pace to his, and said, “You’ve not seen anything but the entry hall.”
