Cal did his best to parry the flood of invitations politely but firmly, claiming that he had no time for courting, that he wasn’t at the moment looking for a wife, that this was a brief visit only and that he would be returning abroad shortly on important government business.
It didn’t seem to matter to the ladies. Their girls were not so fussy or demanding as to need extensive courting. Would it not be better for Lord Ashendon to marry now and leave his wife to look after his estates, a wife who even as she tearfully waved him good-bye might be bearing his heir, thus securing the Ashendon succession?
To think he’d fled London because of the Frampton sisters. Out of the frying pan...
He was very aware of his sisters’ amusement, and as he progressed through the room his apologies became firmer and less regretful, and his government business more immediate and urgent.
And, dammit, it was.
He was almost grateful to be presented with “the poodle,” a ridiculous young dandy with elaborately curled, fluffed and pomaded yellow locks. He wore tight breeches in a shade he told Cal was called primrose—“the latest mode, I do assure you”—a lavender coat so nattily cut that it no doubt took all his valet’s strength to squeeze him into it and a profusion of fobs and chains that reminded Cal of the Christmas trees he’d seen in Vienna the year before.
But as the fellow had no unmarried sisters or cousins, offered Cal no invitations to tea, dinner or any other social occasion and showed no interest whatsoever in Cal’s marital prospects, Cal decided the poodle was a fine fellow.
After nearly two hours, Cal finally escaped, citing urgent (and possibly dangerous, added Rose) business to attend to. He left Aunt Dottie and the girls to enjoy Aunt Dottie’s triumph with her particular cronies over crumpets and sweet buns at their favorite tea room.
Cal strode up the hill as fast as his dignity would allow him. Fleeing the battlefield was becoming a habit.
***
Cal’s aunt had given him a street name, but not a number, but when he saw a line of schoolgirls filing into an imposing building under the supervision of a tall female dressed in dark blue, he knew he’d found the school.
It was set on a corner, with an excellent view over the city of Bath and surrounds, and was enclosed on three sides by a high stone wall, set with shards of broken glass along the top. He grinned. Nobody would be getting in or out of that place except by the front door.
A discreetly lettered brass plate beside the entrance saidMiss Mallard’s Seminary for the Daughters of Gentlemen. Cal rang the doorbell and waited.
A grim-looking female in black opened it and peered at him suspiciously. “Yes?”
“I’d like to speak with Miss Mallard.”
She looked him up and down. “Whom shall I say is calling?”
“Major Ca—” He broke off. “I mean Lord Ashendon.”
She scrutinized him with hostile pale blue pebble eyes. “Please come in. I’ll see if Miss Mallard is available.” She let him into a spacious, black-and-white-tiled vestibule, to the right of which rose a handsome staircase. She indicated some chairs set in a line along the wall. “Wait there.” And then added grudgingly, “Please.”
Amused at the woman’s barely repressed hostility—did she think he’d come here to ravage her precious girls?—Cal sat down to wait.
A wave of whispering and murmuring above him caused him to turn his head and look up. On the landing of the stairs a huddle of young girls had gathered and were eyeing him with speculative interest.
There was a burst of muffled exclamations of “Lavinia, no!” “Lavvie, don’t!” and “You’ll get into trouble, you know you’re not allowed to...” and a pretty young girl of about fourteen or fifteen ran down the stairs and confidently plopped herself on the chair beside him.
She turned to him with a coquettish smile. “How do youdo? Are you waiting for the Duck, because I’ll keep you company if you like, my name’s Lavinia, Miss Lavinia Fortescue-Brown of the Surrey Fortescue-Browns, you’re new here, aren’t you, are you thinking of sending someone here? Your sister, perhaps, you’re too young and handsome to have a daughter of school age, so go ahead, ask me anything, I’ve been here for years, but I’ll be leaving soon and I can tell you anything you want to know about—”
“Lavinia Fortescue-Brown.” The voice came from above, calm, quiet, but somehow commanding. It cut off the torrent of words coming from Miss Lavinia Fortescue-Brown of the Surrey Fortescue-Browns in midstream.
Cal looked up to see who had produced this minor miracle. A tallish female dressed in drab dark blue came gracefully down the stairs. It was the woman he’d seen earlier, ushering a column of girls into the school.
She was handsome rather than pretty, with high cheekbones and a short, straight nose. Her hair seemed to be brown and curly, though most of it was pulled tightly back and hidden under an ugly spinster’s cap.
Lavinia jumped to her feet. “Yes, Miss Westwood?”
Cal rose to his feet. The tall lady didn’t so much as glance at him. Another man-hater, perhaps? What a waste.
She wasn’t a beauty, but she had a look of elegant distinction. Her complexion was good, her nose small and straight, her chin firm, and her mouth... soft ripe raspberries in a dish of pure cream.
“You’re supposed to be upstairs preparing your French poetry recital, Lavinia, not bothering strange gentlemen.”
The strange gentleman was busy looking at the lush, feminine mouth and wondering what it would take to break that smooth nun-like composure.
