I received your letter—and what a piece of impertinence it was! Do you imagine I have nothing better to do than to rush down to Bath—of all dreary and unfashionable places—to relieve you of your responsibilities? Do you think I have no life of my own? They are your half sisters—deal with them. I said no good would come of your father’s second marriage—no fool like an old fool—and now, see how right I was.
Your loving aunt,
Agatha, Lady Salter
His loving aunt. Hah! He crushed the letter and hurled it into the fire. Damn, damn and double damn. He’d been counting on Aunt Agatha. What the hell was he going to do now? Aunt Dottie couldn’t control a flea, he couldn’t lock the girls up—much as he’d like to—and for some reason he couldn’t understand, they seemed to have no fear of disobeying him.
But he couldn’t stay here indefinitely, watching them—he had an assassin to track down. The bastard had killed eight people so far—that they knew of. Including Bentley.
The last time Cal had seen Bentley alive, he was full of idealistic notions about building a fairer, better world, so proud of being appointed to such a responsible position, determined to bring honor to his country.
If only Cal had spotted the assassin on the roof earlier... One minute sooner, and he could have shouted a warning...
After the funeral, he’d written to Bentley’s widowed mother. One of the hardest letters he’d ever written.
He called for another pot of coffee and sipped it slowly. What had Galbraith suggested last night?A sort of governess-companion-chaperone type of female. With a bit of watchdog thrown in.
Cal sat up. He knew one of that sort of female. He’d walked one home that very night.
He’d kissed her. But that was an aberration. The brandy after all that wine had been a mistake. He didn’t think he’d drunk that much, but obviously he had and it had gone to his head.
She had gone to his head. Those eyes, that mouth...
Nonsense. He’d been too long without female... companionship, that was all. He had a better use for her than that.
He remembered how at the school she’d effortlessly quelled the gushings of that girl, Lavender Thingy-Whatsit of the Somerset Thingy-Whatsits.
More to the point, he recalled how last night with one word—one word!—she’d stopped Rose in mid-tirade. Rose!
He was a fool not to have seen it at once. Miss Wind-whatever! She was the obvious solution. He could go off and do what he had to, leaving the girls with her, knowing she could control their wilder starts. And that they liked her.
She had some odd ideas, of course, but as her employer, he’d soon set her straight on those. As long as she kept her opinions to herself, she was welcome to think whatever she wanted.
Best of all, he’d be off doing the job he was supposed to do, and he wouldn’t be there to be tempted by her mouth. Not that he couldn’t control himself. The brandy had been the problem last night, and he rarely overindulged.
Who needed Aunt Agatha? The solution had been right under his very nose all this time! Miss Windrush! He rang the bell and called for his coat, hat and gloves. He was going out.
Chapter Six
If one scheme of happiness fails, human nature turns to another; if the first calculation is wrong, we make a second better.
—JANE AUSTEN,MANSFIELD PARK
“I wish to speak to Miss Windrush,” Cal told the gorgon who answered the door.
“There is no Miss Windrush here.” She made to push the door shut.
Cal stuck his boot in it. “I might have mistaken her name. Tall, thin female, brown hair, about so high.” He indicated with his hand. “One of your teachers.”
“You mean Miss Westwood?”
“That’s the one.”
The gorgon sniffed. “Teachers are not allowed to have gentleman callers.”
“I’m not a gentleman caller,” Cal snapped, shoving the remembrance of a certain kiss from his mind. “I’m here on business. School business.”
The woman considered him a moment. “Very well, I’ll have to ask Miss Mallard. Wait here.” She pointed to the chairs in the hallway.
