Marquesses at the Masquerade(102)

Lucy took his arm, which was ridiculous, but so was fisticuffs for the joy of thrashing one’s siblings, so was categorizing a barberry ice as plunder, and so was entertaining fanciful notions regarding one’s employer.

“Perhaps we ought to take a blanket to spread beneath the maples,” she said. “Raiding on such a lovely day might tire out your foot soldiers.”

“Excellent notion,” his lordship replied, pausing at the foot of the main stairs. “You will doubtless do a better job of ordering the infantry from their barracks. I’ll meet you here in ten minutes.”

He strode away with his characteristic energy, and Lucy watched his departure with uncharacteristic longing. Berkeley Square boasted no babbling brook into which she might dangle her bare feet, and his lordship simply wanted assistance with the children—not some sighing damsel for him to read poetry to.

What Lucy wanted was becoming increasingly unclear, though barberry ices were her favorite treat, and that was insight enough for the day.





Chapter Four





* * *



Tyne’s habit had been to avoid imposing on Miss Fletcher’s time unnecessarily. If he was taking the children to call on family, their governess could better use that hour to steal a nap, visit friends, or drop in on the lending library.

He’d apparently erred, for the children were much better behaved when Miss Fletcher was on hand to quell insurrections before they became outright revolts. The first attempted insurrection had come from Sylvie, who had wanted to bring along a platoon of dolls.

“You may bring one,” Miss Fletcher had said. “Provided you and your doll of choice are back downstairs in the next five minutes.”

The next sign of rebellion came from Amanda, who refused to sit next to a doll. Miss Fletcher solved that dilemma by placing herself beside Sylvie and Lady Higginbottom, the privileged doll of the day.

Amanda took her place beside Tyne on the backward-facing seat, which occasioned an outthrust tongue from Sylvie. Miss Fletcher pretended to be absorbed in retying her bonnet ribbons rather than remark Sylvie’s rudeness or Amanda’s return fire.

“You spend your entire day with these rag-mannered tatterdemalions, Miss Fletcher?” Tyne asked. “I marvel at your fortitude. What flavor of ice do tatterdemalions prefer?”

“What’s a tatter… tatter the dandelion?” Sylvie asked.

“An unkempt, roguish vagabond,” Miss Fletcher said.

“I want to be a tatter… a roguish vagabond when I grow up,” Sylvie said. “Lady Higginbottom and I will be the scourges of the high toby too.”

“Then you and your doll will be taken up by the sheriff,” Amanda retorted, “and bound over for the assizes. If I’m lucky, you’ll be sent to the Antipodes to serve out your days in hard labor.”

“What manner of sister,” Tyne observed, “would rather send her only sibling halfway around the world than join her in an adventure? I do wonder if such a sister should even share an ice with her family.”

“Sorry, Syl,” Amanda muttered.

“We wouldn’t hold up your coach,” Sylvie replied. “We’d brandy our pistols and protect you.”

“Brandish,” Amanda said, gesturing with her parasol. “Brandy is that nasty potion Papa keeps on the sideboard in his study. Brandy makes your throat burn and your nose run.”

Miss Fletcher cast Tyne an admonitory glance: Your adolescent daughter has sampled the brandy. You will not roar and carry on about it in front of Lady Sylvie or me. Her gaze held sympathy and humor, and Tyne was reassured. He had sampled his papa’s brandy at a much younger age than Amanda was now, and it had made his throat burn and his nose run too.

Another good sign, in other words, that Amanda was exhibiting normal youthful curiosity.

“We’re here!” Sylvie shouted, bouncing on the seat. “Lady Higginbottom wants a lemon ice. I shall have maple.”

“Elderflower,” Amanda said as the coach came to a halt.

“Miss Fletcher? You might as well give me your order now.”

“Barberry,” she said. “Which treat would you like, my lord?”

The treat he longed for was a kiss from Miss Fletcher, which was all wrong. They were in a coach with two children and a doll, she’d done nothing other than smile at him, manage the children, and share a few moments bordering on the parental. In her plain straw bonnet, she was hardly alluring, and yet…

She was his Miss Fletcher, and he’d held her in his arms, and now his imagination was like a horse newly escaped from captivity.

“I’ll want a nice, refreshing serving of patience,” Tyne said, climbing from the coach. The children spilled forth, while Miss Fletcher made a more dignified exit. She perched on the step, her hand in Tyne’s.

“Girls, you will mind your father, or there will be extra sums for all of next week.”

“I like sums,” Sylvie said. “So does Lady Higginbottom.”

“Capital cities, then,” Miss Fletcher said, making a graceful descent. “We are in a public venue, and our deportment reflects on the dignity of your papa’s house. Best behavior, or his lordship won’t be inspired to invite us out again.”

Was she warning him to be on his best behavior?