My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(23)

“Hello, sir!” Branwell almost waved but then remembered he was hanging on for dear life. “Don’t worry about me, sir! I’ll wait here.”

Alexander nodded and then turned to the ghost, who was still laughing manically and goading the horses. Alexander brandished the cane.

“You, sir, are hereby relocated.”

Bop.

Somehow they reached London alive.

Most people probably would have been quite impressed by Westminster, which housed the Society headquarters. After all, it was where Parliament ruled the kingdom. It was a grand sight, and a privilege to be there, Alexander supposed, but to him, the headquarters was simply his second home.

So Alexander rarely stopped to take in the glory, because he came here all the time, but we’d like to pause a moment and paint the picture for you.

Imagine an enormous stone palace with square towers, round towers, and elegant peaks. Add a couple dozen archways on the first floor, and even more windows above, and a few chimneys with smoke trickling into the blue sky. Now surround all that majesty with a cobblestone sea and horse-drawn carriages, and you have the House of Lords and Commons.

All in all, it was a very fancy place. We hope you’re impressed.

Back to Alexander.

He just strolled through all of that, like it wasn’t a big deal. He went through the secret halls, gave the password to the doorkeeper, and headed into the great library where Sir Arthur Wellesley kept his office.

Usually, he arrived with a smile on his face, but today his head hurt and his nose was still a bit raw and sniffly. And usually Alexander had succeeded in whatever task he’d been given. This time, shamefully, he’d failed. Oh, sure, he had the pocket watch and the teacup and a random cane containing the ghosts he’d captured, and they could be safely stored away in the collection room, but he had not persuaded Miss Eyre.

He knocked on the door and then entered the library to find the Duke of Wellington and Mr. Mitten—the Society’s former liaison to the king—engaged in a conversation by the fire.

“My boy.” Wellington stood, not bothering with a formal greeting. “Come in, come in.” He shot a glance at Mr. Mitten, who got up and started for the door.

Alexander nodded. “Good day, Mr. Mitten.”

“Good to see you, young man. I swear, you’re the spitting image of your father.”

People said that sort of thing to Alexander regularly, and it made his heart squeeze every time. “Thank you, sir.”

Mr. Mitten smiled and was out the door.

“I’m glad to see you’ve returned. Have a seat.” Wellington motioned to the chairs by the fire. “I’ll call for tea.”

Alexander smiled gratefully and pretended to study the spines of books while Wellington ordered tea. Then, when his mentor returned, they sat together.

“Now”—the duke leaned back in his chair—“tell me about our new agent.”

“Branwell is perhaps one of the most enthusiastic agents I’ve ever met,” Alexander said carefully. “His desire to learn and succeed is unparalleled.”

Wellington nodded slowly. “Enthusiasm and desire to learn are well enough. Tell me about his capacity for such success.”

There it was. This question was the reason Alexander had sent Branwell back to his flat, once they returned to London, rather than bringing him to the Society headquarters.

“Well, sir.” Alexander hated giving Wellington bad news, but Branwell had almost gotten him killed. Twice. He could still see the boy clinging to the back of the carriage, his red hair flapping in the wind. “He struggles.”

Wellington frowned deeply. “Am I to take it that you do not view Branwell to be a competent agent?”

Alexander shifted. “Perhaps more training.” Lots more training. Years of it. Unfortunately, there were only a few people in the Society who could train a new seer, and Alexander was one of those.

“More training.” Wellington narrowed his eyes. “Tell me the truth, Alexander.”

How frustrating that Wellington could always see right through him. “I’m afraid I don’t believe Branwell will ever become a proper agent of the Society, even though he seems a decent fellow. He has shown little improvement.”

“That’s most unfortunate.” The duke seemed genuinely sad about it. “I’d hoped Branwell would prove a fine agent, but it sounds as though I was right to be uncertain.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s something about Branwell you should know, Alexander. Something I didn’t tell you because I wanted you to be honest with me about the boy’s progress.”

“Sir?”

“Branwell is—ah—” The duke glanced at the floor. “Well, the boy doesn’t know this, so please do not tell him, but he is my sister’s son. She married poorly, you see, and this is the result.”

Oh.

Alexander’s redheaded menace of an assistant was Wellington’s nephew, which meant two things: (1) Alexander was immediately a teeny-tiny, itty-bitty bit just a smidge jealous. And (2) he needed to find something nice to say about the boy. Fast.

“He tries very hard,” Alexander blurted. His face went hot with embarrassment. “I’ve never met someone so enthusiastic.”

Wellington just sighed. “What about when you went to the school to recruit Miss Eyre? How was his behavior then?”