The Courting Campaign. Regina Scott

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СКАЧАТЬ lid fell with a chime of sterling on sterling. Emma hastily righted it. She could not have heard the cook correctly. “I should get this to Alice,” she said, anchoring her hands on the tray.

      Mrs. Jennings moved to intercept her. Concern was etched in her heavy cheeks, the downturn of her rosy lips. “He needs a wife. He doesn’t move in Society anymore. He doesn’t associate with the lords from the neighboring houses when they’re in residence. How else is he to meet a marriageable miss?”

      “Marriage?” The word squeaked out of her, and she cleared her throat. She had once dreamed of the sort of fellow she would marry, but she was beginning to think he didn’t exist. That didn’t mean she was willing to compromise her ideals.

      “I am not a marriageable miss, Mrs. Jennings,” she said, using her sternest tone. “I am Alice Rotherford’s nanny. I like my post.”

      “But wouldn’t you like to be mistress of this fine house instead?” Mrs. Jennings asked, head cocked as if she offered Emma another treat as delicious as her famous cinnamon-sugar biscuits. “To travel to London like a lady when he presents his work to those other philosophers in the Royal Society?”

      Emma shook her head. “Mrs. Dunworthy is mistress of this house. And I have no need to see London again, I promise you.”

      “And sweet little Alice?” Mrs. Jennings pressed, face sagging. “Wouldn’t you like to be her mama rather than her nanny?”

      A longing rose up, so strong Emma nearly swayed on her feet. How sweet to see Alice beyond childhood, to guide her into her place in the world. Emma knew how some might try to minimize the girl, to stifle her gifts claiming she was merely a woman. She’d had to fight that battle for herself. She could protect Alice, help her achieve her dreams, whatever those might be.

      But she’d known the restrictions of her job when she’d accepted the post. Nannies might be beloved by their charges, but they were often only useful until the governess or tutor arrived.

      “I’m afraid I cannot help you in this instance, Mrs. Jennings,” she said, lifting her tray and keeping it between them like a shield. “If you’ll excuse me, I must see to my duties.” She turned for the door, blocking her sight of the cook, the window and Sir Nicholas’s pursuits.

      A gasp behind her made her glance back, thinking the cook meant to plead. But Mrs. Jennings wasn’t looking at her. The cook’s gaze was once more out the window, and her plump hand was pressed to her mouth.

      Dropping her hand, she turned anguished eyes to Emma. “You have to help him, miss. You’re the only one who understands.”

      “I understand that I have a responsibility to Alice,” Emma started hotly, but the cook shook her head so hard a few white curls fell from her cap.

      “No, miss, your responsibility right now is to the master. You see, the smoke’s turned black.”

      * * *

      Out in his laboratory, Sir Nicholas Rotherford placed another damp cloth over the glowing wool and stepped back to cover his nose with the sleeve of his brown wool coat. Carbon always turned acrid. He knew that. He’d figured it out when he was eight and had burned his first piece of toast over the fire. He should have considered that fact before treating the wool and attempting to set it ablaze.

      Now the smoke filled the space, and he could no longer even see the locks of black hair that tended to fall into his face when he bent over his work. His nose was stinging with the smell, and he shuddered to think what was happening inside his paisley waistcoat, where his lungs must be laboring.

      But he had work to do, and nattering on about his health wasn’t going to get it done.

      Behind him, he heard footsteps on the marble floor he’d had installed in the old laundry outbuilding when he’d made it into his laboratory. No doubt his sister-in-law Charlotte had come to berate him again for missing some function at the Grange. She couldn’t seem to understand that his work was more important than observing the social niceties.

      Of course, it was possible she’d noticed the smoke pouring from the building and had come to investigate.

      “It’s all right,” he called. “I have it under control.”

      “I’m certain the good Lord will be glad to hear that when you report to Him an hour from now in heaven,” a bright female voice replied. “But if you prefer to continue carrying on this work here on earth, I suggest you breathe some fresh air. Now.”

      Nick turned. The smoke still billowed around him, made more visible by the light from the open doorway. He could just make out a slender female form and...a halo?

      He blinked, and the figure put out a hand. “Come along. You’ve frightened the staff quite enough.”

      It was a kind tone, a gentle gesture, but he could tell she would brook no argument, and he was moving before he thought better of it.

      Once outside, he felt supple fingers latching on to his arm and drawing him farther from the door. The air cleared, and he sucked in a breath as he stopped on the grass closer to the Grange.

      It was sunny. He could see the house, the planted oak forests on either side, the sweep of fields that led down the dale toward the other houses that speckled the space. Odd. He was certain it had been pouring rain when he’d set out for the laboratory that morning, the mists obscuring the peaks behind the buildings. How long had he been working?

      “Take a deep breath,” his rescuer said.

      The advice seemed sound, so he did as she bid. The clean air sharpened his mind, cleared his senses. Somewhere nearby he thought he smelled lavender.

      “Better?” she asked.

      “Better,” he agreed. His gaze traveled over her, from her sturdy black boots to her muddy brown eyes. She appeared to be shorter than he was, perhaps a little less than five and a half feet. What he’d taken as a halo was her pale blond hair, wound in a coronet braid around a face symmetrical enough to be pleasing. Her brown wool dress with its long sleeves and high neck hardly looked like heavenly apparel.

      But then how could he be certain? He’d been avoiding thoughts of heaven and its Master for several months now.

      “Who are you?” he asked.

      She dipped a curtsey, but her pink lips compressed as if she found the question vexing. “Emma Pyrmont.” When he continued to wait for clarification, she added, “Alice’s nanny.”

      He eyed her and batted away a stray puff of smoke. “You’re the new nanny?”

      She raised her chin. “I have that honor, yes. Is there a problem?”

      “No,” he admitted, although he wondered at her tone. Was that a hint of belligerence? “I merely expected someone older.”

      “Mrs. Dunworthy was satisfied with my credentials,” she said, chin a notch higher. Interesting—how high could a woman raise her chin without sustaining a neck injury? Not a topic he’d choose to pursue, but he might pass it on to one of his colleagues who specialized in anatomical studies.

      “And I’m hardly new,” she informed him. “I’ve been here three months.”

      Three СКАЧАТЬ