Page 12 of Teach a Rogue New Tricks
Nora sat up. “I’ve no clue. And I’m rather put out with her. I can’t imagine Willow will like it either. Oh!” She flung her arms around Ada.
“Oof!” Ada clutched her sister to keep them both from falling over.
“I’m so glad you survived the encounter. And to think, I sent you up there! It could have been to your doom! I’m surprised he did not drag you off to who knows where!”
Fascinating. Nora’s account of him and the man himself hardly seemed one and the same. The Lord Albee she’d met had seemed hard, to be sure, and quite, quite forward. Too forward. But subdued and sad, too. A seducer certainly. But a kidnapper?
And there was his desire to reform. Quite endearing, that. But she could not dismiss those moments where he’d transformed, his sad stooped shoulders broadened impossibly, and the laughing slope of his lips sharpened into a dagger-like sneer. She could believe all Nora said then.
Two sides of one man—dark and light, sin and grief. Could he be saved?
Nora held Ada out at arm’s length. “You are all right, are you not?”
“Of course!”
“Good. No more adventures for you. Your first foray into the field, and you bite off more than you can chew.”
Ada bristled. Why did it have to be more than she could handle? She could certainly handle more. She had handled three children and one impulsive young woman for the last five years, all while nursing her own bruised and growling heart. Ada’s spine straightened with steel not porcelain. Yet even her own sister doubted her. Hurt, it did, in an ongoing achy sort of way. Like when the body had been sick too long and, exhausted and sad, craved something new and better. But did not get it.
“Lucas will come soon,” Nora said. “He must. He’s in love with you. Then you will be safe from rogues and scoundrels. Oh, look. Papa and Sarah are leaving. Come.” She linked her arm through Ada’s and pulled her toward the gate.
Ada wiped the tight smile from her lips. Lucas, consoling small ones, and constantly waiting. Why did her sister think her incapable of more than that? Nora thought one harmless meeting with an odd man would cause Ada to come undone. It appeared that spending most of one’s life doing one thing meant others thought you capable only of that, even those who knew you best.
Even yourself.
She let Nora drag her toward their waiting coach and stood looking up at the townhouse as everyone climbed inside.
A shadow in a second-floor window caught her attention. She looked up. There he stood again. He must have shifted rooms to follow their progress. He smiled widely and winked. That shiver, that thrill, ran through heragain. She’d never felt it before, and there it rippled, making a highway of her spine multiple times in a single day. If Viscount Albee had really done all Nora had said, he indeed posed a danger.
Yet… all he proclaimed he truly wanted was a governess. Harmless, that. Virtuous, even. A comfortable adventure for her, and a good deed as well!
She made sure he still looked at her—he did—and she winked right back.
Chapter Five
Casswhistled as he stepped across the threshold and into the townhouse. His early morning walks were his only moments to be part of London, and he felt a bouncy hope as he took the stairs two at a time to his bedroom on the second floor.
Less than twenty-four hours had passed since he’d conceived of his plan and secured the help of a delectably tempting governess-sort to help him reform, and he would set pen to paper in moments and begin their correspondence. He’d almost forgone his walk that morning. The desire to write to Miss Cavendish pushed through him with every heartbeat. But he’d forced himself outside and used the walk to compose his first epistle. It would be perfection itself. He knew every word he’d write.
He still whistled as he barged into his room. “Oh, hello, Hughes. Good morning.”
Standing in the middle of his room, his valet scowled at him. He was young for a valet, likely not even a decade older than Cass, with fluffy pale-yellow hair and voluminous muttonchops. He stood straight as a cravat pin, frowning, one arm folded behind his back, the other bent at the elbow. And in his fingers, a small, precisely folded note.
“There is,” Hughes said without preamble, “no identifying signature or address on the outside of this letter. I thought you were reforming, my lord.”
“I am.”
Hughes sniffed. “It smells of perfume.”
Cass plucked the letter from Hughes’s hand and held it to this nose. Lilacs and lemon. Where had he smelt that combination lately? “I’ve no idea why. I haven’t seen any of my mistresses since before Paris. I swear.”
Hughes sniffed again.
“You act as if you’ve never sinned.”
Hughes pulled himself up tall. “I used to be a man of the cloth.”
“You werealmosta man of the cloth. You left the church before you could be ordained. Remember?” Cass tapped the letter against his lower lip, enjoying the mystery. No one knew he currently resided in London, and the paper revealed no address of any kind. Odd. Odder that he’d been about to pen a letter of his own. Realization stung Cass like a bee. Was it from Miss Cavendish? Had she beat him to it? He grinned and gently unfolded the note.
