Page 33 of Teach a Rogue New Tricks
Casscouldn’t hide behind the peacocks. Too small, despite their plumage. They had attracted, however, a crowd large enough to offer anonymity to an adult man playing a child’s game. He moved to the edges of the crowd. If he blended in too well, Ada might not ever find him.
Horrid thought, that. He pulled his collar high and sauntered toward a statue at the far end of the courtyard, weaving between adults and children alike and—he stopped, groaned, and lifted his leg to look at the bottom of his boot—stepped in peacock droppings.
Why had he come here? Easy enough to answer.
He’d come to the Tower because Miss Ada Cavendish told him to, and he’d cozied up with the statue because he wanted her to find him. When she did, he’d… well, he’d not decided that yet. He’d spent most of his time thinking about what she’d do. Would she tip him a half grin and sashay off to hide herself? Would she pull him into the open and demand to know if he’d behaved? Or would she do something entirely unexpected? Like apologize for something she had no need to apologize for.
Once he stood right below the statue, he looked up, studying its bronze-and-white-flecked face. “Who are you supposed to be? Rather big nose you’ve got there. Military. Nice epaulettes.” He circled it, looking for a plaque to offer some sort of explanation or—“Oof!” He ran right into a solid mass.
A tiny solid mass.
He looked down into the frowning face of a young girl with dark hair and pink ribbons. He waited for her to stop frowning. She did not. And slowly, slowly, her arms bent, her fingers curled inward, and she placed tiny righteous fists on her hips. Her eyes became mere slits.
Cass began to sweat. He pulled at his cravat. “Um… yes?”
“You bumped into me.”
“I did. I—”
“You should apologize. My sister says you have to always apologize whether you want to or not.”
“Ah, well, my apologies then, madame.”
She nodded, and her arms melted to her sides as a smile stole onto her face. “I’m not a madame. I’m a miss. Miss Cavendish.”
Should he consider himself lucky or cursed? He’d been hoping for a Miss Cavendish, and now one stood before him. The wrong one. Cute one, though, if one liked children. And he kind of did. Sometimes. One the right days of the week. When their nappies didn’t reek.
“Is your sister with you today? Or your father?” He peered over her head, looking for the burly baron. Would the statue prove large enough to hide behind if the man’s fist careened toward his face?
The tiny Miss Cavendish nodded. “Both here.”
“Shouldn’t you be with them?”
She nodded again adding the kind of bored shrug he’d often seen on sophisticated London dandies drowning in their own ennui. “They’re boring.”
“Ah. Bored, are you? I know that particular burden well.” Boredom led to mischief in his experience. Or worse. He itched to open his notebook and write. Something along the lines ofBeware of boredom. It’s a bitch that bites hard. Too manybsounds. But true enough.
How would this bored little one bite? Perhaps he should keep an eye on her until a more capable adult made themselves know. Preferably her older sister.
“What’s your name?” the bored Miss Cavendish asked.
“I’m—”
“You look like a Farthington.”
He blinked. “I do?”
“Yes. A… Trevor Alexander Farthington.”
“That’s a mouthful. Glad it’s not my name.”
Her scowl returned. “It’s a perfectly good name. You shouldn’t insult someone you’ve just met.”
“I’ve never met Trevor Alexander Farthington, so I cannot have insulted him.”
She pulled herself up to her complete though inconsiderable height, her nose raising heavenward. “You’ve insultedme, sir.” She sniffed. Where had she learned to sniff like a woman of eighty and two? “I imagined the name, after all.”
Did he want to laugh or throw his hands up in exasperation? A bit of both. More than either, he needed to divest himself of the girl before she brought unwanted attention his way.
