Page 68 of The Trouble With Dukes
Or two or three hands. After that, matters had got muddled. Yesterday had been spent mostly recovering from a bit of overindulgence. Today, Geneva’s older sisters were off at the modiste’s, meaning the library was finally—almost—deserted.
“Will you draw pictures with me?” Geneva asked, latching on to Sir Fletcher’s arm. “You draw the best unicorns.”
“Ladies shouldn’t wheedle,” Sir Fletcher said, ruffling her curls. “Pamela is the artistic genius in the family, and you are the budding soprano.”
“I’m the surpassing soprano,” Geneva said, climbing onto Sir Fletcher’s lap. “Don’t breathe on me or I’ll tell Papa you’ve a sore head again. Pammy said your head must be harder than paving stones. I bet Thomas had a sore head too. He fell on the hearthstones and said bad words, because he got an ouchy-poo you-know-where. I couldn’t understand his bad words, because he talked funny, but they sounded splendidly naughty just the same.”
Geneva was opening and slamming the drawers one by one, while Sir Fletcher’s aching brain tried to make sense of her chatter.
“You say this Thomas fellow wore a skirt?”
“Yes, and he talked funny, but he was nice. He didn’t scold me, and he smelled like flowers. You stink like cigars.”
“You came across Thomas here in the library?”
Bang!She’d nearly caught Sir Fletcher’s fingers that time. “Yes. He didn’t light the candles because that saves money. Papa likes to save money, Mama says saving money is tiresome and un … unbedumbing of her station.”
“Unbecoming, which means it doesn’t suit her. Stop prying into grown-up business, poppet.”
Geneva wrapped her arms around Sir Fletcher’s neck and squeezed. “I like you the best because you explain words to me. Being stuck inside is unbecoming of my station. May we go riding now?”
If he took the child riding now, she’d be that much more tenacious about her next request. She was a bright, determined little female who’d make some man miserable when she grew older.
“Tell me more about Thomas. I don’t think I’ve met him.”
Geneva scrambled about in Sir Fletcher’s lap, nearly gelding him with a knee. “Thomas is tall, and he speaks softly. He talks like … not like you. Like Mrs. Belkins if she were a man. He wore a skirt because his livery wasn’t back from the tailor yet, and he didn’t light the candles because that wastes money. He hasn’t tattled on me.”
Sir Fletcher set her on her feet. “When was this?” Ada Belkins had been brought up in Aberdeenshire, an aspect of her history obvious from her accent.
“The night Pammy danced with Mr. Puget. She loves him, Alexa said so, and Pammy hit her with a pillow. Can we go riding now?”
“May we.” In the past few weeks, Sir Fletcher had seen Megan Windham in the company of two tall Scotsmen, one being Murdoch, the other being Murdoch’s younger brother. Murdoch favored the kilt, he spoke with an accent, and his gaze when he studied Megan was watchful.
The younger brother was a flirt, though he might retrieve a lady’s letters on a gallant dare. Sir Fletcher vaguely recalled some pranks among the officers in Spain involving the dashing Captain MacHugh. For much of the campaign boredom had been a more formidable enemy than the French, and the Scottish officers had been so easy to make sport of.
Perhaps the captain was up to some retaliatory pranks of his own.
The situation wanted more thought at some point when seventeen jack-booted devils weren’t dancing a jig in Sir Fletcher’s brainbox.
“Well,maywe go riding now?” Geneva asked, turning her question into a musical bellow. “The day is fine, you’re awake, and nobody is home to play with me. May wepleeeeeease?”
“You are persistent,” Sir Fletcher said. “Let me change into my riding breeches, and we’ll tour the alley before your poor governess can sound the alarm. You must promise me one thing, though.”
Geneva pirouetted before the hearth, but spoiled the charming effect by coming to a graceless halt.
“You’ll take me riding right now, truly?”
“You’re my favorite sister, of course I’ll take you riding. About the promise, Geneva.”
“Anything,” she said, spinning again. “Anything at all, Fletchie.”
“Thomas got tired of waiting for new livery, and has taken a position elsewhere. It would be best if you didn’t mention him to anybody else.”
She grabbed Sir Fletcher’s hand and began towing him toward the door. “I won’t say a word, as long as you take me riding all the way to the park and back.”
As if he’d be caught dead indulging a child in public. “We’ll have a turn about the alley, and you’d better hope your governess isn’t watching from the windows when you’re supposed to be napping or working at your French.”
“You’re supposed to be amounting to something,” Geneva countered. “Papa says you never will, and Mama agreed with him. Will I ever amount to something?”
