Page 15 of The Nanny’s Handbook to Magic and Managing Difficult Dukes

Concerning the Hunt for an Egyptian Mummy and an Aztec Serpent in a Roman Gallery: An Unfortunate Fracas and a Volley of Impolite Epithets; The Rescue of a Priceless Black Beetle; And a Boiled Lobster Makes an Appearance…

“Should we go in search of the Aztec serpent? Upstairs in the Americas Room?” Emmeline asked Miss Harriet, who was fiercely studying the British Museum guide.

They were presently lingering in the museum’s Roman Gallery in the shadow of a statue of the Townley Venus, working out their plan of attack for the remainder of their visit.

But an hour remained before the Duke of St Lawrence returned with his carriage—Emmeline understood that he was at the Palace of Westminster attending to some sort of parliamentary or horological business—and there was so much they could see.

Of course, Emmeline was very much aware that while Harry was enamored with many of the exhibits, and would quite happily explore the museum all day, Bartholomew and Gareth would not.

They’d only been here an hour and the boys were already growing restless.

In fact, at any moment one or both of them might pay a visit to tantrum territory, or at the very least the state-of-stomping-feet or wobbling-lower-lip-land.

All such destinations were to be avoided at all costs.

Harry, who’d been considering Emmeline’s suggestion, frowned and pushed her glasses farther up her nose.

“Hmmm. No doubt Bartholomew and Gareth would like to see a serpent. They adore creepy-crawly, slithery things. I’d like to visit the Chantress of Amun’s sarcophagus in the Mummy Room.

It’s upstairs too. I did enjoy the Egyptian Galleries—”

Harry got no further as a furious, high-pitched wail burst through the museum’s hallowed and hitherto hushed halls. It ricocheted off marble busts and statues and the Roman Gallery’s parquetry floor, and Emmeline’s nanny instincts immediately kicked in.

Spinning around, her Parasol Academy uniform’s skirts flaring wide, she quickly located the source of the commotion. So did all the other museum visitors milling about, but right at that moment, Emmeline didn’t give a flying fig about them and their busybodying.

A handful of yards away, Gareth and Bartholomew had entered the field-of-fraternal-fisticuffs.

Indeed, the boys were engaged in an all-out struggle that seemed to fall somewhere between an epic tug-of-war and a Greco-Roman wrestling bout.

Whatever it was, it involved locked arms and white-knuckled fists and a lot of pushing and pulling and grunting.

A flummoxed St Lawrence House footman—Bertie—who’d been tasked by Emmeline to watch over the young boys for a few minutes, waved his hands about while ineffectually muttering, “There, there. That’s enough now, you two. There’s no need to fight.”

Oh, dickens on toast. After a fortnight of caring for the Duke of St Lawrence’s high-spirited wards, Emmeline had quickly learned that there was nothing in the Parasol Academy Handbook that had adequately prepared her for the unvarnished reality: that her ingenuity would be constantly tested and her patience would become as frayed as a ball of yarn that had been attacked by kittens.

It was a good thing that the children, like kittens, were really quite adorable.

As Emmeline hastened over to her enraged charges, the typical juvenile insults started to fly.

“Let go, you ninny-poop head! It’s my beetle,” cried Gareth, his chubby cheeks pink with indignation and exertion. His small fingers were wrapped about his brother’s closed fists as he attempted to prize something—presumably the beetle in question—out of Bartholomew’s grip.

“No, it’s my beetle,” bellowed Bartholomew, his brown eyes blazing. “It’s for Aristotle. And it’s nin- com- poop, you noddy numskull. Not ninny-poop.”

Emmeline’s lips twitched, but then she determinedly tamped down the urge to laugh at the boys’ neologisms; it could not be denied that “ninny-poop” was a tad mirth-inducing. Instead, she summoned the required “very stern” frown as per the Parasol Academy Handbook guidelines.

Such a public display of rudeness and unruliness could not continue.

Not only did it reflect negatively on Emmeline’s skills as a much-vaunted Parasol nanny, but one or both of the boys might get hurt.

Or the beetle for that matter. ( Good grief.

Why fight over a beetle ? And where on earth had they found one in the British Museum?)

Emmeline lowered herself to her charges’ level, kneeling upon the floor.

“Now, now. Let’s be considerate of each other and those around us,” she said firmly but calmly as she attempted to catch each of the boys’ gazes.

“Petty squabbling does you no credit. And over a beetle of all things. I’m certain there are plenty in the gardens of St Lawrence House or Hyde Park.

Besides, I’m sure neither of you wants to accidentally squash it, do you? ”

Bartholomew at last wrested himself away from his younger brother’s clutches. “It’s not an ordinary beetle, Nanny Chase,” he said, rolling his eyes. “It’s a special black beetle. A scab beetle, and it’s mine. I found it.”

A scab beetle? Oh no… Surely not…

Emmeline swallowed as an awful thought struck her right between the eyes like a missile released from a slingshot. “Bartholomew,” she said carefully in a low voice. “Where did you find it?”

He gestured with his chin. “Back there. In the room with all the stone tablets with the funny writing and the jars with the brains. And all the scab beetles.”

“And the pinkses,” added Gareth.

Pinkses? “You mean sphinxes?” asked Emmeline. “In the Egyptian Gallery?”

Both of the boys nodded. “Yes,” said Bartholomew.

Emmeline drew a calming breath to subdue the tremor of apprehension in her belly. “Bartholomew, might I see this special beetle?”

The boy narrowed his eyes as he considered her request. “Very well.” He uncurled his small fingers, and in the palm of his hand sat a priceless Egyptian artifact that had been carved from some sort of black stone. Feldspar or quartz perhaps.

Biting back a gasp of horror, Emmeline cleared her throat and murmured, “Boys, I’m afraid you cannot keep this beetle.

It’s a scarab and it’s very old and very expensive and it belongs here.

The museum guards would be very, very miffed if we tried to take it home.

And His Grace would not allow it either. ”

Bartholomew’s bottom lip protruded into a decided pout. “But there were lots of them on the shelf. And Aristotle likes beetles.”

“Don’t you think your terrapin would rather a real beetle?” asked Emmeline.

The boy shrugged. “I suppose.”

“If you and Gareth would both like your very own scarabs, we can make some out of a special powder called plaster of Paris and water. And when they’re hard like a rock, we can paint them whatever color you like.

” Emmeline donned an enthusiastic expression that would hopefully prove infectious. “You could even have a rainbow beetle.”

“Really?” said Gareth, his face lighting up. “I want a rainbow beetle.”

“I want a blue beetle,” said Bartholomew.

“Wonderful.” Emmeline held out her hand for the scarab, but as Bartholomew passed it to her, a booming bass tuba of a voice blasted through the air.

“?’Allo, ’allo…” A heavy hand landed on Emmeline’s shoulder. “Wot ’ave you got there, miss? Somefink tha’ doesn’t belong to you, I fink. You’re nicked.”

Oh, blooming bleeding blinking hell. Talk about leaping out of the frying pan and straight into a vat of boiling oil.

As Emmeline rose to her feet to face her accuser—a museum guard—she slid the scarab into her pocket.

“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” she said in the smoothest, most I’m-not-at-all-guilty voice she could muster.

She would protect her charges, and her reputation and that of the Parasol Academy—and of course, the Duke of St Lawrence’s good name—using whatever means necessary.

She could not lose her job. She’d already paid off the turnkey at Newgate Prison after she’d received her first week’s wages, and her father was as safe as he could be whilst in such a terrible place.

Aside from all that, she was good at nannying. And she liked working for the duke.

The museum guard, a solid middle-aged fellow with bushy side-whiskers and a mustache a bull walrus would be proud of, folded his bulky arms over his barrel chest. “Don’t lie to me, miss, or fings will no’ go well for you.

I saw that scarab in your ’and, and one of ’em has been reported missin’ from the Egyptian Gallery next door.

Now”—he aimed an admonitory finger at her, almost poking her in the nose—“stop messin’ me about and ’and it over, or I’ll ’ave to lock you up in the guard’s office while a bobby’s summoned. ”

Well, that certainly wasn’t going to happen. Not on Emmeline’s watch.

Emmeline Chase, Parasol Academy nanny, needed to take charge.

Raising her chin, she said to the glowering guard, “I assure you, sir, I do not have a scarab on my person.” She held out both her white-gloved hands, palms facing upward.

“See. Regardless of what you thought you saw, it seems you’re quite mistaken. ”

The guard’s eyes narrowed. “Well, you must’ve put it in one of your pockets or somefink.” He thrust his chin belligerently. “Turn ’em out. Let’s see wha’ you’ve got stashed in those skirts o’ yours.”

Ugh. The guard was only doing his job, but right now, Emmeline wished she had her Academy umbrella at hand so she could give him a short sharp jab and momentarily confuse him.

That would give her enough time to put the scarab back where it belonged.

Unfortunately, and most inconveniently, her umbrella had been stowed in the museum’s cloak room along with the children’s gumboots and mackintoshes.

But all was not lost. Emmeline had one more trick up her sleeve that she could discreetly employ even in a crowded museum gallery.