Page 16 of The Nanny’s Handbook to Magic and Managing Difficult Dukes

She affected a resigned sigh. “Very well, sir,” she said as she reached into her pocket. The cold, hard scarab sat at the bottom, but a small scent bottle had materialized above it. Curling her fingers about the cool glass, Emmeline withdrew her hand.

The scowling guard seized her wrist in an uncompromising grip and narrowed his suspicious gaze on the azure-blue bottle with its engraved silver lid. “?’Ere, what’s that? That’s not a scarab.”

Emmeline pressed the back of her other hand to her forehead à la swooning damsel. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s a bottle of hartshorn. I’m suddenly feeling dizzy.”

“Hartshorn?” repeated the guard, his brow concertina-ing in apparent confusion.

“Smelling salts or sal volatile,” asserted Emmeline, uncapping the bottle with her thumb.

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather not fall into a dead faint and crack my head open like Humpty-Dumpty.

That would be quite bothersome for everyone, don’t you think?

” She gave a little shudder for effect. “Just think of the mess.”

The disgruntled guard gave a humph. “All right, then,” he said, releasing his hold on her arm. “But no funny business.”

“Hartshorn is perfectly harmless. See…” Emmeline waved the bottle—which really contained a potent “befuddling” perfume, not smelling salts—beneath the guard’s nose. At the same time, she muttered beneath her breath the required Faerillion spell, “Befuddlio.”

The “befuddling” fumes—a faintly lavender-hued haze—wafted upward and the guard’s gaze grew clouded and dreamy almost immediately. Then he shook his head and eyed Emmeline benignly. “Erm, can I ’elp you, miss?”

Emmeline donned her most charming smile as she pocketed the recapped bottle.

“Why yes, good sir. If you could direct me to the Egyptian Gallery, I’d be most grateful.

I’d like to show my young charges”—she beckoned Harry, Bartholomew, and Gareth closer—“the sphinxes. I’ve heard they are not to be missed. ”

“Of course.” The guard gestured with his large thumb toward the far end of the Roman Gallery. “?’Ead that way and then turn right into the Assyrian Transept. The Egyptian Galleries are dead ahead.” He doffed his cap. “Good day, miss.”

Breathing a huge sigh of relief, Emmeline grasped Bartholomew’s and Gareth’s hands, then caught Harry’s eye. “Right, let’s go, children. There’s no time to delay.”

And indeed, there wasn’t. The befuddling perfume’s effects would only last a few minutes at most. The pilfered scarab needed to be back where it belonged in case the museum guard recalled what had happened and gave chase.

Within a minute, the scarab was safely back on its shelf lined up with its five scarab chums (why such priceless ancient artifacts were not kept under lock and key, Emmeline would never know).

Then their party of five—the three children, Bertie, and Emmeline—were scaling a set of stairs, heading for the Americas Room, on the hunt for Aztec serpents.

In an hour’s time, when the Duke of St Lawrence returned to the museum to collect them, Emmeline could confidently declare that this excursion—the first she and the children had undertaken beyond a few trips to the park—had been a raging success.

Not a complete disaster. (His Grace certainly didn’t need to know it had been a near disaster.)

In fact, Emmeline was proud that for the past two weeks, she’d kept Harry actively engaged, and subsequently out of mischief, with their joint clock-monitoring project.

Although, it was still unclear if anyone within the duke’s household was deliberately tampering with his timepieces.

While Harry used Emmeline’s Academy pocket watch to diligently set the time on all the clocks throughout St Lawrence House to Greenwich Mean Time, they invariably still sped up or slowed down with alarming regularity.

Even the eight-day clocks. It was most frustrating.

If sabotage were involved, Emmeline would get to the bottom of it for the duke.

She would not tolerate any underhanded goings-on within her employer’s household.

Emmeline, with Harry’s help, quickly located the two-headed Aztec serpent.

Thankfully it was locked away in a glass display case, well out of reach of inquisitive fingers.

As they all admired the intricately laid, tiny turquoise tiles that perfectly mimicked a snake’s scales, the boys declared they wanted to make plaster of Paris serpents too.

“Of course you can,” agreed Emmeline. She’d have to procure several shades of blue paint for the scarabs and the snake. Turquoise, cerulean, cobalt, arctic…

Blast and botheration . Why did her mind suddenly conjure up an image of ice-blue eyes fringed with thick black lashes?

And a rich, dark velvet voice that made her shiver in ways that had nothing to do with the cold London weather and everything to do with feverish middle-of-the-night fantasies.

The sorts of dreams and yes, desires, that she hadn’t experienced for a long, long time.

Emmeline determinedly pushed away her errant thoughts.

As for the duke, he was not to blame for her inconvenient infatuation.

He very much kept to himself, hiding away in his study, working on his grand clock design for Westminster Palace.

On the handful of occasions when Emmeline had crossed paths with him in St Lawrence House, his manner had been scrupulously polite but distant.

Nevertheless, she’d formed the impression that he wasn’t dis pleased with the way she was executing her duties.

At least thus far. If a nod paired with a brief enquiry such as, “Good day, all settled in then?” or, “I take it my wards are behaving themselves?” and on another occasion, “No explosions or other disasters of note, yet?” counted as approval.

The problem was, Emmeline couldn’t tell.

Indeed, in the carriage on the way to the British Museum, she’d begun to doubt the adequacy of her performance.

The duke had been withdrawn, his expression stern as he’d stared out the rain-streaked window at the soggy London streets.

Well, that was before he’d retreated behind the Times and Emmeline couldn’t see much of his countenance at all apart from his slightly furrowed forehead and uncompromising black brows.

In any event, Emmeline had started to fret that perhaps the duke wasn’t impressed with the way she was managing his wards.

Perhaps their youthful exuberance grated on his nerves.

Gareth and Bartholomew, in particular, often had a difficult time sitting still and using “inside voices,” and the closed space of the carriage only amplified their excitement.

However, Emmeline’s concern was eventually allayed to a degree when she’d engaged the children in a game of I Spy to keep them entertained.

While the duke kept his newspaper barricade in place, Emmeline was certain he’d paid attention to the proceedings and at various points, he even appeared amused.

In fact, when Harry had declared that the person, place, or thing she’d chosen that began with the letter A —and nobody had been able to deduce after a solid ten minutes of guessing—was “antidisestablishmentarianism” (apparently it was a word on the front page of the Times ), it was that particular remark that had provoked a smile from His Grace.

At least Emmeline thought he’d smiled. Surely the slight lift of his eyebrows, and the gleam in his eyes as they’d met hers over the top of his newspaper were indications of mirth.

As Emmeline studied the Aztec serpent’s teeth—Bartholomew had asked her what they were made of—a foolish part of her wondered if she would ever again be the recipient of one of the duke’s rare, dazzling smiles. Just like the one he’d given her during her interview when she’d amused him.

Ack. So much for her resolution not to think about the man in inappropriate ways.

She was about to ask Harry to check the precise location of the Mummy Room when someone called her name. And not just anyone . It was the Duke of St Lawrence, because Emmeline would recognize His Grace’s baritone anywhere.

Despite her previous resolution to not behave like a silly adolescent girl, Emmeline’s heart did an excited little jig, then a twirl as she turned to discover her employer, standing only a few feet away in the doorway of the Americas Room.

His hands were firmly thrust into the pockets of his black frock coat while his pale blue eyes were trained directly on her in that far-too-direct, blush-inducing way of his.

Indeed, she hadn’t encountered such an intense look since her interview, and she was in no way prepared for it, so blush she did.

From the tips of her neatly buttoned half boots to the roots of her red hair, she was suddenly engulfed in fiery self-conscious heat.

She probably looked like a boiled lobster. Ugh.

As Emmeline dipped into a curtsy, she gave herself a stern mental poke and a pinch and a very cross frown.

Not only was she a highly skilled nanny, but she was a widow for heaven’s sake!

She wasn’t a swooning maiden. She’d been a married woman for two whole years and had been madly in love with Jeremy, her husband…

until he proved unworthy of such finer feelings and that love had withered away.

But it had been such a long time since Emmeline had been held, let alone kissed.

Yes, that was her problem. She wasn’t made of stone like a sphinx or as dry as a desiccated mummy.

She missed physical intimacy with a man, and the duke’s looks were arresting.

As long as she kept her indecorous yearnings in check, all would be well.

Oh, but now she was staring at the duke’s beautiful mouth of all things, and he was speaking, and she’d been so caught up in her own ridiculous musings, she had no idea what the man had asked her.