Page 19 of The Nanny’s Handbook to Magic and Managing Difficult Dukes

“All right,” echoed Gareth, his small shoulders rising and falling in an equally dramatic sigh.

“I have no reason to object to that plan,” added Harry. She squinted through her glasses at the museum map. “It looks like the Horology Room is on this floor and quite close. Only a few doors down, halfway along the next corridor.”

“Excellent,” said Xavier, inordinately pleased with himself for successfully fielding an argument. “It’s all settled then.”

“Thank you for stepping in, Your Grace,” said Mrs. Chase as they all followed Harry, their apparent museum guide, out of the Mummy Room. “Although, you really don’t need to come to the park with us. I’m sure you’re very busy—”

“Not at all,” he rejoined. “I could do with some fresh air.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” she said. “We’d be delighted to have you accompany us.”

The smile the nanny suddenly gifted Xavier loosened something inside his chest and some sort of unexpected emotion he couldn’t have put a name to, even if he tried, tumbled through him.

It was like Mrs. Chase had reached into him and found some tiny, loose piece of thread, and with an effortless tug, she’d begun to unravel his tight control.

The strange sensation was unsettling yet exhilarating at the same time. He cleared his throat. “I’m sure the delight will be mutual, Mrs. Chase,” he said in a voice that was strangely graveled. “Perhaps some of your magic is starting to rub off on bitter old me.”

The nanny didn’t say anything as she kept pace with him, her hands clasped primly behind her back.

If he were to hazard a guess, Xavier would say that her expression was pensive, perhaps even a trifle apprehensive, but dash it all, he couldn’t be sure.

He hoped he hadn’t said or done anything to upset her.

Or maybe it had been his gruff tone. Despite Mr. Dickenson’s endless elocution lessons to eliminate the woodenness from his manner, all these years later, he still had an inordinate amount of difficulty judging whether the way he spoke was quite right for the occasion or not.

Bertie walked with Bartholomew and Gareth while Harry forged ahead.

However, when they all reached the Horology Room, Mrs. Chase broke her silence.

Turning to Xavier, she said quietly, “I know it’s probably not my place to say anything, but I don’t think you’re as bitter and brooding and difficult as you believe yourself to be, Your Grace.

” Her eyes as they met his were strangely soft, like a misty summer’s morn.

“In fact, you remind me of warm hot chocolate.”

Warm hot chocolate? Xavier’s mouth fell open. Before he could formulate any sort of reply—which was hard to do when one was completely lost for words—she moved away, catching up to Harry, who’d already found the ornate brass astrolabe in its glass-fronted display cabinet.

Was gobsmacked a word? If it wasn’t, it should’ve been, because that’s exactly how Xavier felt right now. Literally smacked in the gob, not to mention flabbergasted and dumbfounded and astounded and confounded and whatever other words appeared in a thesaurus under the entry stunned .

When Xavier eventually joined his wards, Bertie, and Mrs. Chase by the astrolabe cabinet, the nanny also appeared to be a tad astounded, but for an entirely different reason.

“Your astrolabe is beautiful, Your Grace,” she said in a voice touched with awe.

“I’ve never seen one quite so large or lovely.

The detailed scrollwork is marvelous. And it’s English, you say? ”

“Yes,” said Xavier proudly. He was on surer ground now, not stranded in the middle of Where-the-deuced-hell-am-I-land .

“I believe it was constructed around 1300. If you look closely at this tympan or plate”—with a gloved finger he pointed out a particular spot on the face of the astrolabe—“you can see that Lundoniarum —Latin for London—is marked precisely at fifty-two degrees.”

“I want to know how it works,” said Harry.

“I have a smaller astrolabe, French in origin, back at St Lawrence House that I can show you some time,” said Xavier to his ward.

Harry regarded Xavier over the tops of her spectacles. “I would very much like that,” she replied in her usual solemn manner. Although, was that a spark of interest or excitement in her eyes? Xavier liked to think so, and he suddenly felt inordinately pleased.

Aloud he said, “Excellent. When there’s a clear day or night—”

He got no further as a familiar, entirely too brash, and undeniably tiresome voice blared through the room like a foghorn.

“Well, well. If it isn’t His Grace, the Duke of St Lawrence.

Fancy meeting you in the Horology Room, old chap.

” This was followed by a nerve-grating guffaw; it was the kind of boisterous laugh that one might expect to hear in a tavern at the end of the night or emanating from a raucous crowd at a bareknuckled boxing match.

It was not appropriate for a place like a museum. But then, the man who’d invaded the Horology Room, Sir Randolph Redvers, was hardly ever appropriate. At least in Xavier’s opinion.

Xavier turned slowly, fists clenching at his sides. “Sir Randolph,” he said, employing a curt tone. “I don’t see why you should be so surprised to find me here, considering at least a third of the museum’s watch and clock collection presently on show is mine.”

Sir Randolph, a fellow horologist and rival contestant in the race to secure the winning design for the Westminster Palace clock, grinned widely at Xavier from the other side of the room.

Xavier tried not to wince at the man’s abominable sartorial choices.

On this occasion, the bold-as-brass baronet was attired in a black frock coat paired with garish plaid trousers in shades of red, umber, and saffron.

His dark auburn hair was slicked back with so much Macassar oil, Xavier thought the man’s head rather resembled a horse-chestnut conker.

(In fact, Xavier suspected the man had about as much sense as a conker.)

Hovering beside the baronet was the British Museum’s curator, Mr. Brimble. A spare-framed man of middle age, Brimble was overshadowed by the grand proportions of the broadshouldered, square-jawed, heavy-browed Sir Randolph.

“I’m so sorry to disturb you, Your Grace,” said the curator as he wrung his bony hands.

His bald pate and forehead, sheened with perspiration, shone in the glow of a nearby wall-mounted gaslight.

“But Sir Randolph has recently become one of our patrons—and a most generous one at that. He’s expressed a desire to view our horology collection with a view t-to rejuvenating it. ”

Xavier cocked an eyebrow. “I see.”

“Yes.” The baronet marched toward Xavier then took up a wide stance, as though he owned the room and everything in it.

Rubbing his large hands together he declared, “I think it might be time for an overhaul of what’s on display.

It all seems a bit—” Pausing, his dark brown gaze drifted over the display cabinets before he added with a grimace, “Quite frankly, it’s all looking a bit tired and stale and mundane.

But no hard feelings, Your Grace?” He bared his teeth in another wide grin.

“Out with the old and in with the new, as they say. You can’t fight progress, hey what? ”

Xavier narrowed his eyes. Good God, the man was nothing but a pompous windbag who dispensed banalities as though they were pearls of wisdom.

Sir Randolph had joined the Royal Horological Society but a year ago, and Xavier did not think much of the man.

His bluff arrogance, his need to be the center of attention—to dominate and assert that he was better than everyone else—irritated Xavier no end.

“Change for change’s sake is hardly what I’d call progress,” Xavier said coldly. “I’m sure the museum only displays timepieces that have historical significance and demonstrate innovation in the field of horology. I’d wouldn’t call anything here tired or stale or mundane.”

Mr. Brimble offered Xavier a bow along with a small smile. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Sir Randolph snorted. “I think I will have to agree to disagree with you there, my friend. Although…” The odious man’s gaze shifted and settled on Mrs. Chase, who’d been standing quietly with Harriet, Bartholomew, and Gareth the entire time.

“It was remiss of me to say everything here is mundane.” He gave the nanny a rakish wink.

To Xavier’s surprise, Mrs. Chase didn’t blush or drop her gaze in response to the baronet’s blatantly flirtatious manner.

No, she placed her hands protectively on young Gareth’s shoulders and raised her chin as though in challenge.

Her eyes glittered dangerously, like a lioness about to spring into action.

If Xavier were a betting man, he’d wager there was an element of don’t-even-think-about-coming-anywhere-near-me-or-my-charges in her eyes.

It was at that moment that Xavier knew he could count on this woman to protect anyone in her care. She was not easily intimidated and would be a force to be reckoned with. Of that he had no doubt.

For his part, Xavier was livid. How dare bloody Sir Randolph Redvers subject one of his female staff members to that sort of lascivious look and uninvited personal remark? Not just in front of her employer, but in front of children and the museum’s curator.

The hide of the bastard!

Xavier’s knuckles cracked as his fingers curled into even tighter fists.

Right at this moment, he’d love to plant a facer right in the middle of the despicable baronet’s nose.

Or smack him fair in the gob to wipe the leering smile off his face.

(Yet another reason why gobsmack— or any suitable morphological variation thereof—should be a word.) But physically assaulting another man, no matter how provoking he was, wasn’t appropriate behavior either.

Xavier would not create a scene in the middle of the day in the British Museum in front of his wards and his staff.

He was better than Sir Randolph Redvers. He wouldn’t stoop so low.

Crushing down his ire, Xavier drew a calming breath, then addressed the baronet and the curator directly.

“I think it would be best if any further discussion about the horology collection is adjourned until the next Museum board meeting later this month,” he said in the sort of ominously cold, ducal tone that made most men quiver in their boots.

As he expected, Mr. Brimble turned as white as parchment paper while Sir Randolph merely raised an eyebrow and made a scoffing noise in his throat.

“If you insist,” said the baronet, his eyes hard. “That won’t stop me making my own assessment of what’s on offer.”

“So be it,” replied Xavier. Softening his expression so it wouldn’t be so forbidding, Xavier turned to Mrs. Chase, Bertie, and his wards. “Right, let’s move on, shall we? The park awaits.”

Mr. Brimble bowed stiffly. “Good day, Your Grace.”

Sir Randolph donned his usual grin that smacked of false cheer. “Tally-ho then, Your Grace. I expect I shall see you anon.”

More’s the pity , thought Xavier. Although aloud he simply said, “Quite.”

However, as he passed by Mr. Brimble he added in a low voice, “Whatever donation Sir Randolph is making to the museum, I’ll double it,” before continuing on his way.

If Sir Randolph Redvers heard him, he didn’t much care.

Xavier would have the last say on the topic of the horology collection, of that he was certain.