Page 4 of The Nanny’s Handbook to Magic and Managing Difficult Dukes

Up this close, he realized Mrs. Chase had eyes the color of a midsummer sky and her copper-red curls were as bright as the glowing center of a candle flame.

Aside from the sooty smudge, there was a fascinating dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks.

Xavier had to force himself not to count each tiny spot but instead, pay attention to what she’d begun to say.

“I’ve never met a duke before,” she said, her voice as soft and melodious as a nightingale’s. “But I do hope you can forgive me for not curtsying. I find that my legs are a trifle shaky, Your Grace.”

“I…” Xavier met her gaze directly again. “Given the circumstances, of course I don’t mind. Besides, I’m not the usual sort of duke.”

“So you’re an unusual duke?” Beneath the brim of her dark blue bonnet, Mrs. Chase arched a fine brow, and Xavier wondered if the glint in her eyes was one of mischief.

His mouth twitched with amusement. “Some certainly think so. I hope you won’t consider me rude, but I suspect that you’re rather unusual, too, Mrs. Chase. You never answered my earlier question about how you got stuck up here.”

Mrs. Chase winced. The expression crossing her features might have been one of embarrassment. “It’s rather difficult to explain, I’m afraid. Let’s just say…” She drew a quick breath. “Let’s pretend a force of nature like the wind blew me up here. Or something like that. Would that suffice?”

“I see.” Xavier crossed his arms over his chest. That was likely a tall tale, but now didn’t seem like quite the right time to challenge the young woman.

If truth be told, he suddenly found himself tongue-tied, exactly like the awkward youth he used to be.

Before he could think of something else to say—unless the topic was horology or politics or mathematics, he often struggled for the right words—a blustery gust of wind tore at Mrs. Chase’s bonnet and skirts and at Xavier’s shirtsleeves.

His shirtsleeves . Good Lord, he was only in his shirtsleeves, a black silk waistcoat, charcoal-gray trousers, and patentleather shoes.

He wasn’t wearing a coat at all. Nor his usual black cravat.

He’d forgotten entirely that he was underdressed when he’d charged out of his private study up to the roof like a knight-errant of old.

He opened his mouth to apologize, but then a squall of cold stinging rain hit, stealing his breath. But it also had the effect of stirring him to action.

“This way, Mrs. Chase!” Xavier caught the woman’s gloved hand and they dashed toward the trapdoor leading down to the attic.

Even though it probably went against the usual dictates of gentlemanly etiquette, he descended first just in case he needed to assist the young woman.

He’d already witnessed that she was quite nimble on her feet, but nevertheless, if she tripped, he reasoned he could catch her.

He’d reached the floor, and Mrs. Chase was two-thirds of the way down the ladder when she did indeed miss her footing.

He wasn’t quite sure how it happened—whether the heel of her boot caught in her voluminous skirts, or her foot slipped on the rung because her legs were still “a trifle shaky,” he couldn’t have said—but all of a sudden she emitted a small cry, her umbrella that had been tucked beneath her arm went flying, and she tumbled backward, straight into Xavier’s arms. Even though she was slight, the force of her fall caused Xavier to lose his balance, too, and they both went down, rolling sideways, tumbling over and over each other until they landed in an awkward jumble of limbs and navy-blue skirts upon the dusty floorboards.

Xavier cracked his elbow on something—a nearby trunk perhaps—and only just bit back an ungentlemanly curse.

“Oh my God. I’m so sorry.” Mrs. Chase was astride him, staring straight into his eyes, her pretty face only inches from his own. Like him, she was slightly breathless, her chest rising and falling in time with his.

“I… No harm done,” Xavier lied. His elbow throbbed like the very dickens. “Are you all right?”

“I-I think so. Thank you for saving me. Again.” She scrambled off him, then to Xavier’s surprise, offered him a helping hand. “I’m most grateful.”

Xavier placed his gloved hand in hers and then he climbed to his feet.

“Think nothing of it, Mrs. Chase,” he said, as he slammed the trapdoor shut to stop the rain pouring in.

But he hadn’t been quick enough to escape a decent dousing.

As he ran a hand through his dripping disheveled hair, an involuntary shiver ran through his body.

His clothes were uncomfortably damp—his shirtsleeves annoyingly so—and he had to tamp down the urge to peel everything off.

Instead, he satisfied himself with tugging down his waistcoat and adjusting his cuffs.

He knew he often came across as quite exacting and distant, but for some reason he couldn’t fathom, he didn’t want to seem that way in front of Mrs. Chase.

Was it customary to invite a woman who’d been stuck on your roof to take tea with you? He hardly knew.

While he’d been fussing with his attire and ruminating on the rules of etiquette, Mrs. Chase had retrieved her umbrella.

When she spoke, she put him out of his misery.

“Righto, I’ve probably taken up too much of your time already, Your Grace.

I’d best be on my way. I have an interview to get to.

” She pulled a small silver watch from a pocket in her skirt then winced.

“Goodness, I fear I shall be very late.”

Xavier escorted Mrs. Chase through the attic to the door. “An interview?”

“Yes, for a nannying position,” she said as she carefully descended the stairs to the third floor. “I’m a nanny.”

Ah, Horatio had been right , thought Xavier as they followed the gaslit hall, heading for the main staircase.

But how had his raven known? More to the point, if Mrs. Chase was on her way to an interview, the fact that she’d been on his roof made even less sense.

Her far-fetched explanation—that the wind had somehow magically deposited her there—was woefully inadequate, and Xavier liked to know how things worked.

All the minutiae, all the tiny intricacies of what made something “tick” fascinated him.

It’s why he loved the science of horology so much.

Mysteries—anything unexplained or loose threads of any kind—bothered him more than he could say.

Just like the mystery of why things kept going wrong in his household of late.

Xavier’s wards created a great deal of the daily hullabaloo in St Lawrence House.

They’d only arrived a month ago, but they had certainly made their presence felt.

Like the time a firecracker had “mysteriously” ended up in the nursery stove.

That was the incident that had sent the first nanny—a Miss Butterworth—packing.

While no one had been hurt so far, the same couldn’t be said for Xavier’s own peace of mind.

That had been blown to smithereens, just like his ability to sleep well and to concentrate.

Although, if he were perfectly honest with himself, Xavier would also own that he’d been struggling with maintaining a stable, uninterrupted routine even before his wards arrived on his doorstep.

In actual fact, countless things had been going wrong at St Lawrence House for some months, and he was beginning to believe there might be an element of sabotage involved.

Boilers kept blowing valves. Rats and mice had invaded the walls.

Pipes had mysteriously leaked, flooding the scullery and basement.

The clocks in St Lawrence House were constantly slowing down or speeding up; in Xavier’s opinion, there was nothing worse than the unsynchronized ticking and chiming of clocks.

And then many of the staff at St Lawrence House—maids and footmen especially—kept leaving without notice for no discernible reason.

None that Woodley, his butler, or the housekeeper, Mrs. Lambton, could fathom anyway.

If bats were suddenly found roosting in the attic, or all the chimneys started belching giant clouds of smoke, Xavier wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised.

As the closing date for the Westminster Palace clock submission drew closer, the pressure was mounting and the nagging, decidedly unpleasant thought that someone might be deliberately trying to upset the smooth running of his household wouldn’t leave Xavier alone.

Was someone like a rival horologist attempting to unsettle him so much that he wouldn’t be able to work at all?

Or worse, was there a concerted effort to discredit him?

To paint him as disorganized or perhaps even mad?

A man not to be taken seriously because he was so obsessed with clocks that his daily life and affairs in general were in complete disarray?

Could it be that someone might actually mean him harm? There had been that odd incident a few nights ago when he’d been followed…

Although, if there was some sort of elaborate conspiracy afoot, Xavier didn’t think Mrs. Chase could be any part of that. He might not be experienced when it came to women, but she seemed quite lovely. He rather liked the spark of mischief in her eyes.

It was a pity Nanny Snodgrass wasn’t more like her.

Xavier frowned. Nanny Snodgrass was altogether too serious.

Harry, Barry, and Gary hadn’t taken to her, and he wondered if that was part of the reason for the ongoing havoc in the nursery.

He suspected that they—in particular, Harry—were testing her mettle.

And perhaps they were simply bored. It had been raining for days and his wards were undoubtedly sick of being cooped up inside for so long.

Xavier suspected that Nanny Snodgrass was the equivalent of a wet blanket soaked in the Thames during a rainstorm.

As Xavier led the nanny past the third-floor nursery, there was an almighty crash followed by a woman’s ear-piercing scream.