Page 45 of The Nanny’s Handbook to Magic and Managing Difficult Dukes

Xavier, for one, had no doubt at all that Mrs. Chase would do a stellar job today. Harry, Bartholomew, and Gareth had already come a long way. In a handful of weeks, they’d gone from rumbustious ruffians to well-behaved and delightfully engaged children.

Better yet, they were happy, and seeing them all so content gave him great satisfaction. No, it was more than that. He enjoyed spending time in their company too.

With respect to his wards, employing Emmeline Chase had been the best decision Xavier had ever made.

Although, when it came to his own peace of mind, Xavier was starting to feel like he was as tormented as an opium-eater.

Right in front of him, sedately dressed in navy-blue wool, her lightly freckled face surrounded by a bright nimbus of copper hair, was the one thing he wanted, but for so many sound, logical reasons, couldn’t have.

Xavier turned his gaze away to stare disconsolately out the window.

The day was fine, but he suddenly felt as though a somber cloud had passed over the sun and blotted out all the light.

If he weren’t careful, before too long he’d likely resemble the fabled ghost that roamed the halls of St Lawrence House.

The problem was, besides throwing himself headlong into his work, he had no idea what else to do in order to assuage his obsession with Mrs. Chase.

His plan, so far, to conquer his incessant yearning for her company, was failing on a scale as spectacular as Napoleon’s fall at Waterloo.

“Nanny Chase, is that really Queen Victoria?” asked Bartholomew in a loud whisper. His nose wrinkled as though he was far from impressed. “If it is, she’s rather short. But she has kind eyes.”

Emmeline, the children, the duke, and the rest of his small retinue of servants were all gathered near the Duke of St Lawrence’s “Queen of Clocks” as the royal party admired it. (Upon their arrival, Horatio had flown off to cavort about Hyde Park.)

The duke’s clock stood in the central gallery midway between the western entrance of the Crystal Palace and the magnificent pink glass fountain, and it seemed to be attracting a lot of attention judging by the oohs and aahs. (In Emmeline’s mind, oohing and aahing could only be a good thing.)

Emmeline bent low and whispered back to Bartholomew, “Yes, that is the Queen. And her height doesn’t matter. I have no doubt she is very wise and fair-minded. Those are the qualities that are most important when you are a ruling monarch.”

“I reckon Harry could be Queen. Or even you, Nanny Chase,” said Gareth, looking up at her. “You’re smart. And prettier.”

Emmeline was about to say that one’s attractiveness shouldn’t be a prerequisite for anything much at all, when the Duke of St Lawrence leaned close to her ear and murmured, “Of course, you are right. But then so is Gareth.”

Blushing, Emmeline turned to look at the duke, but he was moving away to speak with a smartly dressed, middle-aged gentleman with graying hair, muttonchops, and a pair of silverframed spectacles perched on his nose.

The Astronomer Royal. The duke had pointed him out earlier during the official opening ceremony.

Emmeline thought he looked suitably impressed with the duke’s clock.

If anyone deserved accolades for his ingenuity, it was the Duke of St Lawrence.

In Emmeline’s mind, he also deserved accolades for being wise, fair-minded, and attractive in a disconcerting, steal-your-breath sort of way.

Not being infatuated with the duke was still proving to be an impossible feat, especially after their passionate study tryst.

However, now was not the time to be dwelling on the unattainable and all the if-onlys and what-might-have-beens.

Emmeline needed to stay focused on looking after Harry, Bartholomew, and Gareth.

There were thousands of people congregating inside the massive Crystal Palace, and it would be quite easy for the children to get lost.

Despite the crowds, Emmeline had spotted several other Parasol Academy nannies and governesses—their uniforms made them hard to miss. There was even a Parasol nanny discreetly minding two of the Royal children who’d accompanied the Queen and Prince Albert to the Exhibition’s opening.

Her fellow Parasol graduates had all smiled and tilted their heads at Emmeline before returning their attentions to their own charges.

In a way, it was reassuring to know that if anything untoward should happen today—if God forbid Harry, Bartholomew, or Gareth did wander off—she might have other well-trained Parasol Academy sisters to call upon for help.

Emmeline also had her Academy-issued parasol at hand; like her umbrella, it had a very useful Point-of-Confusion at the tip.

Hopefully she wouldn’t have to use it or her sheathed ankleknife.

Or any other items related to the physical protection of her charges.

The duke was a wealthy man, with a target on his back already.

She couldn’t afford to let her guard down, even for a split second.

Who knew what devious types might be skulking about in the crowd?

At that moment one of London’s premier skulkers—Sir Randolph “Bottom” Redvers—skulked into view.

Although considering the odious man’s abrasive guffaw preceded his actual appearance—combined with the fact he was wearing another garish plaid suit in shades of purple, green, and egg-yolk yellow (the baronet’s tailor really needed his eyes checked)—she would have to concede that he wasn’t skulking per se.

Especially since he was also surrounded by several toadying gentlemen who were equally as loud in both demeanor and attire.

Emmeline didn’t recognize any of his acquaintances.

Not that she was expecting to see the two thugs who’d chased after her and His Grace almost three weeks ago.

But it never hurt to keep one’s eyes peeled for danger.

Just as it didn’t hurt to trust one’s gut or one’s hackles if they began to prickle.

Prickling hackles most of all, as per the Parasol Academy Handbook , Chapter 1, Section 8, Paragraph 12.

As soon as the royal party moved away—Emmeline did wonder if Sir Randolph’s sartorial choices had precipitated the retreat more than his overbearing manner; the Queen was known to be fond of tartan, but surely not that sort of eye-wateringly offensive pattern—the baronet approached the Duke of St Lawrence’s clock.

He cocked his head to one side and his narrowed eyes ran over it from top to bottom as though he were a sergeant major examining his troops.

“So I hear this is the Queen of Clocks,” Sir Randolph announced in trumpeting tones to no one in particular.

“It’s pretty enough. If you like that sort of fussy design.

” He made a show of peering at the plaque beneath the clock that described its unique features.

“And it’s electromechanical you say, Your Grace?

” he threw over his shoulder at the duke.

“And incredibly accurate?” The baronet pulled a gilt pocket watch from his purple silk waistcoat, flipped it open, then smirked.

“ Almost on time. A valiant effort, St Lawrence. Who knows, with any luck, your clock might even be in the running to win a Prize Medal. Which would be a feat in and of itself given your reputation.”

“My reputation as a horologist speaks for itself,” replied the duke frostily. “And my clock keeps perfect time.”

“Well, I for one, am most impressed,” said the Astronomer Royal to the duke.

“Indeed, I suspect your design is innovative enough to be considered for a Council Medal.” He tilted into a bow.

“I look forward to seeing your final design for the Westminster clock when submitted, Your Grace.” And then he moved off into the crowd, wandering after the Queen and her retinue. Thank goodness Sir Randolph did too.

Gareth tugged at Emmeline’s sleeve. “Nanny Chase, I would like some lemonade, please.”

“And I would like to see the dinosaurs,” added Bartholomew. “Then the cat circus.”

“The performing cats and the dinosaur exhibit are outside, according to the Exhibition guide,” said Harry, her nose in the booklet. “But if we go through that door”—she pointed over her shoulder—“we’ll be in the machinery room. We could go there first.”

Bartholomew pouted. “That’s not fair. And machines are boring.”

“I’m really, really thirsty,” complained Gareth.

Oh dear. Sensing a three-pronged mutiny on the horizon, Emmeline drew a deep breath.

“Why don’t we all have lemonade first? There’s a refreshment court close by, behind the exotic plant conservatory over there.

Then we can work out our plan of attack for the rest of the day.

Rest assured, everyone will get to see what they want. ”

Harry gave a dramatic sigh. “Very well, Nanny Chase.”

“I suppose so,” conceded Bartholomew.

“Hurrah! Lemonade!” cried Gareth, clapping his hands.

“Well done, Mrs. Chase,” said the duke as they made their way toward their destination in the exhibition hall’s north transept.

The boys walked ahead with Bertie and Ollie while Harry, her nose still in the Exhibition guidebook, strolled beside Fanny.

“Are you sure you didn’t study diplomacy at the Parasol Academy? ”

“Actually, there is a chapter on fielding arguments and fair negotiation strategies,” Emmeline replied, her eyes on her charges.

“If it will make your life any easier,” he said, “I could take Miss Harriet along with Fanny to see the machinery while you take the boys outside to see the cat show and dinosaurs.”

Emmeline glanced at the duke as they wandered past a grove of elm trees. “If you’re sure, Your Grace. If you have other noblemen and dignitaries you wish to meet with, I’m sure I can manage. Especially since I also have Bertie and Ollie to help with the boys.”

The duke’s mouth slanted into a lopsided smile. “Oh, so is this your subtle way of telling me you don’t need me, Mrs. Chase? I know when I’m not wanted.”

“I… That’s not… I apologize if—” Emmeline broke off as she realized the duke was laughing at her. “You’re lucky I don’t give you a spank with my parasol, Your Grace,” she said with a quelling look.

The duke cocked a brow. “I thought you didn’t believe in corporal punishment?”

“For children. Impertinent dukes however…” Emmeline playfully wagged a finger.

“And what about impertinent nannies?” teased the duke, his eyes dancing with mischief. “What should be done with them?” He spun his cane, then tossed it from one gloved hand to the other.

“I shall not rise to your bait, Your Grace,” said Emmeline primly.

“I will not comment on how you might use your cane on my person. Nor your sheathed sword.” Ooh, but she was stepping well outside the dictates of decorum now.

It was a good thing the duke’s wards were ahead and out of immediate earshot, but she couldn’t seem to keep her undisciplined tongue in check.

“What about my un sheathed sword?” returned the duke in a low voice.

Did His Grace really just say that? Emmeline blushed and laughed at the same time. To steer the conversation in a different, more sedate direction she ventured, “Now if you’re challenging me to a bout of fencing, I’m game for that, Your Grace.”

“You fence?”

“Yes indeed. I could do with some regular practice. Although I prefer the foil, I could make do with a rapier at a pinch.”

“Gadzooks, is there anything you cannot do?”

She threw the duke an arch smile. “I cannot fly. But I think you already knew that.”

“Honestly, Mrs. Chase, I’m not even convinced of that anymore,” said the duke.

“I still don’t know how you came to be on my roof.

Or how you managed to clean—” Color crept along the crests of his high cheekbones.

“My apologies. We agreed that we would not speak of that evening. I cannot forget it though. No matter how hard I try.”

“I know,” said Emmeline softly. “I’m much the same.”

The duke sighed. “And of course, I shouldn’t be talking to you about it now.

Or openly flirting with you in public. It’s just that you seemed a bit out of sorts earlier on, and I wanted to see you smile.

When you do, it makes me feel…” His words trailed away, then he stopped walking. Turned to face her. “Forgive me.”

Emmeline stopped too. They’d reached the tropical “conservatory” and the shadow of an enormous palm frond cast the duke’s austere features half in light, half in shadow. “There’s nothing to forgive, Your Grace. I—”

Emmeline halted, her breath catching. In the crowd, a few yards away, she spied a ginger-haired man with a tweed cap pulled low on his brow. Their eyes met fleetingly, then he was gone again, swallowed up by the milling throng.

Freddy?

“What is it?” The duke reached out to clasp her arm. “Is something wrong?”

“Oh, it’s-it’s nothing. I simply saw a man with red hair, and for a moment I thought he was my brother. I-I could have been mistaken. He’s gone now.”

The duke looked around. “Are you sure it’s not him?”

“I doubt that Freddy could afford a ticket to the Great Exhibition,” said Emmeline.

“And even if he managed to secure one, I suppose it’s by-the-by.

I feel like half of London is here.” She glanced toward a clearing up ahead—the refreshment court.

“I see that Bertie and Ollie have secured a table for our party. Time for lemonade, Your Grace?”

“This conversation isn’t over, Emmeline,” said the duke in a low voice. His hand lingered on her arm. “You and I, we have unfinished business.”

Beneath her uniform, Emmeline’s flesh tingled and a frisson of heat washed through her from head to toe.

She had no idea in what direction the duke meant to steer any future discussions—they both knew that nothing could come of their brief erotic encounter, no matter how incendiary their attraction, or genuine their fond regard for each other.

But for now, she’d have to set her feelings aside and focus on taking care of the duke’s wards. Not all the ways she could break more rules with the duke.

Today of all days, Emmeline felt all the way to her bones that she must be prepared for anything.