Page 52 of The Nanny’s Handbook to Magic and Managing Difficult Dukes

In Which There Is a Celebration Involving Drunken Signs and Sour Wine, Penny-Gaff Plays, and Fan Dances; And an Unexpected Disclosure…

Xavier placed his fountain pen into its stand and then folded his gloved hands on his desk’s leather blotter. At long last, after a whole year of painstaking work—sometimes in the most trying of circumstances—his Westminster Palace clock design was complete.

“Huzzah and hallelujah,” he murmured to himself.

He was quietly proud of what he’d created on paper.

He’d actually invented a unique, perhaps even revolutionary clock mechanism—a complex arrangement of levers, gears, and weights and a new kind of pendulum—that would maintain unprecedented accuracy.

By linking the “King of Clocks” by telegraph wires to the Greenwich Observatory, the first stroke of each hour would also be accurate to within one second.

How could the Astronomer Royal not be impressed?

Of course, Xavier still needed to review every detail—checking all his calculations and pages and pages of impossibly intricate schematic diagrams—ensuring everything was absolutely perfect before he submitted his proposal to George Airy for consideration.

But for now, a celebratory brandy was in order.

Although, as Xavier poured himself a sizable nip from the decanter he kept in his study, his mouth twisted with a wry smile.

While he was pleased with his accomplishment, something was missing.

He should be wallowing in the soft golden glow of satisfaction that was left in the wake of achieving a hard-fought-for goal.

He should be rejoicing that in the not-too-distant future his name might be associated with something wonderful for once.

But he didn’t feel that way. Even after a few sips of brandy, he wasn’t abuzz with any emotion resembling genuine triumph.

And deep down he knew exactly why. He wanted to share his achievement with someone…

with Emmeline. (He’d given up trying to call her Mrs. Chase in his head.) He didn’t want to celebrate alone, but she was far away—eighty miles to be exact—in Kent.

Which wasn’t all that far by train but still felt a world away all the same.

The truth was, Xavier missed her. Ached for her in fact. He felt thoroughly empty and deflated like a ship without sails or a “puff balloon” that had lost its air and could no longer fly.

If he were truly being honest with himself, he’d also acknowledge that he missed Harry, Bartholomew, and little Gareth, too.

Not only their laughter and their bright voices and incessant questions, but even their amusing shenanigans.

Even Horatio seemed in a doleful mood of late.

Yes, the house was far too quiet and empty without his wards. And they’d only been gone a fortnight.

Xavier replenished his brandy then moved back to the casement window and pushed it open to let in some fresh air.

It was a chill day for May. Somber gray clouds were clustered over the roofs of Belgravia and even though dusk was a few hours off, it was already growing dark in his study.

Shadows clustered in corners and only added to his despondent mood.

He idly wondered if the odd and exceedingly vexing household “incidents” that still happened on a regular basis would cease altogether once his Westminster clock design was submitted.

The clocks throughout the house—except for those in his Horology Room—were still constantly running fast or slow.

The gaslights still flickered periodically.

One of the servants—Woodley and Mrs. Lambton had yet to work out who—had “accidentally” left all the first- and second-floor windows open on one side of the house one night during a rainstorm, leading to drenched carpets and drapes and furniture; nothing that couldn’t be fixed, but of course, it was another inconvenient distraction.

Yet Xavier had somehow soldiered on through it all.

If Sir Randolph Redvers, or another rival clock designer had gone to such extreme lengths to eliminate him from the competition, well, it had turned out to be all rather pointless in the end. He’d achieved his goal despite the disruptions. Despite the stress.

But what if the saboteur isn’t Sir Randolph or another competing horologist? Xavier reminded himself. What if my uncle is my hidden enemy, the one who’s constantly trying to unsettle me and portray me as incompetent?

Only time would tell.

While Scotland Yard hadn’t turned up any leads on Gareth’s kidnapper yet, Xavier’s anxiety about his wards’ safety had at least eased now that they were far away.

Emmeline sent a telegram every single day, letting him know how everyone was faring.

Even though the messages were brief and matter-of-fact, he looked forward to hearing whatever news Emmeline chose to share; whether it was to let him know her father’s health was improving, or how many sea snails the children had collected to feed to Archimedes and Aristotle, or that Harry was fascinated with the tides and the weather and thought she might like to be a meteorologist one day, he wanted to know it all.

Indeed, Xavier had a small stack of those telegrams from Kent sitting on his leather blotter, right beside his inkwell and fountain pen, and he suspected he knew every line by heart.

The Boulle clock on the mantel suddenly chimed five o’clock, and the longcase clock followed a few minutes later.

Since Emmeline had gone, Xavier felt like all the magic had left this room, and indeed, the entire house.

Yet little reminders of her were everywhere.

Even the goddamn roof opposite his study reminded him of her.

Xavier sighed and rolled his now empty glass between his gloved palms. No matter how hard he tried not to think about Mrs. Emmeline Chase, his mind always returned to her.

Just like he couldn’t escape his great need for her.

He might be able to push thoughts of her away during the day when he was focused on his work, but at night, she filled his dreams and he woke aching for her.

Not only did he miss her kisses and intimate caresses, but her smile and laughter and infinitely entertaining conversation.

When he’d sent her to Kent, he’d hoped he’d become accustomed to her absence.

But it was rapidly becoming evident that that wasn’t the case at all.

Was this constant longing inside him—this all-consuming passion—a sign he was in love?

He hardly knew.

It certainly wasn’t nothing. It would be easier to put out the sun and the stars than extinguish this endless yearning for Mrs. Emmeline Chase.

Xavier put his empty brandy glass down beside Emmeline’s telegrams and a stack of correspondence.

He was in no mood to tackle anything related to his estate or other business concerns.

Instead, he reached for the latest edition of the Illustrated London News , which he hadn’t yet read, and sat back down at his desk.

He made a superficial perusal of the articles about the Great Exhibition, news from overseas, but none of it could hold his interest.

He was as restless and twitchy as a cat eyeing a canary in a cage. He needed to do something , but he wasn’t quite sure what.

Casting aside the newspaper, Xavier contemplated pouring another brandy. Perhaps he should reach out to Marcus to see what he was up to this evening—

At that moment, Horatio flew through the open window and landed on his perch. “ Guten tag, mein Gro?herzog ,” he crowed.

Xavier shook his head in bewilderment. Where on earth had his raven learned German?

This bird was more of an enigma than Emmeline Chase sometimes.

“I suppose you’re trying to impress me with your superior linguistic skills in order to cadge a shortbread finger,” he said.

The raven was eyeing the plate of untouched biscuits on the afternoon tea tray on one side of Xavier’s desk.

Horatio cocked his head to one side and bobbed up and down, his avian version of “yes.”

Xavier moved the plate closer to the bird and gave a nod and a smile. “Well, go on then.”

“I don’t mind if I do,” replied the raven, then he spread his glossy black wings out to their full span of four feet and two inches.

As he landed on the desk with an elegant flutter, the resultant draft wildly ruffled the pages of the discarded broadsheet…

and something caught Xavier’s eye. An entry in the Classified Advertising Items section.

THE OBERON MUSIC HALL—HOLYWELL ST, SHOREDITCH

Proprietor or, The Sanguinary Butcher of Cripplegate.

Marvel at Mademoiselle Fizgig performing her exotic feather-fan dance and tightrope walk. Rousing singalongs and miscellaneous surprise acts are sure to thrill and delight.

Doors open half an hour before the show commences at precisely 8 o’clock.

Admission: Public Room, 1s; Balcony, 2s 6d; Supper Table Seats, 3s 6d; Private box, 5s

Xavier frowned at the advertisement. Where on earth had Freddy Evans, Emmeline’s brother, found the money to promote his theater production in one of London’s most popular newspapers?

When he’d accosted Emmeline over a month ago, he’d claimed his music hall was in danger of shutting down and that money lenders were hounding him.

Emmeline had spied him at the opening of the Great Exhibition too. Of course, half of London had been in Hyde Park that day and the price of a single ticket wasn’t exorbitant. But still, for a man supposedly watching his pennies…

Xavier drummed his fingers on the blotter. He suddenly knew how he should spend his evening. He wanted to find out more about Freddy Evans’s business and how much debt the young man was really in.