Governess Gone Rogue

    Lady Truelove may be London’s most famous advice columnist, but James St. Clair, the Earl of Kenyon, knows his wild young sons need a tutor, not a new mother. They need a man tough enough to make his hellions tow the line, and James is determined to find one.

     Miss Amanda Leighton, former schoolteacher and governess, knows she has all the qualifications to be a tutor. And while female tutors are unheard of, Amanda isn’t about to lose the chance at her dream job because of pesky details like that. If Lord Kenyon insists on hiring a man, then she has only one option…

     Jamie isn’t sure what to make of his new employee, until he realizes the shocking truth – beneath the ill-fitting suits, his boys’ tutor is a woman. An unconventional, outspoken, thoroughly intriguing woman. Despite Amanda’s deception, he can’t dismiss her when his boys are learning so much. Yet Jamie, too, is learning surprising lessons—about desire, seduction, and passionate second chances…

Chapter 1

London, 1893

      “And she’s off.”

     Ten-year old Owen propped his elbows on the windowsill as he made that announcement, resting his chin in his hands and watching through the window glass as their now-former nanny, a stern, black-clad widow named Mrs. Hornsby, stepped into the hansom cab parked at the curb one floor below. “We’re to blame, you know.”

     “Stuff.” Colin, older than his brother by exactly eighteen minutes, shook his head, a decisive move that sent the unruly strands of his carrot-red hair into further disarray. “It’s not our fault the Hornsby doesn’t like frogs.”

     “Well, we did put it in her soup.” Owen sighed as the hansom cab containing Mrs. Hornsby turned at the corner and vanished from view. “Three nannies in six months. I think that’s torn it, Colin. Papa said one more nanny and he’d send us to Harrow.”

     At the ghastly prospect of being sent away to school, the twins turned and slid down to sit on the floor of the library, their backs pressed to the wall beneath the window as they contemplated what could well be their immediate future.

     “We can’t let Papa send us away,” Colin said at last. “He’d be lost without us. And what would happen to Oscar?”

     Both boys looked up at the gray tabby cat that was sitting on the arm of a nearby chair, a cat they’d rescued from a tree in the park two years earlier. Oscar was twitching his tail and blinking his green eyes sleepily, seeming unaware of the dire future that lay ahead for his two human friends.

     “He’ll be lonely,” Owen said. “Papa’s away all the time, and the servants think he’s a nuisance because he doesn’t chase down any mice. They might forget to feed him. They might even give him away.”

“We’ve got to do something to stop it.”

     “Maybe we could take him with us? It’s probably against the rules to have a cat at Harrow, but—”

     “I’m not talking about Oscar.” Colin turned toward his brother. “I’m talking about us, and being sent away. Oscar has nothing to worry about, if we can find a way to convince Papa to let us stay here.”

There was silence for a moment as both boys considered the problem.

“Maybe,” Owen said at last, “we could find our new nanny ourselves, before Papa even knows what’s happened. Someone we like. Someone fun. If we do that, it’s a fate…fate—what’s the word?”

     “Fait-accompli,” Colin supplied in carefully enunciated, very British French.

     “That’s it.” Owen’s nod was decisive. “And if we’ve already hired someone, Papa can’t be too angry about Nanny Hornsby leaving, can he?”

     “Maybe not, but the thing is…” Colin paused, turning toward his brother, his freckled face scrunching up with distaste, as if he’d just eaten a persimmon. “We don’t really want another nanny, do we?”

     “No, but what other choice have we got?”

     “Maybe we should stop settling for nannies and find what we really want.”

     “You mean…” Owen straightened away from the wall, turning toward his brother, his expression one of both excitement and doubt. “You don’t mean a new mum?”

     “Why not? We’ve been talking about it for ages.”

     “I know, but—”

     “Another nanny would be so tiresome. And school would be worse.”

     “That’s true, but—”

     “Papa’s sure to marry again sometime,” Colin interrupted. “What if he picks someone who doesn’t like us?”

“We’d be off to Harrow like a shot. But still—”

“That sort of thing works both ways, you know. If we find Papa someone who likes us a lot, she could convince him to let us give school a miss altogether.”

     “Possibly,” Owen said, his voice making it clear he wasn’t optimistic about such a plan’s chances of success. “But Papa won’t ever marry again. He’s said so thousands of times.”

     “We’ll have to find him a girl who’s smashing enough to make him change his mind. Someone pretty, of course.”

     “Someone nice. Someone who won’t keep putting pomade in our hair and lecturing us when our trousers get torn.”

Colin nodded. “She’ll have to be brainy, too, like Mama was. And fond of cats.”

     “There’s just one problem. How do we find her?”

     “That’s the sticky wicket, I agree.”

     Both boys fell silent again, thinking hard.

     “We could place an ad in Auntie Clara’s newspaper,” Owen said at last. “Men are always advertising for wives in the papers, aren’t they?”

     “Gentlemen don’t, and Papa’s a gentleman. Wait—I know!” Colin jumped to his feet and crossed the library to the writing desk. As his brother watched, he opened the center drawer, retrieved a sheet of notepaper, and closed the drawer again.

     “What are you doing?” Owen asked curiously, standing up and moving toward the desk as his brother reached for the pen that was reposing in a silver holder on the inkstand. “Who are you writing to?”

     “Who does everyone write to when they want to solve a problem?” Colin countered as he inked the nib of the pen. “I’m writing to Lady Truelove.”

#

     Those who wanted to be polite would have deemed Amanda Leighton a woman of the world. Those not so inclined to civility would have called her something else, something much less romantic.

Either way, facts were facts, and though by the age of twenty-eight Amanda had managed to live in two different countries, earn a university education, find a profession, take a lover, and lose her reputation, she had not gained the one experience society deemed worthwhile for those of her sex. Amanda had never managed to acquire a husband.

But then, she’d never really been in search of one. Her mother had died when she was a young girl, and she’d been raised by her father, who had scorned the downright silly subjects that were the traditional scope of a girl’s learning, subjects designed to prepare her for matrimony. He’d given Amanda a first-class education instead, one worthy of any boy, and he’d used every penny he had to pay for university, cheering her on and supporting her efforts every step of the way. More important, he’d taught her to take charge of her own destiny and ensure her own future, not by the use of feminine wiles, but by the employment of her intelligence.

After his death, she’d become a teacher, and for the seven years since then, she’d earned her living with her brain. Sadly, not every employer understood that the rest of Amanda’s body wasn’t for hire.

When Mr. Oswald Bartlett put his hand on her in a way no employer ever ought to do, Amanda had demonstrated her scientific knowledge of male anatomy with the use of one well-placed knee. She had also, unfortunately, lost her job.

Not that being governess to Mr. Bartlett’s four daughters had been a particularly exciting post. How exciting could it be to teach four girls how to speak French, waltz, and curtsy, especially when neither they nor their parent ever envisioned for them anything more? Still, her position with the widower had provided her with a roof over her head, two meals a day, and a miniscule, but steady wage.

Now she was unemployed, and thanks to the knee, she was facing the search for a new position with no letter of character.

Amanda leaned back in her chair, looked up from her now-cold tea, and realized that the waitress who had served her in such friendly fashion half an hour ago was now eying her with impatience. The goodwill she’d purchased at Mrs. Mott’s Tea Emporium with one cuppa and one Bath bun was clearly gone, but Amanda continued to linger. It was far too early to give up for the day and return to her tiny flat, but if she left here, where could she go?

She’d spent the past month presenting herself at every employment agency in London, to no avail. Though all had been impressed by her university education, none had sent her to interview for any governess posts. Her baccalaureate from Girton College seemed breathtakingly impressive until each agency made the inevitable inquiries and learned what had happened to her after departing that lauded institution. Once they discovered she was the same Amanda Leighton who had once taught at Willowbank Academy, whose reputation had been tainted by scandal, their eagerness to find her employment went straight out the window, and who could blame them?

Willowbank was England’s most prestigious academic school for young ladies, but when one of its teachers took the son of the school’s most generous and influential patron as her lover, well, that was a scandal for the ages, especially when no wedding followed in the wake of its discovery. No one wanted to put their daughters in the care of a woman tainted by scandal. Only Mr. Bartlett had been so inclined, and his reasons for hiring her were now, in hindsight, dismally clear.

These days, she was down to tutoring a few people in her neighborhood for pennies, but that wasn’t enough to pay rent and buy food. If her present state of unemployment continued much longer, her meager savings would be gone, but her prospects for respectable employment were dim, and growing dimmer by the day.

All her father’s efforts, four years of university education, Tripos honors, two published papers on theoretical physics, and seven years of teaching at one of England’s most lauded schools, all obliterated by one stupid mistake, one that shamed her father’s memory, one she ought never to have made. Aware, educated, with plenty of common sense and worldly wisdom, and yet, she’d fallen in love with a man because he’d said her eyes were like sunlight caught in the embrace of a dark forest. She’d never dreamed a peer of the realm could be so poetic. Or that she could be such a fool.

Amanda swallowed the last of her tea and glanced out the window again. Having pawned her watch a few days ago, she didn’t know the time, but from the play of light outside, she judged that the evening papers were now available, and before going back to her lodgings, she could at least see if any governess positions had been posted. Reading the advertisements wasn’t an easy thing to manage, for the hawkers soon lost patience with those who stood by their stacks perusing the papers for sale without ever buying any, but Amanda couldn’t afford to waste precious pennies on the daily newspapers. The twelve pence in her handbag and the fifteen shillings hidden away in the tin under her mattress were all she had left.

She could sell Papa’s books, if she had to, and her mother’s cameos. Perhaps find a few more people to tutor. Doing all that would keep her in funds through the rest of autumn, perhaps even into the new year. But then…if she didn’t find work, what would become of her?

Fear shivered through Amanda, bringing her to her feet. Shoving dire prognostications of the future out of her mind, she took up the Bath bun that would serve as her evening meal, wrapped it in her handkerchief, and tucked it into the pocket of her cloak. She then slipped the cloak on, paid her bill, and left Mrs. Mott’s to go in search of a newspaper seller. She’d barely gone one block, however, before the sign painted in a plate-glass window caught her eye and she paused.

Deverill Newspapers Limited, the gilt lettering read. Publishers of the London Daily Standard and the Weekly Gazette.

Perhaps she was going about her employment search the wrong way, she thought, staring at the window. What if, instead of looking through the current posts being advertised, she placed her own advertisement, one noting her credentials and offering her services as a governess? Mentioning Girton would surely gain her at least a few inquiries. If so, perhaps she could gloss over her past and talk her way into an interview, maybe even a post. Depending on the price of an ad, it might be worth a try.

Action appealed to her far more than passively waiting for a job to come along while she pinched pennies and contemplated destitution.

But another look through the window caused her to doubt the soundness of her idea, at least as far as this particular newspaper was concerned. It seemed to be either going out of business or moving to a new location, for packing crates were stacked against the far wall and most of the furnishings had been removed. Nonetheless, there was at least one person still on the premises, she noted, spying a tall man with blond hair who was rummaging through one of the packing crates that lay on top of the room’s only desk. He might be able to assist her. At any rate, it would do no harm to inquire.

She opened the door, and the man looked up, revealing a startlingly handsome countenance. Amanda, however, felt no jump in the pace of her pulse. Her affair with Lord Frances Belton and the resulting disgrace had cured her of any romantic notions about men, handsome or otherwise, and besides, she had other priorities.

“Yes, miss?” He circled the desk and came toward her. “May I help you?”

“I’m not certain. I wanted to see about placing an advertisement, but—” She broke off and glanced around. “Is this newspaper out of print?”

“No, no,” he assured her, “though I suppose it appears that way at present. We are moving to larger premises today.”

“We?” Amanda echoed, noting for the first time his finely-tailored morning suit as he halted before her. “You don’t look at all like a clerk or a journalist.”

That made him laugh. “I imagine not,” he agreed and offered a bow. “I am Viscount Galbraith.”

Amanda’s surprise deepened, and perceiving it, he laughed again, gesturing to the sign on the window behind her. “My wife Clara was a Deverill before she married me. She and her sister, the Duchess of Torquil, own this publishing company.”

“A business owned by women?” Amanda murmured, impressed. “That’s unusual.”

“They have a staff of clerks and journalists, of course. But everyone’s at the new premises just now. My wife and I only recently married, and we’re readying to go away on honeymoon, so things are rather a mess. I’m only here because I’ve lost my pocket watch. My wife seemed to think she’d tossed it into one of these crates, so I’ve come in search.”

“Then I mustn’t keep you, my lord.” She gave a curtsy and moved to leave, but his voice stopped her.

     “If you wish to place an advertisement, you can write it down, and I’d be happy to deliver it to a member of the staff.”

     “I shouldn’t wish to give any trouble.”

     “It’s no trouble, I assure you. I shall be going back to Fleet Street to fetch my wife as soon as I find my watch, and I can easily take your advertisement there for you. I might even be able to supply you with writing materials.” He returned to the desk, rummaged through one of the crates, and pulled out a rather rumpled sheet of paper and a stubby lead pencil.

     “Here we are,” he said, returning to her. “Not the best stationery, I fear, but it should serve the purpose.”

     “Thank you,” she murmured, taking the offered paper and pencil from his outstretched hands. “You’re very kind. What is…the…ahem—” She broke off, her face heating, for she knew it was the height of vulgarity to discuss money matters of any sort with a peer, but she could see no other choice, and she took a deep breath. “What is the rate for an advertisement?”

“The rate?” He gave her a blank stare for a moment, then he laughed, making it clear that at least she hadn’t given offense. “Good Lord, I’ve no idea,” he confessed. “What do you think would be fair?”

“I don’t suppose free would be considered very fair, would it?” she quipped, but pride caused her to regret the half-joking words at once. “That is, I mean, I wasn’t trying to cage…I’m happy to pay the proper rate, of course.”

His keen blue eyes swept over her, surely noting the frayed hems of her cloak and skirt, but whatever he might be thinking, he didn’t express his thoughts aloud. “What if we say one half-penny per word?” he asked. “With a three-day run?”

     Even in her straitened circumstances, she could afford that, if she kept it short. Relieved, she gave a nod of agreement, and Lord Galbraith gestured to the long work table beside the door, pulling out a swivel chair from underneath so that she could sit down.

     “Now, if you will pardon me for a few moments,” he said, pushing in the chair for her once she was seated, “I really must continue the hunt for that watch of mine.”

     He returned to the desk across the room, but he’d barely resumed rummaging through the crates before the door opened and another man came in, a man every bit as good looking as the viscount, but as different from him as chalk was from cheese.

     Lord Galbraith had the countenance of a man who enjoyed life, a man of amiable temperament with a warm, easy smile, a man whose fair coloring and flawless features seemed almost angelic.

There was nothing angelic, however, about the man who halted in the doorway. If this man had ever been an angel, he’d fallen a long time ago, and fallen hard.

Beneath the brim of a gray felt Derby, his eyes were a clear, almost colorless green, the green of bottle glass—cool, translucent, and curiously devoid of any discernible emotion, softened into humanity only by the brown lashes that surrounded them, lashes that were long and thick and sinfully opulent.

There was nothing soft about the rest of his face, however. Its lean planes seemed to have been chiseled out of marble, as exquisitely sculpted and as expressionless as any statue. There was a curious lethargy to his stance and an unmistakable weariness to the set of his wide shoulders, and to Amanda, it seemed a weariness of spirit rather than body. Though he was probably only a few years older than she, there were distinct lines etched into the edges of his mouth and the corners of his eyes, and though she couldn’t tell if those lines were borne of dissipation or suffering, they nonetheless told of a man who had seen it all and done it all and who wasn’t much interested in doing any of it again.

Those cool green eyes of his looked in her direction, then away at once, a glance devoid of any masculine interest. Most woman would be insulted, she supposed with a hint of humor, but after Lord Belton and Mr. Bartlett, Amanda could only deem such indifference a relief.

“Ah, Jamie.” Lord Galbraith greeted the man in the doorway. “You received my note, I take it?”

“I did, and when I called at the new offices, Clara told me you’d come here. She urged me to follow, saying it was important I speak with you straightaway. I’m dying to know what could be so urgent that it requires me to chase you hither and yon.” Despite his words, his drawling, well-bred voice displayed no curiosity.

“It’s about the boys.”

At once, something flickered in that weary, stone-hard countenance, a hint of life. He started forward, his body moving in a burst of sudden, disciplined energy that contrasted sharply with his former ennui.

“What about the boys?” he asked, his voice carrying a new urgency. “And why,” he added as he halted across the desk from Galbraith, “is it you who has something to tell me about them?”

“They’ve written to Lady Truelove. She received a letter from them this morning asking for advice.”

The man called Jamie gave a laugh. His body relaxed again, as if at a crisis averted. “Is that all?”

“All?” Galbraith echoed. “You don’t even know what they were writing her about.”

“Does it matter?” Jamie’s wide shoulders gave a dismissive shrug. “It’s one of their pranks, obviously. One of their less harmless ones, thank God.”

“You may not retain that opinion once you know what it’s about. And I don’t think it was a prank. I think they seriously want her advice.”

“My sons are seldom serious about anything, Rex. They adore practical jokes. Why do you think they chew up and spit out their nannies with such exhausting frequency?”

“They asked Lady Truelove how to go about acquiring a new mother.”

“What?” Even in profile, Amanda could see his momentary amusement vanish and dismay take its place. “But they know I’ll never marry again. We’ve discussed it.”

“They seem to harbor hope your mind can be changed on the subject.” Galbraith reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “Read their letter for yourself.”

“How can you be sure it’s from my sons?” Jamie asked as he took the letter and unfolded it. “Did they sign it?”

“Only with the moniker, Motherless in Mayfair,” Galbraith answered, making the other man grimace. “But they included a return address so that Lady Truelove could reply, and unless you’ve moved out of the duke’s town house in the last day or two, or someone else’s motherless children have moved in, this letter was definitely written by your boys.”

     “Of all the ridiculous, hare-brained schemes they’ve hatched—” He broke off with a sigh, bent his head, and read the letter, then looked up again. “That tears it,” he said, tossing down the sheet in obvious exasperation. “I’ve had enough. I’m sending them to school.”

     “Isn’t that a bit drastic? Writing to Lady Truelove isn’t the most egregious thing they’ve ever done.”

“If by that you mean it’s not as bad as the time they set off firecrackers in the drawing room and caught the curtains on fire,” their father said dryly, “or when they put itching powder in my valet’s linen, I suppose I must concede the point.”

At the mention of itching powder, Amanda had to press her lips together to stifle a laugh. A clever pair of young men, she thought, to think of such a thing.

“Still,” their father went on with a sigh, “I suppose it’s a good thing they chose Lady Truelove as their confidante. Had they written to some other newspaper’s advice columnist, you wouldn’t have been able to intercept this letter and it would have been published.” He doffed his hat to rake a hand through his tobacco brown hair. “If that had happened, I shudder to think what society’s reaction would have been. Motherless in Mayfair, twin boys who need a mum because they’re tired of all the nannies…everyone would know it’s my sons.”

“The twins do have a bit of a reputation, granted.”

“A letter like that printed in the paper for all to read? It doesn’t bear thinking about. I’m the target of enough debutantes nowadays as it is.”

“A fate worse than death,” intoned Galbraith.

Jamie paid little heed to his friend’s amused rejoinder. “Few bothered with me when I was only the Marquess of Rolleston’s second son, an earnest MP with a modest income, but now that Geoffrey’s gone—” He broke off with a humorless laugh. “It’s amazing how much more appealing I’ve become now that I’m Rolleston’s only heir. Poor Geoff had been in the ground barely a month before young ladies began voicing their concern about how lonely life is for widowers, and what a difficult time I must be having. The last thing I need is to hear pretenses of concern for my dear, sweet boys who are so desperate for a mother that they’re writing to newspaper advice columns about it.”

“Yes, but as it is, no harm was done. Surely you’re not serious about sending them to school because of this?”

“No, but I begin to think it’s high time I did send them,” Jamie replied, an unmistakably defensive note in his voice. “God knows, I’ve threatened to do it often enough. And the timing’s ideal, now that their latest nanny’s gone off.”

     “Another nanny already? What happened this time?”

     “The same thing that always happens.” He tossed his hat onto the desk with an exasperated sigh. “They made the poor woman’s life a living torment, and she decided she’d had enough."

     Amanda raised an eyebrow. Heavens, what did these boys do to their nannies? Given the firecrackers and the itching powder, she supposed anything was possible, but she had no opportunity to speculate on the topic, for the boys’ father spoke again.

     “The autumn term at Harrow has already begun, but I think they could still be admitted, if Torquil puts in a word.”

     “Why not just engage another nanny?”

“After seeing a dozen nannies come and go during the past three years, I am finally forced to accept that no woman alive is capable of managing those boys of mine.”

At that declaration, Amanda’s amusement deepened. Given her seven years as a teacher and governess, she could have assured this man that a pair of mischievous boys would be beer and skittles compared to a classroom full of adolescent girls. She flirted with the idea of piping up to say so, daring him to hire her and give her the chance to prove his contention about her sex utterly wrong, but in the end, she decided against it.

Granted, she needed a job, and the sooner the better. But from what he was saying, his sons would soon be off to school, and no nanny would be required. And as she had so recently discovered, working in a widower’s house put a woman in a terribly vulnerable position. Amanda slid a glance over the powerful frame of the man by the desk, concluded that he wouldn’t be as easy to incapacitate as the stout, middle-aged Mr. Bartlett, and decided she wasn’t quite desperate enough to put herself at risk of a man’s unwelcome advances again.

She forced her attention back to her own task, and the voices of the two men across the room faded as she stared at the blank sheet of paper before her. ‘Post wanted,’ she scribbled after a moment of consideration. ‘Girton-educated woman seeks position as governess. Sober and respectable.’

She paused over the last word, biting her lip. Respectable? Such a lie, that, but what else could she say?

As she grasped for an additional word or two that would put her in the best possible light to potential employers, the viscount spoke, his insistent tone breaking into Amanda’s train of thought.

“Be honest, Jamie. Is school really the best solution? Or is it simply the most expedient?”

“Careful, Rex,” Jamie answered, and though his voice was once again a careless drawl, there was unmistakable warning beneath the lightly-uttered words.

Galbraith, however, did not take heed. “I realize you’re away from home a great deal now that you’re in the Commons. And it’s understandable that you want to keep yourself occupied. Losing Patricia must have been a devastating blow, but it was devastating for the boys, too—”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Jamie interrupted, his voice suddenly savage. “Damn it, Rex, I didn’t ask for your advice on how to manage my sons.”

“You’re not managing them. Isn’t that the material point?”

“A point that is none of your concern.”

“Are you saying I’m wrong?”

“I’m admitting freely those boys of mine are absolute hellions. Perhaps I ought to let Harrow sort them out.”

“Would it sort them out? Or would it just create an entirely new set of problems? Are they ready for Harrow?”

Jamie gave a short, unamused laugh. “Better to ask if Harrow is ready for them. I shall be lucky if they last a term without being expelled.”

“True, but that’s not really what I meant. Are they ready from an academic standpoint?”

     Those words struck a chord, Amanda could tell, for Jamie gave a deep sigh, shifted his weight, and looked away, clearly uncomfortable with the question.

“It would be difficult for them,” he admitted after a moment, returning his attention to his friend. “Nannies have managed to teach them the rudimentary subjects, of course—spelling, arithmetic, penmanship, a bit of French…” He paused, grimacing. “It’s not much, I know.”

“Not enough to prepare them for Harrow and Cambridge, certainly.”

“One can’t really expect much more than that from a nanny. And no woman can prepare a boy for Harrow and Cambridge anyway.”

Amanda nearly snorted, but she managed to suppress the derisive sound just in time. Heavens, if she’d believed claptrap like that, she’d never have even applied to Girton, much less graduated with honors. And Girton, she longed to inform this particular man, was a Cambridge school.

Before Amanda could give in to the impulse to say any of that, however, Jamie spoke again.

“What they need, I suppose,” he said slowly, “is a tutor.”

At that contention, Amanda’s chest tightened with longing. Oh, if only she could be a tutor.

Unlike governesses, tutors were allowed—even expected—to teach real subjects, such as mathematics, science, and history, not just French and how to waltz and curtsy. But there was no point in wishing for a post like that, so Amanda forced her attention back to her task. She read over her advertisement, added the address of her lodgings and a request that any interested parties to write to her there, then she put down her pencil with a satisfied nod. All that remained was to pay for the ad, but when she looked across the room, the two men were still deep in their own conversation.

“Yes, but Jamie, it’s clear why they wrote to Lady Truelove. They want a mother. Need one, too, if their behavior is anything to go by.”

“They had a mother. One mother.” Jamie held up his index finger to emphasize that fact. “One. And she died. Any stepmother would be nothing but a second-rate substitute, and they don’t need that.”

“And what about you? Do you ever stop to consider that a wife might be what you need?”

     “That’s rich, coming from you, last season’s most notorious bachelor.”

“But I’m this season’s most happily married man.”

Jamie made a dismissive sound between his teeth. “You’ve been married a week. I hardly think it counts.”

“But it does, Jamie, because I know how lucky I am. My friend,” he added, his voice turning unmistakably grave, “Patricia’s been gone over three years, and you’ve been living like a monk ever since she died. And now that you’re in the Commons,” he went on as his friend stirred in his seat, “you’re also working like a dog. Wouldn’t a wife be a more agreeable distraction for you than fourteen-hour days at Westminster? Better for the boys, too.”

“Enough.” Jamie’s voice had not risen, but nonetheless, the word was like the snap of a whip in the nearly-empty room. “I am not remarrying. Ever. I neither want nor need a wife, and the boys will have to accept that.”

Galbraith merely grinned in the wake of this unequivocal declaration. “You’re so out of temper these days. You may not need a wife, my friend, but you clearly need a woman. Badly.”

“Unless said woman is willing to offer herself up for an hour or so at some pleasure palace, I’m not the least bit interested.”

     With those words, Amanda’s cheeks began to burn, making her appreciate that though she might be a woman of the world, her innocence and her reputation lost to history, she was still capable of being embarrassed.

     She gave a prim little cough, and the two men glanced in her direction. They looked away at once, but it was clear from their fleeting expressions of surprise that they’d completely forgotten she was in the room.

     There was a moment of awkward silence, and then Jamie reached for his hat. “The only thing I need now is a tutor who can prepare my sons for Harrow. I’d best get on with the task of finding one.”

“I’m sure Merrick’s Employment Agency can provide you with several applicants. I’ll also ask Clara’s staff to place an ad for the post in all our papers, and to watch the ads that come in for tutor positions wanted. If they see anything pertinent, I’ll inform you at once. Would Tuesday suit you to conduct interviews?”

“Yes, though how the poor servants will manage the boys in the interim, I can’t imagine. My valet, one footman, and the assistant cook are the only ones in the house now that the rest of the family has packed up and gone to the country. By the time Tuesday arrives, the twins will have run them all ragged, poor devils.”

“You could watch the boys yourself, for a change. Parliament’s in recess now.”

“Which doesn’t mean I’ve any free time.” Jamie picked up the letter his sons had written and shoved it into his breast pocket. “I’m off tomorrow for Windermere’s Friday-to-Monday. We’ve got to hammer out the details of the coal bill. Colonel Fraser is insisting we make changes or we won’t have his support. And then, I have to spend a few weeks in York—”

“You’re always off somewhere. That’s half the reason those boys of yours are always in trouble.”

“That’s enough lectures for one day, Rex. I need a tutor. Be a good chap and help me find one, will you?”

With that, Jamie donned his hat, gave a nod of farewell to his friend, and turned to depart.

Amanda quickly lowered her gaze to her advertisement, pretending vast interest in reading it as he walked past her toward the exit. I could apply for that post, she thought in vexation as the door closed behind him, if only I were a man.

     Women, alas, could not be tutors, not to boys. It wasn’t done. And social conventions aside, she wasn’t willing to subject herself to the possibility of unwelcome advances from another widower. And since the widower in question didn’t believe a mere woman could manage his sons, he wouldn’t hire her anyway. Life, she reflected, with a hint of resentment, was so much more convenient for men.

Galbraith’s steps sounded on the floorboards, approaching her, and Amanda came out of her reverie with a start.

     “My apologies for ignoring you, miss,” he said, halting beside her chair as she stood up.

     “No need to apologize, my lord.” Amanda handed him her composition and the borrowed pencil, then reached for her handbag. “One ha’penny per word, I believe you said? For three days?”

Upon his nod of confirmation, she opened her bag, extracted her money purse, and counted out the nine pence required for her advertisement. “Will it be possible to insert this in the next three issues of the London Daily Standard?” she asked, placing the coins in his palm.

     “Of course. For that rate, I believe you receive one placement in the Weekly Gazette as well.” He glanced at the sheet of paper in his hand, then back at her. “Given your university education, I’d already have a ready-made job for you if you were a man,” he said, smiling as he looked up. “How unfortunate that a woman can’t be a tutor.”

     “Yes,” she agreed with feeling and turned away. “Very unfortunate.”

#

     It was nearly dark by the time Amanda reached the lodgings she’d taken in Bloomsbury. Thankfully, her street was well-lit, her building respectable, and her landlady very kind, but if Amanda didn’t find employment soon, she’d be forced to find cheaper accommodations, which would mean a darker street and a seedier neighborhood.

     Trying not to think about that possibility, she entered the foyer of the lodging house, paused in the parlor to bid her landlady, Mrs. Finch, good evening, then she mounted the five flights of stairs to her garret flat. A bit of daylight still lingered, coming through the flat’s only window, providing just enough illumination to enable her to find the lamp and matches. But as lamplight flooded her tiny room, the sight of the sparse furnishings and threadbare carpets made her feel even more dispirited than before.

     Years of study and hard work to obtain her baccalaureate, she thought as she removed her hat and cloak, and what had she done with it? Tossed it aside for the ardor of a poetic peer who had demonstrated in the end that his poetry was more worthy than his character.

     Papa would be so ashamed of her.

Pain squeezed her chest, and Amanda shoved aside thoughts of her father, for knowing she’d thrown away all that he’d done for her hurt too much to think about. She hung her hat and cloak on the pegs in the wall beside the door and began to unbutton her jacket, but when she got to the middle button, she realized it was coming loose. Best to mend it now, she decided, before she lost it altogether and had to pay three pence for a whole new set.

She crossed to the washstand, pushed aside the creamware pitcher and basin, and shrugged off her jacket. Laying the garment on the washstand’s green marble surface, she bent down and retrieved her sewing basket from the floor beneath, but as she straightened, her attention was caught by her reflection, and she stilled. Studying the countenance that stared back at her, she wondered in bafflement what it was about her that had inspired the illicit passions of both a dashing, poetic peer of the realm and a respectable, middle-aged banker when she’d never sought the attentions of either.

Well, if she was some sort of temptress, it surely couldn’t be because of her hair, she decided, making a wry face into the mirror. Her mass of rebellious black tendrils had been tamed into temporary submission this morning by hairpins and pewter combs, but given the humid weather, the pile of curls atop her head now possessed a texture that to her critical eyes made her look rather like an unkept poodle.

Amanda sighed and moved on, studying her face.

It wasn’t a homely countenance, by any means, but there seemed nothing particularly lust-inspiring about it. Blunt lashes, a straight nose, a pointed chin, and a square jaw—nothing out of the common way, in other words. Certainly nothing that seemed remotely wanton. Beneath decided black brows that were too straight for delicacy, a pair of dark hazel eyes stared back at her, and though they did have gold flecks in them, she couldn’t see that they were in any way reminiscent of sunlight embraced by a dark forest. She certainly didn’t see the face of a seductress whose best romantic offer had included a house in a discreet neighborhood and plenty of money and jewels, but no wedding ring.

She set aside her sewing basket and lowered her gaze another notch, but even before glancing down, she knew her figure wouldn’t provide any solution to the mystery. For one thing, she was taller than many men, including both her former lover and her former employer. Her waist—what there was of it, anyway—stubbornly refused to mold into the coveted wasp shape, no matter how tightly she laced her corset. And her clothes could hardly inspire masculine attention, for they were plain, severe, and almost prudishly modest. Black skirt, high-necked white blouse, ruffled jabot, cameo pin—all the usual trappings of an ordinary middle-class woman.

     Trappings.

Struck by the word, Amanda stared at her reflection, diverted from her previous contemplations to a new one. Her hair, her skirt, her corset, her cameo pin—these were mere trappings, and yet, the very fact that she was wearing them demonstrated her place in the world, one that was dull, narrow, and vulnerable to hazards men seldom faced. Had she been a man, she would not have lost a job or seen her reputation ruined for engaging in a love affair. She would not have been imposed upon by an employer as Mr. Bartlett had imposed upon her. Men were expected to have physical desires, permitted to have lovers. Women, she’d learned the hard way, were not.

The trappings of her wardrobe denoted in a single glance not only her gender, but also her place in the world, a place that could not be altered in any significant way by her own actions and initiative. Her affair with Lord Belton had been a stupid mistake, but even had she not made it, her choices in life would still have been far more limited than any man’s. However intelligent she was, or how educated, or how hard-working, she could not change the fact that she was female, nor that the world thought females inferior.

How unfortunate that a woman can’t be a tutor.

Viscount Galbraith’s words echoed through her mind as she stared at herself in the mirror. Only a man could teach truly challenging subjects. Only a man, she thought, lifting one hand to touch her hair, was safe from a male employer’s advances.

Only a man…

Suddenly, Amanda was yanking out hairpins and combs, her hands shaking as she sent corkscrews of midnight black tumbling down, one after another, around her shoulders. When all her hair was down, she cast the pins and combs aside, and as they scattered across the marble surface of the washstand, she had the strange, curiously exhilarating sensation that she was casting off chains.

She returned her attention to the mirror and reached into the sewing basket. But then, her hand stilled, and her courage faltered.

It’s impossible hair, she shouted silently to her reflection, trying to bolster her resolve. I’ve never liked it.

She was ruined, she reminded herself. Ruined, shamed, and nearly destitute. This was no time for silly feminine sentiment.

Amanda took a deep breath, shoved aside her doubts, and grabbed the scissors.