excellent handwriting. Perhaps she can write my letters for me as well.”
Devlin snatched the letter as the pages fluttered onto the bed. He scanned the writing, his black brows drawn into a forbidding frown. His face was thunderous. “I see this Miss Preston can speak several languages, including French. French?” He looked at his mother in amazement. “What on earth do you want to read in French, Mama?”
“I don’t know yet; maybe Miss Preston can advise me.” The Dowager gazed upward as if in deep thought. “I seem to remember some charming volumes of French poems in the library that your Papa used to enjoy.”
“French poetry and Papa?” Devlin growled. “’Tis scarcely to be believed. I’m not happy about this, Mama.”
“Well, for once in my life It’s my happiness and not yours that I’m concerned with!” the Dowager snapped. “I’ve written to Miss Preston, inviting her to Deverell House for a personal interview.”
Devlin was aghast. “You’ve invited her here? To Deverell House?”
“Why certainly. How else am I to interview her properly?”
“I am astonished,” Devlin replied. His mouth was set in a stern line. “The next thing we’ll have a band of gypsies settling in with us.”
“Gypsies? Come now.” The Dowager laughed. “What is so intimidating about a fresh-faced young woman of twenty?”
“Twenty?” Devlin exploded. “Good God, Mama! We’ll be running a nursery next.”
“Devlin, I declare you are becoming most odd. When I was twenty, I was already married to your dear Papa. My mind is quite made up and the young lady should be here by Friday.” The Dowager waved her hand in dismissal. “Thank you, Devlin; you may close the door on your way out. Please tell Harbottle I need her. In fact, this conversation with you has rather fatigued me.”
The Dowager gave a delicate cough, lay back on a mound of ruffled pillows and closed her eyes. Devlin stared at his mother for a moment, then turned on his heel and stalked from the room.
“French poetry!” he roared, storming down the broad sweeping staircase to the hall. “Blenkins!” he shouted, as the butler scuttled into view. “Tell Finch to get Lucifer saddled, I’m going out!”
Chapter Two
“But, Aunt Preston,” Fenella gasped, dropping the letter on the floor. “What shall I do now?”
“Do now?” her aunt snapped, looking at Fenella in astonishment. “What do you mean, you silly goose? You’ll go, of course. Isn’t this what you wanted?”
“Yes, it is,” Fenella whispered, pressing both trembling hands against her beating heart. “But now that it’s here, I’m not sure if I want it.”
“Of course you do,” her aunt chided. “Now stop behaving as if you’re in a Cheltenham tragedy!”
The old lady picked up the letter and gazed in admiration at the elegant missive. “The Dowager Duchess of Wyndlesham. Ooh, what a beautiful crest…see here, my dear. All gold swirls and coronets. Fine paper too. What lovely refined writing she has. A little shaky, so I suppose the poor thing is unwell. Just as I thought. That’s why you’ll do very nicely there.” Aunt Preston eyed her niece, who was sitting dejectedly on the sofa, tears plopping off the end of her nose. “Now what?”
“Aunt,” Fenella sobbed. “I have no clothes. I’ll present a very poor picture arriving at this great place with but a few old dresses that are too small for me.”
Aunt Preston gazed with a fond expression at her niece. “No one with a grain of sense will even notice what you’re wearing since you are so lovely, my dear, but I understand.”
She trotted over to the mantelpiece and took the lid off a blue-and-white patterned ginger jar. “I have some money set aside for emergencies. It’ll be enough for Mrs. Soames to make up a couple of dresses—nothing fancy mind you—but respectable and pretty. Now stop being such a milksop. The Dowager wants someone with character, not a wet hen.”
“Oh, you
Devlin snatched the letter as the pages fluttered onto the bed. He scanned the writing, his black brows drawn into a forbidding frown. His face was thunderous. “I see this Miss Preston can speak several languages, including French. French?” He looked at his mother in amazement. “What on earth do you want to read in French, Mama?”
“I don’t know yet; maybe Miss Preston can advise me.” The Dowager gazed upward as if in deep thought. “I seem to remember some charming volumes of French poems in the library that your Papa used to enjoy.”
“French poetry and Papa?” Devlin growled. “’Tis scarcely to be believed. I’m not happy about this, Mama.”
“Well, for once in my life It’s my happiness and not yours that I’m concerned with!” the Dowager snapped. “I’ve written to Miss Preston, inviting her to Deverell House for a personal interview.”
Devlin was aghast. “You’ve invited her here? To Deverell House?”
“Why certainly. How else am I to interview her properly?”
“I am astonished,” Devlin replied. His mouth was set in a stern line. “The next thing we’ll have a band of gypsies settling in with us.”
“Gypsies? Come now.” The Dowager laughed. “What is so intimidating about a fresh-faced young woman of twenty?”
“Twenty?” Devlin exploded. “Good God, Mama! We’ll be running a nursery next.”
“Devlin, I declare you are becoming most odd. When I was twenty, I was already married to your dear Papa. My mind is quite made up and the young lady should be here by Friday.” The Dowager waved her hand in dismissal. “Thank you, Devlin; you may close the door on your way out. Please tell Harbottle I need her. In fact, this conversation with you has rather fatigued me.”
The Dowager gave a delicate cough, lay back on a mound of ruffled pillows and closed her eyes. Devlin stared at his mother for a moment, then turned on his heel and stalked from the room.
“French poetry!” he roared, storming down the broad sweeping staircase to the hall. “Blenkins!” he shouted, as the butler scuttled into view. “Tell Finch to get Lucifer saddled, I’m going out!”
Chapter Two
“But, Aunt Preston,” Fenella gasped, dropping the letter on the floor. “What shall I do now?”
“Do now?” her aunt snapped, looking at Fenella in astonishment. “What do you mean, you silly goose? You’ll go, of course. Isn’t this what you wanted?”
“Yes, it is,” Fenella whispered, pressing both trembling hands against her beating heart. “But now that it’s here, I’m not sure if I want it.”
“Of course you do,” her aunt chided. “Now stop behaving as if you’re in a Cheltenham tragedy!”
The old lady picked up the letter and gazed in admiration at the elegant missive. “The Dowager Duchess of Wyndlesham. Ooh, what a beautiful crest…see here, my dear. All gold swirls and coronets. Fine paper too. What lovely refined writing she has. A little shaky, so I suppose the poor thing is unwell. Just as I thought. That’s why you’ll do very nicely there.” Aunt Preston eyed her niece, who was sitting dejectedly on the sofa, tears plopping off the end of her nose. “Now what?”
“Aunt,” Fenella sobbed. “I have no clothes. I’ll present a very poor picture arriving at this great place with but a few old dresses that are too small for me.”
Aunt Preston gazed with a fond expression at her niece. “No one with a grain of sense will even notice what you’re wearing since you are so lovely, my dear, but I understand.”
She trotted over to the mantelpiece and took the lid off a blue-and-white patterned ginger jar. “I have some money set aside for emergencies. It’ll be enough for Mrs. Soames to make up a couple of dresses—nothing fancy mind you—but respectable and pretty. Now stop being such a milksop. The Dowager wants someone with character, not a wet hen.”
“Oh, you
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