Heiress in Red Silk by Hunter, Madeline (best mystery novels of all time TXT) 📗

After spending three days trying to locate the necessary instructors for Miss Jameson to no avail, he had swallowed his pride and laid his problem at Minerva’s feet. Two days later—only two days—she handed him a list of appropriate hires. Now he waited in the library of that new house on Chapel Street with the tutors in question, in order to make introductions.

He noticed that the bookcases remained empty, except for one shelf. A Bible rested there, flanked by the Walter Scott novel he had given her and a thin manual on penmanship. From the evidence of the well-used blotters on the writing table, she had been practicing a lot.

Mr. Davis, the dancing master, kept taking out his pocket watch while he paced impatiently. Dark-haired and dressed in the latest fashion, he walked as if each step belonged in one of his dances.

Mrs. Markland, the finishing governess, bided her time reading a newspaper she had found on a table. With gray hair beneath her very large bonnet and a very thin form, she appeared both friendly and stern at the same time.

Mr. Fitzgibbons, the bespectacled, portly, balding elocution tutor, smiled amiably at Kevin, then rose and advanced on him.

“I was told the young woman requires grammar and diction as well as form,” he said, enunciating with clipped precision. “Do you know from which county she hails?”

“Oxford, I believe.”

“Well, thank heaven for that. If it had been Cornwall it would be nigh impossible to improve her accent sufficiently.”

“You will find that she has already gone far on her own, through imitation.”

“To your ear, perhaps.” He tapped his own earlobe. “My ability to identify a person’s origins from their speech is never tricked by that.”

“Fortunately, only imperfect ears such as mine must be convinced.”

Fitzgibbons’s expression fell, then his smile resumed. “I assure you that in a few weeks she will be presentable, and in ten she can pass any test you require.”

Like the house agent, this man had made assumptions. “I require nothing at all. This entire course of action is Miss Jameson’s own idea. Ah. Here she is.”

Miss Jameson had just entered the library. Kevin’s spirits lifted at the sight of her. She had not been gone long, but he had noticed her absence even if it did allow him to spend his days in more usual ways. He had grudgingly admitted to himself yesterday that he looked forward to her return. He resented that, because it made no sense and didn’t fit his plans.

She wore a subdued gray pelisse over a muslin cream dress. Both were modest in the extreme, but she appeared ravishing anyway. The quiet colors allowed her beauty to shine. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Fitzgibbons’s reaction. For a moment, the man appeared as if someone had slapped the senses out of him.

Kevin introduced her to the tutors.

“Thank you all for coming.” She went to the writing table, sat, and extracted a clean sheet of paper from the lap drawer. “I would like to make arrangements for when we will meet. Shall we say mornings at nine o’clock? One morning per week for each of you.”

Mr. Fitzgibbons had cocked his head as soon as she spoke. Now he shook it. “I will need at least two mornings, I think.” He did not hide that he made that judgment upon hearing her speak. “Mondays and Wednesdays will suit my schedule. Two hours each day. One for elocution and one for grammar and syntax.”

“I couldn’t possibly be here by nine o’clock,” Mrs. Markland said. “Eleven would be the earliest, and a sacrifice at that. I will claim Tuesday, because there are rarely parties on Monday that would require I sleep in the next day.”

“She can have Tuesdays if I have Thursdays. Afternoons would be far better,” Mr. Davis said. “There will be a better opportunity to find partners to bring at that time. Musicians will be difficult enough, but dancing partners—” He shook his head.

Mr. Fitzgibbons peered at Mr. Davis. “Newcastle?”

“Excuse me?”

“It is most subtle, but I heard the voice of Newcastle when you spoke.”

Mr. Davis just glared at him.

Miss Jameson looked at each of them in turn. “Forgive me. I made the mistake of thinking that with me being the patron, I would be the one to pick the color of me bonnet.”

Mr. Fitzgibbons cleared his throat. “My bonnet.”

She just looked at him. Kevin suppressed the urge to punch the man.

Mr. Fitzgibbons smiled indulgently. “There is no time like the present to begin.”

“Monday and Wednesdays at nine o’clock it will be.” Miss Jameson dipped her pen and slowly wrote on the paper. “Mrs. Markland, Tuesdays at eleven for you?” She looked at the woman. “Yes? Good.” She wrote again, then set down her pen and turned to face Mr. Davis. “I regret that afternoons will not suit me at all. I have many things I must do in the afternoons. Surely you can find partners who will come in the morning.”

“It is very difficult to find anyone to do so, especially during the Season, especially at nine o’clock.” He chortled when he mentioned the early hour, as if surely that had been a joke.

“Perhaps you can try. I am willing to delay until ten o’clock.”

He sniffed. “The hour is hardly civilized.”

“How unfortunate,” Miss Jameson said. “I had hoped we could reach an agreement, because you came highly recommended. However, if me expectations are too inconvenient, I will have to find another.”

“My expectations,” Mr. Fitzgibbons murmured.

“I suppose, this once, I could make an exception and give lessons in the morning,” Mr. Davis said with an expression of forbearance.

“How good of you.” Miss Jameson smiled brightly and stood. “We are all decided. How fortunate that I begin tomorrow with you, Mrs. Markland.” She opened the door. The tutors filed out.

She closed the door and faced Kevin. “Do you think Mrs. Markland can pile in enough in one day to get me ready for that party your aunt is hosting?”

“Unlikely, since