Page 38 of One Thing Leads to a Lover

The question pounded through his head with the rhythmic fwip-fwop of the stropping of his razor.

He’d played a hundred different parts in his time as an intelligence officer. Why should the role of tutor to two spoiled, smart-mouthed boys be particularly difficult? Time to conjure the memory of every sharp-eyed, sour-faced teacher he’d ever had.

When he went to practice a suitable expression, however, he discovered the looking glass had been hung either for or by a person of considerably shorter stature. Try as he might, he could catch a glimpse of no part of him higher than the scattering of dark hair across his chest.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Stanhope, sir. I’ve brought some hot water and come to fetch down the—oh!”

The voice, he discovered when he turned, belonged to Mary, the maid from yesterday, who had paused in her explanation of her task to ogle his bare torso.

Christ, it was as bad as having Fanny Drummond about. Well, a bit better than that, perhaps. Fanny’s glances never hinted that she liked what she saw.

Though to be fair, the maid was doing more than hinting.

“Thank you, Mary,” he said, gradually drawing her notice back to his face. “That will be all.”

“If you’re sure, sir.” She set the canister of steaming water on the floor, curtsied without lowering her eyes, and backed from the room, feeling behind her with one hand to avoid hitting the door with her backside. Before she disappeared entirely, she favored him with a saucy wink.

Langley wasn’t a vain man, though he knew women generally found his looks appealing. Certainly, he’d used that knowledge to his advantage over the years, both on duty and off. But catching the notice of a flirtatious maid and earning the respect of two young boys were vastly different things.

Then again…what he really wanted to inspire was their confidence, not their fear. In order to keep them safe, he needed them—and their mother—to trust him.

Perhaps a smile would go further than a scowl.

With the dull side of his razor blade braced against his thumb, he pried loose the two nails holding the looking glass in place, catching it easily on the palm of his other hand before it tumbled into the washbasin. Then, perching on the edge of the bed, he peered into the little rectangle.

Bloody hell.

Philip had not been far off. With that scruff and those dark shadows beneath his eyes, he looked more like a highwayman than a tutor.

Experimentally, he curved up the corners of his mouth. His lips stretched over an unfortunately lupine set of teeth. As if of its own volition, one brow bent in a skeptical arch.

Perhaps the Magpie had at last reached the limits of his gift for mimicry.

* * * *

“I must say, Amanda, when you asked me to join you in the morning room for breakfast, I did expect you might make some little effort at conversation.” Mama’s spoon rang against the edges of her cup, then clattered onto the saucer.

Amanda winced. How was it possible for her head to ache worse this morning than it had yesterday? Still, Mama was right. She had issued the invitation. Remembering Langley’s words of last night, she had hoped to concoct some excuse to keep her mother from going out today. She had also dreaded the thought of eating alone. “What would you like to talk about, ma’am?”

Mama leaned forward. In her loose-fitting morning gown of rose pink, and with her fair hair softly arranged, she looked youthful and lovely, despite the unforgiving brightness of the window-filled room and the relative earliness of the hour. “You still have not told me what you and Lord Dulsworthy discussed yesterday morning.”

Amanda’s mind had been so filled by the conversation of last night, she had almost forgotten George’s proposal.

She took a sip of coffee and grimaced when she discovered she had forgotten the sugar. “He came to talk about the boys, as I said.”

“Nothing…else?” The pause was filled by an artful, suggestive twirl of one wrist. Her mother’s flowing sleeve danced over the edge of the table, flirting with disaster in various guises—the butter dish, a knife handle, three neat stacks of carefully sorted correspondence—but always eluding catastrophe. At present, Amanda almost envied her ability to avoid getting into messes.

“Our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the new tutor.” Thank God. Otherwise, Amanda would have had to make George some sort of answer on the spot.

“Ah, yes.” Mama fixed her with a look of disapproval. “The tutor. You might at least have mentioned to me that you were thinking of hiring such a person. I could have—”

“I assure you, he comes well-recommended, ma’am.”

He’s a high-ranking intelligence officer, she was perversely tempted to add, just to see Mama’s reaction. A spy sent to guard me from other spies who are desperate to get their hands on a French cookbook.

In the light of day, it all sounded perfectly ridiculous.

And far less frightening than the cold reality of having to make a devil’s bargain with George.