A Lady's Luck. Ken Casper

the girls and asked you not to mention it in their presence. As far as they know we’re here only on vacation.”

      “I fully understand. I’ve alerted the staff, as well. We have a number of foreign students boarding here whose parents travel a good deal.”

      He couldn’t imagine leaving his girls with strangers.

      “They could live with their grandparents back home, but I’d prefer to keep them with me.” He paused. “Since their mother passed away, I feel it’s important that we stay together as much as possible.”

      “My condolences on the loss of your wife, Mr. Preston. They seem well-adjusted, polite girls. May I ask why you have elected to consider Briar Hills Academy?”

      “A friend recommended it. Nolan Hunter. I understand his sister is one of your teachers.”

      “Lord Kestler!” Her face lit up. “Yes, of course. His sister, Devon, is one of our sterling young instructors. Do you know her, as well?”

      “I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting her.”

      The headmistress gazed up at the dark sky. “We’d best go inside straightaway.” She clapped her hands. The girls, chattering on a seesaw, stopped instantly and swiveled to face her.

      I wish they would obey me that well, Brent thought.

      “Come along, girls,” she called out. “Inside, quickly.”

      The four of them had hardly entered the building’s back door when the first large raindrops began splattering the black slate walk.

      “Perfect timing,” Brent said, as he let the door he’d been holding close behind them.

      “I’ll have Miss Hunter join us,” the headmistress said. “She’ll be delighted to meet you. She thinks the world of her brother. A fine gentleman.”

      Three

      It was rare for Devon to be called out of her classroom in the midst of a lesson. She prayed it wasn’t to learn of tragedy. Her mother’s health was fragile, but surely Mrs. Sherwood-Griffin would come in person to inform her if something had befallen Lady Kestler. Could it be about her brother? Nolan had become a mystery to her of late.

      “She has a visitor,” Heather whispered, almost in awe, as she looked up from her desk, where she’d been tapping away at her computer keyboard a moment before. “She said for you to go directly in.”

      “Who is it?” Another VIP, no doubt. Maybe a Member of Parliament on an inspection tour or dropping off his daughter for the first time.

      “You’ll see.”

      Devon wondered at her friend’s dramatic secrecy. Judging from the impish grin on her pixie face, the surprise would not be an unpleasant one.

      Before approaching the headmistress’s open doorway, however, Devon paused to adjust her frock, to make sure her belt was straight and to smooth out any wrinkles. As a matter of habit she ran her hands through her shoulder-length hair, and only then knocked on the headmistress’s office doorframe and entered.

      Mrs. Sherwood-Griffin was standing in the center of the room, talking to a man Devon was sure she’d never seen before. With his back to her, she saw only that he was tall, an inch or two over six feet, with impressively broad shoulders. When he turned it was his face, however, that instantly captured her attention.

      He was clean-shaven with even, well-proportioned features, a slightly cleft chin and the hint of a dimple in his right cheek, His full lips had a sensual quality that seemed poised on the brink of a smile.

      “Ah, Devon, there you are,” Mrs. Sherwood-Griffin said in a pleasant greeting.

      As she drew closer, Devon noticed the man’s eyes were dark blue. They seemed the perfect complement to his tan complexion and medium-brown wavy hair. In fact, everything about him seemed perfect. She understood Heather’s smile now and had to control one of her own.

      “Allow me to introduce you,” the headmistress went on. “This is Mr. Brent Preston, the American I mentioned in the staff meeting, who asked to visit our school.”

      Devon remembered now. A businessman who’d asked for an appointment because he expected to be transferred to England and was looking for a school to which he could send his young daughters.

      “Mr. Preston,” the older woman continued, “may I present the Honorable Devon Hunter.”

      It was unusual for Sybil to introduce Devon by her title. Despite the difference in their ages and backgrounds, they were normally on a first-name basis in private. In more formal settings, such as this one, Devon became simply Miss Hunter.

      She extended her hand. “Mr. Preston, I’m very pleased to meet you. Welcome to Briar Hills Academy.”

      His hand was large, warm and dry. She felt a slight tug as they shook. Or maybe it was her imagination. Pleased as she was to be meeting him, she had to wonder why she was here. Sybil normally handled visitors on her own without involving the teaching staff.

      “Mr. Preston is acquainted with your brother,” the headmistress informed her, as if reading her mind.

      The mention of Nolan wasn’t as welcome as it might once have been, but Devon did her best not to show it.

      “I saw him over the New Year,” Brent said in a deep voice that was distinctively American. She didn’t fancy herself an expert on foreign accents, but she was quite certain his was what was referred to as a Southern drawl. It was fluid and mellifluous. “He had a horse running in the Gulf Classic in Florida.”

      Devon tilted her head to one side. “Did he win?”

      Brent chuckled softly. “Actually, he lost. By a nose. To my sister.”

      “Your sister?”

      “She’s a professional jockey.”

      This time Devon had to laugh. “I hope he was a good sport about it.”

      “A perfect gentleman,” Preston replied, showing even white teeth.

      “And these are his daughters,” Sybil said, placing her hands on the shoulders of the two girls. “Rhea and Katie.”

      Devon looked from one eight-year-old to the other, then folded her hands casually in front of her.

      “Not fair dressing alike, girls,” she said. “One of you could at least spill a bit of your breakfast porridge on your shirtwaist to make it easier.”

      The girls giggled.

      One asked, “What’s porridge?”

      “Oatmeal,” their father answered.

      “Yuck—” her sister wrinkled her nose “—I hate oatmeal.”

      Devon was keenly aware of the man watching her. She liked the way his daughters looked up at him and how the one on the right—Katie?—placed her hand in his. They clearly adored the man, and he, Devon suspected, doted on them. Seeing happy families always brought bittersweet emotions. Her own father had been anything but sentimental. When he wasn’t criticizing her, the best she could hope for was that he was mute.

      “They’ve never been to an English primary school,” Mrs. Sherwood-Griffin explained, “and are interested in seeing how it differs from theirs in America. Since Mr. Preston knows Lord Kestler, I thought perhaps you would like to show them around.”

      “I’d be delighted,” Devon replied.

      Brent was entranced. The young woman who’d entered the room was nothing short of beautiful, with dignity and charm to match. She had an oval face, cream-white flawless skin, delicately rosy cheeks and coffee-colored eyes that sparkled with intelligence and, he perceived, a hint of mischief.

      When they’d been introduced and she’d placed her hand in his, he’d had an instant impulse