The Courting Campaign. Regina Scott

It didn’t help that his hands were scalded from the fire today, and he was developing a blister on his thumb. The price for success in his work was high, but the cost of failure was unthinkable.

      He managed to tie the third cravat into something passable and assessed himself in the standing mirror that had been his late wife, Ann’s, joy. His hair was pomaded back from his face for once, but the change affected the perspective of his features, making them look longer and leaner. The black evening coat had a similar effect on his physique. The faintest hint of stubble peppered his chin, made more noticeable by the white of the cravat against his throat. Alas, at this hour he had no time to shave. And he couldn’t risk damaging his hard-won fold.

      Charlotte met him at the main stair. Tall and ascetic as always in her gray lustring gown, she looked so little like his fragile Ann that he sometimes wondered whether they had truly been sisters. Still, he’d read a fascinating essay in Philosophical Transactions, the journal of the Royal Society, about the inheritance of physical characteristics. Charlotte’s dark straight hair and thin lips could certainly be attributed to some ancestor, probably one who had frightened the Vikings out of England.

      “Are you determined to run off my staff?” she greeted him.

      So she was still smarting over his request to have Alice and her nanny join them for dinner. He didn’t think her temper would calm if he explained that he merely wished to observe his new employee more closely.

      “I would never attempt to interfere in your kingdom, my dear,” Nick said with a smile. Ann had assured him he could be quite charming, but either he had lost his touch along with his scientific reputation or Charlotte was immune.

      She didn’t bother to accept his arm as they descended the stair, her chin set as firmly as those of the men and women in the gilt-framed portraits they passed. “Yet you are determined to embarrass our new nanny by insisting she dine with us. The poor thing doesn’t even own a dinner dress. How could you be so cruel?”

      Nick’s smile faded as they took the turning of the polished wood stair and started down for the main floor, where alabaster columns lined the corridor that ran through the center of the house. Scientific pursuit was hardly cruel. He needed to observe a phenomenon to build a hypothesis about its usefulness. Relying on secondhand observations, such as Charlotte’s, could result in a flawed analysis.

      “She needn’t feel compelled to dress for dinner,” he pointed out. “This isn’t the Carleton House set.”

      “It certainly isn’t,” Charlotte quipped as they reached the bottom of the stair. “And you are not the Prince Regent. But by failing to dress as we do, Miss Pyrmont makes it all the more evident she doesn’t belong at the table. She’s a sweet girl from a good family, Nicholas. You cannot expect her to like the fact that she must work for her supper.”

      Now there was a bit of data, if lamentably secondhand. He had found little sweet about Miss Pyrmont this afternoon, with the exception of her smile. He would have placed her closer to the acidic end of the scale. And it was not uncommon for women of good family to take positions as an upper servant. Charlotte would know. His sister-in-law had married poorly and been left a destitute widow. If he hadn’t asked her to come preside over his household, she would be serving in some other house, likely as a governess or companion.

      “If you are determined she needs a gown,” he said, “give her one of Ann’s. Someone ought to take pleasure from them.”

      Charlotte stared at him, her skin stretched tight over her long nose. “Have you no respect for her memory?”

      Guilt wrapped itself around his tongue and stilled it. A day didn’t go by that he didn’t think of Ann, her quiet insights, her dry laugh. He still didn’t understand how he’d so failed to misread the evidence of her illness until it was too late to save her. But he’d realized he couldn’t linger over his grief or he’d go mad.

      As if his guilt had shouted into the silence, Charlotte patted his arm, face softening. “Forgive me. I just miss her so.”

      Nick touched her hand. “We all do. But you know she frequently donated her time and her gifts. I suspect she wouldn’t mind someone else using her things.”

      Charlotte nodded, but she moved ahead of him to enter the withdrawing door near the foot of the stairs first.

      Nick came more slowly. He knew Charlotte grieved the loss of her sister. But life was for the living, and holing himself up with his regrets would not solve the problems facing him.

      Nor would it help him understand his daughter’s nanny. She was waiting for him in the withdrawing room, and despite Charlotte’s concerns, he thought Miss Pyrmont looked as if she belonged there, even in her plain brown wool dress. Perhaps it was the way she held her head high or the smile on her pink lips. Perhaps it was the way she clutched Alice’s hand as if to protect her. She met his gaze with an assessing look that made it seem as if he had strayed into her withdrawing room rather than the other way around.

      For some reason, he wondered what she thought of the space. The withdrawing room wasn’t nearly as fussy as some he’d seen when he’d spent time in Society. Everything was neatly done in geometric shapes, from the gilded medallions on the walls and ceiling to the pink and green concentric circles of the carpet that covered the hardwood floor nearly from wall to wall. The white marble fireplace provided sufficient heat, the wall of windows and brass wall sconces sufficient light. The furniture was arranged in groupings, but a chaise in the corner provided rest for a retiring lady, or so Ann had always said.

      He thought Miss Pyrmont would never be so retiring. But that hypothesis remained to be tested.

      “Ladies,” he said with a bow. “Thank you for joining me this evening.”

      Miss Pyrmont curtsied, and Alice copied her, a tiny figure in her red velvet gown. Charlotte smiled at her niece with obvious fondness.

      “I believe Mrs. Jennings has dinner ready to be served,” she said. “Shall we?” She didn’t wait for his answer. She accepted Alice’s hand from her nanny and strolled toward the main door, which led into a salon and then the corridor.

      Nick held out his arm. “Miss Pyrmont?”

      For the first time, she looked uncertain. She glanced at his outstretched arm, then up at his face as if trying to understand the gesture. If she was from a good family as Charlotte had said, she should have been escorted in to dinner more than once. And even if she hadn’t, surely the master of a house could be expected to act with chivalry on occasion.

      He could see her swallow against the high neck of her gown. Then her gaze darted past him, and she straightened her back as if making a decision. She marched to his side and put her hand on his arm. Despite the determination in her stiff spine, the touch was light, insubstantial, directly disproportionate to her temperate. It was almost as if a butterfly accompanied him to dinner.

      Shaking his head at the fanciful thought, he led her from the room.

      Chapter Three

      Here she was, being escorted to dinner by the master as if she were a guest in this house. How silly! She should have refused his arm. But Emma had seen Mrs. Jennings peering into the room a moment before the cook had scurried back to her work overseeing the serving. The smile on Mrs. Jennings’s broad face said she was delighted beyond measure to see Emma with Sir Nicholas. Emma simply couldn’t bring herself to discourage the kind woman.

      So she walked beside him through the salon with its tall alabaster columns holding up the soaring ceiling, and down the black-and-white marble tiles of the central corridor. Sir Nicholas looked almost presentable in his evening black, a silver-shot waistcoat peeking out from his tailored coat. So he knew how to dress for Society. He simply chose to avoid Society as he avoided his daughter.

      “Mrs. Dunworthy tells me I have inconvenienced you,” he said as they headed for the dining room at the front of the house.

      And why should he care if he had? That was his right as her employer. “Nonsense,”