During the meal, she kept up a flow of small talk, explaining that they would work on diction and language, manners and deportment, and, well, whatever might come to mind. She encouraged him to ask questions, any question, no matter how foolish or unimportant he might think it. Jake thought she seemed nervous, but he also noted that she had apparently put a great deal of thought into this endeavor. As they were finishing, the door opened wide and Lady Henrietta’s younger brother, Richard, sauntered in. He was dressed in his Guards uniform and did not take a seat, but leaned across the table to snatch a muffin.
“Morning, Retta. Bolton. I trust everything is proceeding apace,” he said with this mouth full. He pulled a face. “I am off for some early morning training. Marching. Though why a cavalry officer needs marching practice, I know not.” With that, he was gone.
She returned to her “tutorial” tone. “Ignore my brother. His manners are abominable. Generally at any meal if you just take it slowly and watch what others are doing at table, you will probably get along without incident.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
* * * *
Retta had been nervous as she waited for Mr. Bolton to appear in the morning room, for she had been remembering the conversation she and Gerald had with Uncle Alfred the previous night. At their instruction, a footman had informed Lord Alfred when he returned for the evening that Lord Heaton and Lady Henrietta wished to speak with him in the young ladies’ sitting room. Meanwhile, Gerald and Retta played piquet as they waited in the sitting room that Retta still shared with Melinda; in the absence of the earl and his wife, Rebecca and her husband had been invited to use the master suite after returning from their wedding journey. Prior to Rebecca’s marriage, all three young women had had bedchambers off this room. As Retta and Gerald sat playing cards, Rebecca popped in, wearing her go-to-the-ball finery, to collect Melinda. Retta complimented her on a gown of blue silk with a net overskirt of the same color.
“Very nice.” Retta said. “The gown exactly matches your eyes as we thought it would.”
Rebecca twirled around, then glanced at a clock on the mantle. “Yes. It turned out very well. I do wish Melinda could be more prompt. I do not want to sit and crush my skirt any more than necessary before the ball.”
“Melinda went down ten minutes ago,” Gerald said.
“She did? Well, then, I suppose Lenninger has waited long enough for me.” She stepped toward the door and added, “By the way, Retta, I heard you two in the library with your Mr. Bolton this afternoon. I think I chose very well.” She giggled and left with a parting shot, “Very well, indeed.”
Retta grimaced. “Which means she thinks she has all but won already.”
“For what it’s worth, my money is on you,” Gerald replied and handed her the cards. “Your deal.”
A short while later, Retta found Uncle Alfred’s reaction to be exactly what she and Gerald had expected.
“Wha-at?!” he asked in surprise as he took one of the empty chairs at their card table and Gerald told him not only that a threat had been made against Retta’s life, but that a Bow Street Runner was now in residence to see to her protection. “And I am only now hearing of this? Your father said nothing of this in his last communication with me.”
“I think he was wary of putting the message in the dispatch papers that usually contain his letters to you. This arrived by special courier this morning after you had left for the day. Seems to have been written rather hastily.” Gerald handed over a missive he and Retta had spent the better part of an hour composing.
“Hmm.” Uncle Alfred read it through twice, then said in a worried tone, “I am not sure one man from Bow Street will be up to such a task.”
“I must admit that I was somewhat doubtful about that myself,” Gerald said, “but I discussed it with two of Castlereagh’s men in the Foreign Office, and they assured me that they would also keep eyes and ears attuned to unusual activities directed our way. And the Bow Street magistrate tells me we have his best man on the job, though he stressed that we must be very discreet about Bow Street’s involvement. Very discreet.”
Retta was mildly surprised by the aplomb with which Gerald carried off blatant lies.
Uncle Alfred scratched his head of snow-white hair and turned his dark eyes on each of them in turn. “Hmm. Well, if Sir William Hendrickson is satisfied with Bow Street’s involvement, I shall not question it, though I do wonder why you did not inform me sooner. The army might have supplied a suitable body guard.”
“We wanted to do so,” Retta said. It took little effort to feign regret, for she really was sorry to be deceiving one of her favorite people in all the world. “But you had already gone, and Papa’s letter was quite explicit, you see.”
She felt relieved when Uncle Alfred rose to take his leave, kissed her on the forehead, and said, “He probably feared you would be off to some charity work in an unsavory part of town—or something of that sort—before he could put protection in place.”
* * * *
Now, as she dealt with Mr. Bolton for the first time—really dealt with him, one on one—she was happy to let good manners carry the day. In the back of her mind, she remembered Miss Pringle’s admonishing all her pupils, “A lady always seeks to put others at ease no matter differences in rank.”
Mr. Bolton proved to be an amiable companion once her brother dashed away. Seeing this as an opportunity to assess the strengths and weaknesses of her “pupil,” she allowed herself only an occasional correction of grammar or pronunciation as they discussed the weather that promised a sunny day and then how subdued the city seemed now that the frenetic victory celebrations of the summer were over. They had both seen some of the street parades of nobility and could share impressions of the Czar of Russia, the King of Prussia, and the popular generals, Blücher and Wellington. They agreed that having Napoleon tucked away on the island of Elba was itself cause for England’s general mood of self-satisfaction.
“Don’t know as how I’d trust that feller even on an island, though. I heard he was allowed ‘bout a thousand people to go with him,” Jake said.
“Really? So many?” she responded. “Well, perhaps they will keep him occupied enough that he will not even dream of trying to repeat his offenses against the world.”
“Mebbe . . .”
This morning, Mr. Bolton was clean-shaven, so the scars on his face were less noticeable than they had been as white streaks through a two- or three-day growth of dark beard. His firm jaw was more pronounced too, but his blue eyes were just as intense as they had been across that plank table in The White Horse.
One could lose oneself in those eyes, she thought, then immediately chastised herself for such an unacceptable thought about someone so unsuitable. A proper lady should never find a near-servant so personally attractive. Lady Henrietta was not especially prim and proper, but she was aware of obligations to her family whose position in society and government entailed certain responsibilities. Nevertheless, she also noted the way the fabric of Mr. Bolton’s coat stretched across broad shoulders and that his hands, long-fingered and, like his face, deeply tanned, looked strong but not necessarily rough. That his nails were clean and trimmed struck her as unusual in a common laborer, but she shrugged off that observation. How had he become so tanned on the docks of a city so often enshrouded in cloud as London was?
He gave her a quizzical look, which, along with a half-smile and a raised eyebrow, suggested that he knew exactly where her thoughts had drifted. Arrogant man. He is probably used to having women fall all over themselves for him.
She sensed him gazing at her with a questioning look at her hands, and she realized that she had so lost herself in the ease of conversation with him that she was sitting casually with both elbows