“Without question, Miss Prendergast,” he said without hesitation. Admittedly, he hadn’t known of the existence of the Lady Travelers Society or what his great-aunt and her friends had been up to until last week. But he had already realized he would have to take this matter in hand himself if he was to save the trio from the repercussions of their activities and save his own future, as well. “And you have my word that I shall do my very best to assure the success of our endeavor.”
“How disheartening, Mr. Saunders. I was so hoping you could do better than that.” She nodded, turned and took her leave.
“And a good day to you, too, Miss Prendergast,” he called after her. Better to be at least nominally cordial than sound like an idiot. Unfortunately, all the brilliant responses that immediately came to mind would not have been nearly as clever when said aloud and would only have reinforced her opinion of him.
“Excellent retort, Mr. Saunders,” one of the ladies said behind him, a distinct note of sarcasm in her voice.
A heavy weight settled in the pit of his stomach.
It was going to be a very long quest.
“DARE I ASK if your visit to the Lady Travelers Society was successful?” Sir Martin Luckthorne studied India from behind the cluttered desk in his library. She made a mental note to tidy it up before she left for the day.
“It was...” She pressed her lips firmly together. “Adequate.”
“And yet you seem in such a cordial mood,” he said pleasantly.
Her gaze snapped to his. “Sarcasm, Sir Martin, is uncalled for.”
“Sarcasm, Miss Prendergast, is the thinking man’s defense against despair.”
“Is that a legitimate saying, or did you make it up?”
“The fact that I made it up makes it no less legitimate.”
“Now you’re just trying to distract me by being amusing.” She frowned. “I am not fond of your attempts to disarm me.”
“And yet much of the rest of humanity is grateful for my efforts on their behalf.” A wry smile quirked his lips.
“You know I never lose my temper.” India prided herself on keeping her emotions firmly in hand, even on days like today when it was a distinct challenge.
“You, my dear, can say more with the look in your eyes than anyone I’ve ever met,” he said mildly. “A look designed to strike terror into the hearts of even the most stalwart of men.”
“Nonsense.” She sniffed.
He raised a skeptical brow.
“I do nothing of the sort,” she said, although her denial did not ring entirely true. And, unfortunately, Martin knew it. Aside from Heloise, he knew her better than anyone. And why not?
While it would be terribly improper to admit it aloud, she considered her employer a friend. Indeed, aside from Heloise, he was her only friend. It was inevitable really. When one spent almost every day with a man for eight years—taking care of very nearly everything in his life—some sort of cordial relationship would surely develop. Or one would have to move on. Although she hadn’t expected the kind of affection one would feel for an impractical older brother to grow between them. But then neither had she expected to be in his employ for eight years.
In truth, she was fortunate to have found this position at all. While Heloise had a trust from her late father—who’d died long before she took in India—that was sufficient to meet their needs, it provided little beyond what Heloise considered the necessities in life. India had insisted on contributing to their unusual family’s coffers and had sought work the moment she’d finished her education at Miss Bicklesham’s Academy. Heloise knew her ward better than to encourage marriage, and, really, what was the point? Aside from the adequate dowry that Heloise had set aside for her, India had nothing to commend her as a suitable match. Her family was respectable but not noteworthy. She came from neither wealth nor power. As far as society was concerned, she did not exist. She’d had no debutante season nor had she ever desired one. After all, the sole purpose of coming out in society was to find a husband. Marriage was simply not of interest to India. Heloise had never married and she seemed quite content with her life.
Heloise had tried to persuade her to pursue higher education, and they’d had an ongoing dispute about the subject until India had reluctantly agreed to take evening classes at Queen’s College. Classes she continued through her brief employment as a governess and by correspondence during her mercifully short interlude as a teacher at Miss Bicklesham’s. India Prendergast was the first to admit she was not cut out to shape young minds.
While in the throes of trying to determine what kind of position to attempt next—she was fast running out of acceptable employment for a well-bred young lady of good family—she happened across an advertisement for a person of sufficient education to assist a scholarly minded gentleman with correspondence, the cataloguing and organization of various collections, and assorted tasks as required. While India had no idea what “assorted tasks as required” might be, she had nonetheless turned up on Martin’s doorstep that very day.
He had been younger than she’d expected, a scant dozen years older than she. But, at the age of only thirty-three, he had already settled into that category of bachelor that was referred to as confirmed. India suspected, even as a youth, the man was probably set in his ways. And his ways did not include hiring a woman.
Still, he had yet to meet India Prendergast. Within a week she had his correspondence up-to-date. Within a month she had his vast collection of ancient Roman coins categorized by date and emperor. Within three months, she had his financial records in order and his incompetent servants replaced. By the end of her first year of employment, his household and his life were running as smoothly as clockwork. The only chink in India’s fortress of organization was Martin himself, who spent much of his life immersed in whatever project happened to catch his fancy at the moment, be it of a scholarly nature, one of his numerous collections or tinkering with a convoluted—and yet oddly practical—invention of some kind. India considered him a modern renaissance man. Fortunately, he had a great deal of money and could support the quirks of his nature.
They got on quite well together. India thought of him as Martin, although they rarely called each other by their given names. It would be most inappropriate. India enjoyed managing his life and was secretly grateful there was no Lady Luckthorne as she couldn’t imagine a man’s wife being so liberal as to allow him to have a female assistant. Or a female friend.
“I do hope you are not going to keep details of your foray to yourself.” Martin set his notes aside, rested his forearms on the desk and folded his hands together. “That wouldn’t be at all fair as it was my idea.”
“And an excellent one at that.” India sank into her usual seat in the leather tufted wing chair positioned in front of his desk.
“I know.” He grinned. “Better still, it kept you from descending upon the society like an irate mother hen.”
“Avenging angel actually,” she said. “I should have gone there weeks ago.”
“It’s been a scant six weeks since your last letter from Lady Heloise. You weren’t overly concerned for a fortnight after that.”
“I should have been.”
“Rubbish. The unreliability of foreign postal service could certainly account for a delay in the delivery of Lady Heloise’s letters. No, Miss Prendergast, this is not in any way a failure on your part.”
“Still, I...” She sighed. The man was right, which made her feel no less guilty. And no less helpless. “I should have done more sooner.”
“You sent letters, you spoke to the police and you