The Nanny Arrangement

by Lily George

John watched their progress, his eyes narrowing in a predatory manner as he glanced over Becky. Paul’s throat tightened. John shouldn’t be looking at a lady in that fashion.

  “Come, let’s take a stroll. It will do me good to walk about, accustomed as I am to riding in the carriage.” Paul caught John’s shoulder and spun him around, setting him toward the street. “Tell me, did you hang about awaiting my arrival for the past few weeks?”

  “Nay, not I. I have better things to do. More amusing things, at least.” John stuck his hands inside his jacket pockets with a jaunty air. “I did hear from my valet that your valet said you would probably arrive today. And since the information you receive from a valet is as good as gold, I thought I might as well wait for you as not. Shall we head straight to Brook’s?”

  “I’d rather walk a bit longer.” Already the narrow streets of London were pressing in on him. Funny, he’d never found it quite so oppressive before. At least the sun was shining. He’d had enough of rain for the time being.

  John laughed. “You Holmes lot and your eccentricities. Walking rather than playing cards at Brook’s. I do hope that accident of yours hasn’t affected your brain.”

  “Not at all,” Paul rejoined in a hearty manner. Better to sound convincing, perhaps, than to be convinced oneself.

  “Well, as long as you are in your right mind, you might tell me about that delectable morsel I saw entering your home.” John jabbed him with his elbow. “I vow, I have hardly ever seen a female with such striking eyes. Purple, are they?”

  “Miss Siddons does have violet eyes, yes.” Paul kept his reply curt as he ducked around a couple holding court on the pavement. Perhaps he could send a subtle message to John just with the tone and inflection of his voice. “She is my niece’s nursemaid.”

  “What a decorative ornament to keep around one’s home,” John rejoined, directing them onto Mount Street. “And is she from the country, then? I daresay I should go back to Derbyshire and spend some time there among the locals, if such lovely prizes are to be found.”

  Anger boiled within Paul. Becky was not the kind of girl his class of gentlemen usually remarked upon at length. And she was surely too fine a person for cheap and tawdry observation. He stopped walking, facing his friend squarely. “Now see here, Reed. Miss Siddons is a member of my household. And her sister is married to Daniel Hale. She’s a good girl from an excellent family, and she agreed to help me during a most difficult time. I won’t have you speak of her in such terms again.”

  “My apologies, old chap. I had no idea.” John backed up a step, holding his hands out in a defensive gesture. “I shan’t say anything like it again. Shall we go to Brook’s now? Walking in no particular direction is wearing out the heels of my boots, and extraordinary boots they are, though I say it myself.”

  Brook’s, redolent of tobacco smoke, crowded with dissolute men spending vast quantities of money—at one point, this had held great allure. Indeed, he’d dreamed of fleeing his responsibilities in the country for just such an adventure. Now that the opportunity finally presented itself, the thought of going inside set his stomach churning.

  Whatever was coming over him? He must be hungry. He should go home and have a decent meal and a rest. Then he would be himself again.

  “Some other time. Tomorrow, perhaps, after I finish a pressing matter of business.” He offered John his hand. “Thanks for meeting us. I am glad to be back.” Even though he wasn’t. Not really.

  John returned the handshake. “Of course.” He tugged his hat back on. “You know where to find me. I’ll be at the club or the opera or recuperating at home.”

  Paul watched as John strode off down the sidewalk, cutting a fashionable picture of the dissolute gentleman as he walked. At one point, carousing with John had been the best part of any trip to London. Why did it ring hollow now?

  He turned back toward his townhome, making his way to Davies Street. Now ’twas almost like they were on completely different paths, heading in opposite directions.

  Yes, he definitely needed to eat something. None of this made any sense.

  * * *

  Surely living in London should feel more impressive. This townhome, for instance. Becky stared around her at her vast bedroom, with its lovely sky-blue ceiling. No room she’d ever stayed in was this elegant or well-appointed. And yet... She sank onto the soft bed, steadying herself as she rolled backward slightly. She already longed for the cozy cheerfulness of Kellridge, with her tidy little sitting room, and Juliet’s bedroom just beyond. Here, Juliet slept in a room just down the hall. It was close enough to reach her, but still. This house lacked intimacy.

  In fact, thus far London had failed to impress her, though in truth she’d seen very little of it. Was she so affected by Kate’s dire warnings? Or was it just that draining to try to keep Juliet to her prescribed bedtime as they traveled? Tonight it had taken no fewer than three attempts at putting her to sleep—nearly an hour. Becky’s bones ached from fatigue, and if she closed her eyes, the room whirled around her. This was not the exciting new world she’d expected it would be.

  There was a gentle rapping on her door. Oh, no. Not Juliet again.

  No, Juliet never knocked. Just cried outside her door since she was too small to reach the latch.

  “Come in?” She couldn’t keep the weariness out of her voice.

  The butler, Edmunds, popped his head round the door. “If you please, Miss Siddons. Mr. Holmes requests an interview with you in the library.”

  “Yes, of course.” Becky stood. “He must want to know how Miss Juliet is doing.”

  Edmunds gave a respectful bow. “Follow me.”

  She followed the butler down the wide, curving staircase, bumping her hand against an ornamental cherub on the balustrade. “Ouch.”

  “Are you all right, Miss Siddons?” Edmunds called over his shoulder as he turned down the hallway.

  “Yes, thank you.” She rubbed her sore hand. There’d be a lovely little bruise there tomorrow.

  Edmunds paused before a glossy white door and gave a discreet rap. “Miss Siddons to see you, sir,” he announced before opening the door wider and ushering her in. All this formality! It should be impressive, but instead, it was tiresome. Becky fought the urge to make a face as the butler closed the door behind her.

  “Becky, do sit down.” Paul was lounging in a large leather chair by the hearth. “I’m sorry I had to ask you to come down here—there’s no sitting room on the second floor.”

  “Oh, that’s all right.” She sat in the chair opposite Paul and rubbed the top of her aching hand.

  “You look exhausted,” he pronounced.

  “I am.” In days past, she might have struck back at Paul with a witty rejoinder, or at least a caustic comment about his lack of chivalry. This was not the right time for clever rebuttals, and there was no need to beat about the bush. “It took an hour to get Juliet to sleep tonight.”

  “An hour? I thought we were down to fifteen minutes, sometimes not even that.” Paul ran his hand through his thick, sandy hair. “Was she simply excited about the new arrangements?”

  “Yes.” She was so weary, even speaking was an effort.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Becky forced herself to meet Paul’s eyes. She’d avoided looking at him as much as possible since Kate had spoken to her. What if she had accidentally sent some kind of ridiculous signal to him? One that was interpreted in entirely the wrong manner? He gazed at her thoughtfully and rubbed the fading scar on his cheek.

  “I am sure it will take just a few days to settle in.” She added a bright cheeriness to her tone. “We are just...overwhelmed.”

  “That is understandable.” Paul’s voice comforted her weary spirit. He could be such good company when he chose to be. “Tell me, what do you think of my house here?”

 
; What could one say? That the house was lovely and yet cold? “I do declare it is the most elegant place I’ve ever set foot in.” There. That was the truth, after all.

  “This place is all my mother’s doing.” Paul lounged back in his chair. “My father wanted to live in a fashionable part of town, too, but more among our class of people. Mayfair always has been a bit beyond our reach. I’m the only surviving member of our family who cares for it.”

  “Why don’t your other siblings enjoy it? Do they dislike it so much?” She’d never heard much about Paul’s family—only Juliana and George, and precious little at that. ’Twould be interesting to hear more about them. Perhaps they could provide another piece to the puzzle that was Paul Holmes.

  Paul smiled. “My brother calls it a ‘horror of modern architecture.’”

  “Oh, dear.” Becky couldn’t contain a laugh at that. “That sounds rather harsh.”

  “Well, George is a sea captain. He feels most alive when he’s strolling the deck of his ship, not cooped up in a Mayfair townhome. And my sisters are deeply embarrassed by its grandeur. They all vastly prefer the simple life in the country. All of my siblings refuse to come to London unless they have pressing business and cannot find a way to cry off.” He paused for a moment, staring at the hearth. “Juliana came here once for the season. She rather enjoyed its grand drawing room with its superior pianoforte.”

  The shuttered look that usually passed across his face when he spoke of Juliana was completely absent now. He stared pensively at a fixed place on the hearth, but his shoulders remained relaxed. The change in him made her catch her breath, as though for the first time, she was being allowed to look inside a walled garden.

  She was not ready to have the gate closed. Not yet. She steered the conversation gently away, for just a moment, for who knew how long he would remain at ease? “How many sisters do you have?”

  “Well, let’s see. Five, save Juliana. Caroline is the eldest, then Elizabeth and Cassandra. The others were born after me—Sarah and Hannah. They are twins and look as alike as peas in a pod. George was born before the twins.” He shifted his glance from the fireplace and looked at Becky, his brown eyes warm. “And all of them married, happy in their lives and secure in their persons.”

  “Five sisters—one set of twins?” Becky shook her head. “I don’t envy you the task of managing all that. Certainly not when you were so young yourself.”

  “When Papa died, all the girls were either married or engaged to be so. They all married rather young. Juliana was the last of the lot. And George, off to find his fortune as the second son, was already at sea. So you see, managing Juliana became as crucial to me as managing Kellridge.” He fell silent once more.

  “Of course, that makes sense.” Her heart ached for Paul. What an awful lot he’d had to shoulder, and at an age when most men were able to live fancy-free, thinking only of themselves and of pleasure. Small wonder he held so steadfastly to order and to precision. His methods were likely the only way he could maintain his home.

  Of course, she had been through a great deal, too. And with Susannah and Nan, they had come through the worst of life. But they’d done so together. Juliana had been a storm unto herself, unlikely to have done anything to ease Paul’s burden. He must have felt so terribly alone.

  She couldn’t bear for him to fall to brooding about Juliana once more. He had done so much for Juliana, and was continuing to do so in caring for her child. If only he would see the good he had done, rather than considering just what he deemed his greatest failure.

  “So, your brother is a sea captain, and your sisters are happily married.” She ticked all of them off on her fingers. “That is quite astonishing. Where do your sisters live?”

  He gazed at her as though drifting back through a fog. “Caroline lives near Liverpool, Elizabeth near Dover and Cassandra near Norwich. They met their husbands in London, but never returned, for they love the country life so. Caroline paints, Elizabeth is an excellent judge of horseflesh and Cassandra writes poetry. So they indulge these pursuits while running their homes and their families.”

  Poets, painters, musicians. Paul’s family fairly brimmed with artistic talent. “And the twins?”

  “Sarah and Hannah married twin brothers, of all things. They live together on a huge joint estate in Scotland.” He gave a little chuckle. “And yet none of them have had twins yet. Most extraordinary, don’t you think?”

  “Yes.” Paul was not just the annoying young man who teased her, or the stern lord of the manor. “Paul, why did you take Juliet? If you have sisters who have children, why didn’t one of them step up to care for their niece?”

  Paul looked at her, frank astonishment showing on his handsome face. “Juliet is my responsibility. Not theirs.”

  Becky blinked. “Didn’t any of your sisters feel obligated to take Juliet?”

  “Not really. I am the master of the family, and I made it very clear, since Juliana’s marriage, that her problems were mine. Not that I consider Juliet a problem, mind you. But she is my primary concern.”

  He still felt the deep and abiding guilt that he failed his sister. Becky’s heart surged with warmth for him. He was not a failure, no matter how much he chastised himself for Juliet’s downfall. No, he was a good brother who shouldered all the family responsibilities as his siblings scattered all over the globe. His siblings sounded happy. They were married, at least. They had moved to places that beckoned, and refused to visit places they disliked. Meanwhile, Paul continued running Kellridge, maintaining the London townhome and assuming responsibility for his sister’s child.

  He was a good man.

  Was he a happy man?

  She couldn’t ask why he never married. That was too saucy, even for someone as well acquainted with him as she, and even within the context of the newfound warmth they shared. “It sounds like your siblings all had a taste of adventure,” she admitted. “What of you? Did you desire to break free yourself?”

  “Of course. And I indulged in some rather unsavory pursuits which I shan’t discuss with a lady,” he confessed. “I am the eldest son. It’s my duty to take care of my father’s legacy. This trip to London is to see if selling my shares in shipping will be for the best. They were my father’s shares, but I don’t have his attention to the business. George does—it’s part of his job as a captain. As for me, I would rather let them go and focus on Kellridge.” This last came out in a rush, as though Paul were unburdening himself of something that tugged at his conscience.

  “I am certain you will make the right choice.” She kept her voice soothing, as though she were talking to Juliet at the end of a difficult day. “As far as I am concerned, you have done an excellent job in everything. I would even go so far as to say you’re not the teasing rogue I thought you.”

  “Or the hateful master?” He gave her a wry grin, and her heart caught in her throat.

  She shook her head. Words seemed too difficult, too tender, at this moment.

  “Well, I am glad you think so, Becky-girl. Your opinion means a great deal.” Paul caught her glance for a moment and held it. She couldn’t draw breath. She couldn’t look away.

  Then he averted his gaze back to the hearth, and the gate to the walled garden swung shut. She stood on the outside, cold and breathless.

  That glimpse of the real Paul had left her wanting more. If only he would let her in.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Better to be done with the business at hand. This was, after all, what brought him to London in the first place.

  Paul strode along the crowded, bustling streets of town. Eschewing the carriage was the right decision. Walking gave him time to think, to resolve the matter in his head and to make peace with it. Father would not be angry he was selling his shares; after all, Paul had maintained the Holmes family legacy with aplomb since his father’s passing. Eve
n George understood, though he’d made it quite clear he would be maintaining his ship. So there was no need for this niggling feeling of unease. Yet it persisted.

  Paul sidestepped a lady hawking vegetables on the street and, as he moved around her, came face to shoulder with a man alighting from his carriage. “Beg pardon,” Paul remarked. The man, a rotund fellow with a shrewd look about him, merely nodded. As the fellow closed his carriage door, Paul caught a glimpse of the bold letter “G” painted on the side. Nay, bold wasn’t even the right word. This was a florid, glaring monogram that declared to all and sundry that it belonged to Mr. Gail. In fact, engravers found much fodder for satire in Gail’s pretensions, and his carriage was one of the most laughed about objects in London.

  This portly fellow wasn’t Gail. Paul drew to one side, feigning interest in a shop window.

  The man darted a few quick glances around, then made his way up the sidewalk, along the very path Paul intended to take. What would Gail’s carriage be doing in this part of town? Surely the big man himself would be expected at the House of Commons in no time at all.

  Paul followed the portly fellow as he traversed the pavement, homing in on him as he would a fox when on the hunt. Sure enough, the fellow opened the door to the chambers of Poole & Blackburn, Solicitors. Clenching his jaw, Paul waited a moment. Let his quarry have time to make himself at home. Why it could be that he, too, had business with the solicitors, and had nothing to do at all with Paul’s transaction.

  “Not likely,” Paul muttered under his breath.

  He let himself in and walked up the creaking staircase.

  “Mr. Holmes, good to see you.” James Blackburn greeted him at the landing. “I am so pleased you came in to London to handle this matter yourself. I was rather expecting your man of affairs.”

  “As you know, Blackburn, I handle all things related to my shipping shares myself. My father took a particular interest in every aspect of the business, and I treat it with the same care as he would.” Paul shook his solicitor’s hand but glanced about the room. “Shall we go in, then?”