An Unexpected Pleasure

Megan arrived at Broughton House early in the afternoon the following day. When she reached the bottom of the steps leading up to the front door, she hesitated for a moment, gazing up at the grand edifice. Her stomach was a knot of nerves. Soon she would meet the man whom she had hated for ten years. All her grief, all her regret had been channeled into fury, and the fact that the villain had gotten away had only served to increase that anger. Megan wasn’t sure how she would be able to face Moreland without revealing how much she despised him. It was going to take every bit of skill she had.

She clasped her hands together, pushing up her gloves in a nervous gesture. She would never have admitted it to anyone, least of all her father, but she could not help but be a trifle intimidated by the task ahead of her. She had bluffed her way through many a situation in search of a story, but no story had ever been as important to her as this one, and never had she felt so afraid of failing. She could not help but think that the duchess was going to take one look at her and send her packing.

She tugged down her dark blue jacket, quite plain except for its rather large silver buttons. She hoped it would be sober enough to make up for the small straw bonnet perched atop her head, which, with the brim curling jauntily to one side and the cunning cluster of cherries pinned there, was really too stylish for a tutor. Megan had a weakness for hats, and, frankly, she did not possess one that was dowdy enough to suit a governess. Standing here now, she wished that she had gone to a millinery this morning and bought the plainest dark bonnet she could find.

It was too late to do anything else now, she told herself, and, quelling the sudden flutter of nerves in her stomach, she reached up and brought down the heavy brass door knocker.

A moment later, a footman opened the door.

“May I help you?”

“I am here to see the Duchess of Broughton,” Megan said calmly, looking the man squarely in the eyes.

Once she began, as always, her nervousness receded, turning into a sort of low-level hum that kept her alert and ready for anything.

She saw the footman sweep her with a quick, assessing glance, taking in everything about her and no doubt classifying her immediately as to social status, dress and country of origin.

“May I ask if you have an appointment?”

“Yes,” Megan lied. She had always found it best to go on the offensive. Boldness generally won the day. “I am here concerning the tutoring position.”

The man’s expression changed from aloof and faintly forbidding to almost eager. “Yes, of course. Let me see if her grace is ready to receive you.”

He stepped back, and Megan entered the house. She found herself in a large formal entryway. It was floored in marble, and across from her, elegant stairs rose to the second floor. A hallway stretched in either direction, with another leading toward the rear of the house.

“If you will be so kind as to give me your name?” The footman said politely, directing Megan toward a low velvet-cushioned bench that stood beneath an enormous gold-framed mirror.

“Miss Megan Henderson,” Megan responded. She had decided that it would be too risky to use her real last name, as there was a chance that Moreland would connect it with the man he had known ten years earlier.

“Very good, Miss Henderson.” The man turned to go, and just then a shriek echoed from down one of the hallways.

Both Megan and the footman turned toward the sound. As they watched, a young woman ran out of one of the doorways, followed a fraction of a second later by another, older, woman. Both were richly dressed—rather overdressed, to Megan’s sense of taste—with intricately coiffed hair, and there was about them a tangible air of privilege and wealth.

That appearance was somewhat spoiled at the moment by the fact that both women were emitting high, piercing squeals, holding up their skirts and almost dancing about as they peered down at the floor around them.

Megan stared, and the footman let out a groan. As they stood watching, a number of small furry creatures scurried out of the doorway behind the women and raced off down the hall toward the front door, followed an instant later by two adolescent boys and a dog.

The women’s shrieks grew louder and higher, if that was possible, and they ran and jumped up onto benches on either side of the hallway. The mice, obviously the object of all the hysteria, scampered along the elegant marble hallway, darting behind vases and under tables in their dash toward freedom.

The dog added to the noise, barking excitedly and jumping up to snap at the enticing ruffles on one of the women’s skirts, then darting after the fleeing mice, then whirling back to leap again at the ruffles, which were fluttering as the woman jittered agitatedly atop the bench.

One of the boys dived under a narrow hallway table to grab one of the mice and knocked against one of the legs. The vase of flowers on top of the table wobbled and overturned with a crash, spilling blossoms and water. The boy let go of his quarry and whirled around, reaching out just in the nick of time to catch the vase as it rolled off the table. He let out a whoop of joy at this feat and jumped up, setting the vase back on the table and rejoining the chase.

As Megan watched in fascination, the footman hurried into the fray, grabbing the frantically barking dog and pulling him away from the offending ruffles. The women, she thought, were abysmally silly; their screeching and dancing about were only serving to excite the dog even more.

“Hush, Rufus! Down!” the footman shouted.

His words seemed to have no effect on the dog, who whirled around, breaking the man’s hold on his collar, and ran after the boys, barking like mad. His long tail caught a tall, slender vase standing on the floor as he passed, and it toppled over. At that, a wail went up from the footman, and he rushed to the vase to examine it.

Megan reached up to her hat, untying it and whipping it from her head. As the tiny mice ran toward her, she squatted down, putting her hat on the floor in front of her like a scoop, and quickly swept up several of the mice as they tumbled into it.

She folded the edges of the bonnet together, trapping the squealing, squirming mice inside. Turning toward the dog, now barking and jumping and whirling in delirious circles in front of her, she raised her voice, saying in a sharp, firm tone, “No! Rufus! Down!”

The note of command in her tone reached the dog, and, amazingly, he stopped whirling and barking. Instead, tail wagging and tongue lolling out of his mouth in a foolish doggy grin, he gazed up at Megan.

“Good boy,” she told him. “Sit.” She pointed down at the floor.

Rufus promptly sat, and Megan reached down with her free hand and scratched the dog behind the ears. “Good boy, Rufus.”

“That’s wizard!” one of the boys said, sliding to a stop beside the dog. He held a box in one hand, and from the scrabbling noises issuing from it, Megan assumed that it held some of the mice. “Rufus did exactly as you said. He hardly ever does that.”

The other boy let out a cry of triumph, pouncing on a mouse that had just emerged from the fringe encircling a gold settee. Sticking the little animal in one of the pockets of his jacket, he trotted up to join his brother.

Megan looked at the boys. These must be the charges who had run off almost every tutor in the city. They didn’t look, she thought, like such monsters.

They were twins, identical in looks, and though they were a little messy—their black hair tousled, a smudge of dirt across one’s forehead, the other’s shirttail hanging out in back—they were undeniably handsome lads, and intelligence shone out of their green eyes. She had expected them to look arrogant and spoiled, but she saw neither of those qualities in their faces. Instead, she saw interest and an unabashed admiration for her dog-handling skills.

“It isn’t that hard. It’s the tone of voice one uses,” Megan explained. “You see, Rufus wants to be good.”

“He does?” The first twin looked surprised and glanced down at the dog.

“Yes. You just have to let him know how to do that. Praise him when he’s good and let him know when he has misbehaved. A firm voice—you don’t have to be loud, but he has to know you mean it.” She bent over the dog, rubbing her hand back over his head. “Isn’t that right, Rufus?”

The dog’s tail thumped, and he leaned into her hand, gazing at her with a silly, infatuated look. With a final pat, Megan straightened up.

“I’m Alex Moreland,” the twin holding the box said politely. “And this is my brother, Con.”

“How do you do?” Megan extended her hand to shake each of the boys’ hands. “My name is Megan M—Henderson.”

“Miss Henderson. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Con replied with exquisite politeness.

“Now, I believe these are yours?” She extended her other hand, still holding the bonnet edges firmly clamped together.

“Yes, miss. Thank you ever so much for catching them.” Alex opened the lid of the box of mice, and Megan slid her catch into the box with the others.

Con quickly pulled another couple of mice from his pocket and smiled at her. “You didn’t scream or anything. Most girls do.”

He cast a contemptuous glance back down the hall, where the footman had helped the ladies down from their perch. The older of the women was now sitting on the bench, leaning back with her eyes closed, her hand to her head, moaning, while the younger woman fanned her vigorously.

“Not all girls are used to such things,” Megan told him, grinning back. “I had the advantage of having three brothers, you see. But may I ask what you are doing, carrying all these mice about the house?”

“They’re to feed our boa constrictor. That’s where we were taking them. Would you like to see the boa?”

“We have a parrot, too. And a salamander and some frogs,” Alex added.

“My goodness. I’ve never seen a boa,” Megan said. “That does sound interesting.”

Their words apparently reached the fainting woman, for she sat straight up with a little cry, her eyes flying open. “A snake! In this house?”