Moore, her smile softening, regarded him with a curious look. ‘I am pleased to have met you, Mr Sloane. Good day to you.’
He felt suddenly reluctant to leave them, to leave the circle of sunshine that was Morgana Hart.
‘Good day, ladies.’ Sloane bowed to them both and proceeded on his way, resisting the impulse to look back.
Morgana, feeling breathless, set off at such a brisk pace that she had Miss Moore puffing to keep up. She slowed.
‘What a handsome gentleman,’ Miss Moore managed between breaths.
‘Do you think so?’ Morgana said stiffly. She laughed and entwined her arm in Miss Moore’s again. ‘Yes, indeed. He is a very handsome man. More like a Spanish guerrilla than an Englishman, do you not think?’ And every bit as dangerous—to her heart.
Miss Moore chuckled. ‘I do not have any notion what a Spanish guerrilla looks like.’
‘Exactly like Mr Sloane!’ Morgana laughed again, but her laugh soon subsided. ‘He may be handsome, but he is also the gentleman Lady Hannah has her eye upon. I suspect he will offer for her soon.’
‘Lady Hannah and such a man?’ Miss Moore exclaimed. ‘I cannot credit it.’
‘Just so. She is the type all gentlemen want, you know.’
Much to Morgana’s mortification, Miss Moore gave her a sympathetic glance. Morgana wanted to protest that she had no marriage aspirations. It was not necessary to feel pity for her.
Still, when she thought of the tall, exciting, valiant Mr Sloane, she wished, as she had never wished before, that she were a woman he would look upon to marry.
By the time they entered the house, Morgana had shaken off such nonsense. Why should Mr Sloane desire her for a wife when other men did not? It was nonsensical.
She and Miss Moore walked up the stairs to Lady Hart’s sitting room, and found the elderly woman rocking in her chair, smiling pleasantly, while Dilly worked on some mending.
‘You need not stay, Dilly,’ Miss Moore said. ‘I am sure you have much to do.’
‘Very good, miss.’ Dilly patted Lady Hart’s hand before she walked out of the room.
Miss Moore sat in the seat Dilly vacated. ‘What will you tell the servants, dear?’
Morgana remained standing, too restless to sit. ‘I thought to tell Mr and Mrs Cripps exactly what I am about, and seek their advice as to the rest of the household.’
Miss Moore shook her head. ‘Oh, no. No, indeed. I do not advise it.’
‘Why not?’
Miss Moore’s expression took on the same haunted look as when she recounted the sad events of her life. ‘People do not take kindly to women who have lost respectability. If the household staff know who you have taken under your wing, they will fear the loss of their own reputations. Believe me, Morgana, they will leave your employ and they will talk to their next employers. You will be ruined.’
Morgana folded her arms across her chest and wandered to the window to look out on the garden. Lucy knelt among the flowers, pulling at weeds. She did not mind keeping her affairs private from prying eyes and gossips, but it seemed a folly to try to hide anything from the servants. They always knew whatever went on. Better to be forthright and hope for the best.
She watched Lucy, from this distance, looking so small and vulnerable. She might gamble her own future on the goodwill of those in her employ, but she had no right to risk Lucy’s or the other girls.
She turned to Miss Moore. ‘What shall we tell them, then?’
‘We shall tell them the girls are my nieces, come to London to learn town manners so that they might be employed.’
‘That does not explain Lucy,’ Morgana reminded her.
Miss Moore was undaunted. ‘Everyone can see Lucy is unhappy. We shall tell them you have generously included her in the lessons, so that she might seek more compatible employment.’
Morgana gave Miss Moore a sceptical look. The story was preposterous. She took a deep breath. It would nevertheless afford the servants some protection, should the whole business fall apart. They could honestly say their mistress lied to them.
A few minutes later, with Miss Moore at her side, Morgana summoned Mr and Mrs Cripps. The butler and housekeeper listened to the concocted story with impassive expressions. Morgana had the sinking feeling they believed not a word of the unlikely tale. They did not even blink when she added that all the staff would receive bonuses because of the extra work entailed in having three more household guests.
By late morning, Cook, the footmen and maids were all given the false story. Morgana prayed the deception would hold.
She gathered her girls in the library where they could not be glimpsed from the street. Lucy had found dresses for them, and Morgana supposed she would need to concoct another story to explain why they had not arrived with luggage of their own. She bit her lip in dismay at the mounting lies.
At least the girls’ appearance did not now give them away. They appeared as ordinary girls, ones who might indeed be nieces of Miss Moore. Except for Rose, who could not look ordinary if she tried, and who spoke with an Irish lilt besides.
Miss Moore walked into the room, Lady Hart leaning on her arm. ‘Miss Hart, I hope you do not mind. But I should like to help.’
It had been enough that Miss Moore had not packed up and left London. Morgana had never expected her assistance. ‘But what of Grandmama?’
‘Allow her to sit among us. She will enjoy the liveliness, you know. It will be good for her.’ Miss Moore helped Lady Hart into a chair.
Why not? thought Morgana. There was no risk her grandmother would remember enough to expose the truth.
‘I should like to teach comportment and manners and proper speech,’ Miss Moore said.
‘I can teach music,’ Rose chimed in. ‘My father is a musician, and I have been trained on harp and pianoforte as well as voice.’
Mary Phipps looked up shyly. ‘I… I used to be a governess. I can teach all manner of things.’
‘That is splendid, Miss Phipps.’ Morgana smiled at her. ‘Perhaps you can look through the books here and find something useful.’
Katy laughed. ‘Well, there is only one thing I know, but I can teach it, all right.’ She gave a bawdy glance around the room. ‘Might need one of those handsome footmen to help me.’
Miss Moore, who was a good deal shorter than the red-haired young woman, still effectively looked down her nose at her. ‘Miss Green,’ she said in clipped tones, ‘you will behave like a lady here in this house. You aspire to be a highflyer, attracting the best and the richest. To do so you cannot act like common Haymarket ware. You must not fraternise with the footmen. Do you understand?’
Oh, yes. Miss Moore would be an asset indeed.
Katy
