usually the one who did the intimidating. How interesting that she thought the interaction might go differently. She needed to learn that her cheques did not allow her carte blanche in the school and that included showing up two days early for the open house.
She was not daunted by his cool reception. Instead, she returned his assessing stare with one of her own, making him acutely aware that she was entirely his antithesis. While he stood before her sans waistcoat, jacket and cravat, shirtsleeves wrinkled and rolled with a belatedly remembered smudge of dirt on his forehead, she was all elegant summer perfection in her apple-green walking ensemble of India muslin, matched head to toe from the brim of her green-crepe chapeau Lyonnaise to the peeping toes of her green half-boots. ‘I disagree. You are two days from opening and this place is a madhouse.’ She held up the dusty finger of her glove in reminder. ‘My money did not pay for chaos.’
Eaton summoned up a smile from his repertoire, the one known for successfully impressing older, more conservative women who occasionally found his love of adventure a tad too liberal—until they tried it for themselves. ‘I assure you, all will be in order for the open house.’ She was not convinced. Her gaze roved about the room, taking in the painters, the movers, the sweepers, casting doubt and disappointment wherever her eyes landed. Eaton grimaced. He needed to get her out of this room. There were plenty of spaces that were finished. It was too bad she hadn’t found him in one of those. ‘Might I offer you a tour, Mrs Blaxland?’ The woman was likely to poke her nose into all the rooms on her own—at least this way he could keep an eye on her. He could control a tour, although it would cost him an hour of work to squire her around. Still, better an hour of work lost than a lucrative patron. Disappointed patrons often bred other disappointed patrons. ‘On our tour, we can discuss whatever it is you’re doing here.’ It was a subtle reminder that she was the one in the wrong, the one who’d shown up uninvited.
He gestured to Cade, giving her no chance to refuse. ‘Let’s start with an introduction to our headmaster, Cador Kitto, lately from Vienna. He’s composed at the Hapsburg court.’
Cade, with his wavy blond locks and Continental élan, bowed over her gloved hand with a courtly aplomb that made Eaton envious of the man’s slender elegance. ‘A pleasure to meet you at last, Mrs Blaxland. Our students will benefit greatly from your patronage.’ A little dose of Cade could go a long way in smoothing ruffled feathers—at least that was what Eaton was hoping for, particularly when he didn’t know what had ruffled her feathers in the first place.
‘What you describe as chaos, Mrs Blaxland, I consider progress. Allow me to show you.’ They left Cade and the busyness of the classroom behind. He toured her through the students’ rooms on the third floor, showing her chambers with neatly made beds, braided rugs, dust-free wardrobes and bright white curtains hanging at the windows. The rooms smelled of lemon polish and linseed oil. ‘Mr Kitto’s wife designed the dorms,’ Eaton explained, making no effort to hide his pride. ‘She believes the homelier the place feels, the more comfortable the boys will be here.’
‘And the less likely they will be to leave,’ Mrs Blaxland translated in more blunt terms. ‘Tell me, how is enrolment? Do we have enough boys to fill these chambers?’
Eaton shut the last door behind them and directed her back towards the staircase. ‘We have two-thirds of the rooms accounted for, which I think is excellent for a first semester.’ Twenty-one boys ranging in age from seven to fourteen would be arriving the day after the open house. ‘Once word spreads regarding the quality of student and the superiority of musical education we offer at the Cornish Academy, we will reach capacity soon enough,’ he assured her, but her sharp green eyes met his assurances with questions.
‘Do you have quality students?’ she asked pointedly. ‘I think the challenge of such a school is not the idea of it, but the location, as I’ve mentioned before in correspondence. Why would a person of any talent want to travel to the wilds of Cornwall for a musical education when one could be in London? Or go abroad? I fear those who have choices will not choose the academy at Porth Karrek.’
She was bold-tongued, her comments blunt and bordering on rude. Perhaps that was simply how it was in business circles where money mattered more than manners. Eaton chose to be impressed with her analysis rather than offended by the implication that the academy would only be capable of drawing mediocre students.
‘The talent you seek will come if you and the other patrons tell them to. Quality enrolment is all of our obligation.’ Richard Penlerick had been adamant on that issue. He’d been promoting the academy in London just days before the murder. ‘One cannot simply throw money at a project and expect that to be enough to ensure success.’ The words came out harshly against the sudden tightness of Eaton’s throat, but he wouldn’t apologise for them. If Eliza Blaxland took his response as a scolding, then so be it. He wasn’t entirely sure he didn’t mean it as one. He was the son and heir of a wealthy family. If it had only been about money, he could easily have bankrolled the school entirely by himself. He didn’t need patrons’ funds the way a struggling orphanage in St Giles did. He needed the names and reputations behind the funds.
Eaton cleared his throat and offered Richard Penlerick’s often-voiced sentiment. ‘The quality of our students will depend on the quality of our patrons. That is why I sought you out in particular. You are well known in Cornish circles for your appreciation of education.’ Even if those circles had failed to convey how young she was.
At the bottom of the stairs he showed her into the drawing room where the Sébastien Érard piano stood in pride of place. ‘This is where our recitals will be held. Mr Kitto will perform at the open house, of course.’ He smiled, reminding her he’d done his part in securing a well-known musician for headmaster, one with a name that would draw talented students.
He allowed her to appraise the Sébastien Érard with her sharp eyes before he got to the heart of the matter. ‘Surely all of this checking up could have been handled at the open house. Why have you really come, Mrs Blaxland?’ Did she have a student she was hoping to get admitted? Did she have an instructor who needed to be hired? Whoever they were, they would have to earn their place here, no matter how much money she donated. Kitto wanted only the best. They wouldn’t attract the best if they took in just anyone.
She gave him a polite smile he did not mistake for friendliness, although it did serve to warm him none the less. ‘I have found in the years of running my late husband’s mines that scheduled appointments can often result in misleading impressions. When one arrives unannounced, one sees a clearer representation of the truth.’ She was already a fortress of perfection in her dress and in her speech, but in her directness she was nigh on impenetrable. Eaton felt the urge to penetrate that directness, to lay siege to its walls.
‘You mean an ambush, Mrs Blaxland?’ Sparring with her was quite a warming exercise indeed. A part of him that had been dormant since returning from London was waking up.
‘An ambush assumes someone can be taken by surprise, that someone lets his guard down,’ she countered smoothly. ‘If one is always prepared, one cannot be caught unawares.’
When was the last time Eliza Blaxland had been taken unawares? From her cool façade, he would guess it had been a while, if ever. It was hard to imagine anyone got anything past her. Eaton would take that as a challenge—not that he wanted to take advantage, but he would like to surprise her, just to prove to her that it could be done. How would she react when things were out of her control?
He studied the flawless perfection of her face, its smooth contours with its elegantly set nose, green eyes and that mouth—that gorgeous pink mouth with its full, kissable lower lip. His gaze lingered there while his thoughts drifted. What would bring a crease to those perfect features? What might fluster her well-ordered world? Had old Huntingdon Blaxland ever flustered her, aside, perhaps, from dying? Would
