A Lady's Luck. Ken Casper
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a twinge of guilt. After exchanging a few more words with the headmistress, they left the office. Devon led them around a corner to a newer wing of the building that hadn’t been visible from the front.
“How old are you, girls?” she asked the twins, who were practically skipping along beside her.
“Eight,” Rhea responded.
Devon nodded, then thought a moment. “Your school system in America is different from ours. Let me see. You’re in the third grade. Is that correct?”
Katie nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, ma’am.”
“We start a year earlier than you, so here you would be in the fourth, but I expect what you would be learning would be about the same.”
“Do you teach a particular subject, Miss Hunter?” Brent asked.
“English grammar and reading. At elementary four—your third grade—we’re learning about nouns, verbs, adjectives and adverbs.”
“We are, too,” Rhea cried out.
“Shh.” Her father put a finger to his lips. “Not so loud. We don’t want to disturb the children in class.”
As they walked the corridors and Devon invited him to peek into classrooms through door windows or stand at the threshold of computer-filled labs, observing young ladies flicking their fingers over keyboards and mice, Brent found himself drawn more and more to the viscount’s younger sister in a way he hadn’t been drawn to a woman in a long time. He asked appropriate questions, all the time trying to figure out how to bring up the one subject that had brought him there. Apollo’s Ice.
She had saved her own classroom until last. When they arrived there, she took them inside and presented them to a group of twenty girls, all of whom were about the twins’ age. She had just completed her introductions when a bell rang out in the hallway.
“Recess.” Devon turned to the twins. “Why don’t you join the girls for their break in the assembly area downstairs—it’s too wet to go outside right now.”
The twins didn’t need a second invitation. They rushed out the door with the other girls and disappeared from sight.
“Do you get to see your brother very often?” Brent asked, using the interruption to change the subject.
“I very rarely go to London,” she replied, “which is where he spends most of his time when he’s not traveling. On the occasional weekend—” she placed the accent on the last syllable of the word “—when I’m able to get home to see my mother in Abbingvale, the timing always seems to be off, and he’s not around.”
“I thought perhaps you shared his love of horses and joined him at races,” Brent observed.
For a moment she glanced at him quizzically, as though she were aware of his hidden agenda, but the expression vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Indeed I love horses and still ride when I’m home, but for me racing has never been the passion it’s become for him.”
So much for getting information from her about Apollo’s Ice, Brent realized. But his interest by this point was no longer equine based. He reminded himself that his response to her was both natural and, with Marti gone, permissible, which made him wonder how he could find a way to spend more time with this young woman, the Honorable Devon Hunter.
Devon asked him questions about the girls’ school until another bell sounded. The girls filed in, not as loudly as the kids back home probably would have, but with no less enthusiasm. His daughters followed, decidedly more boisterous.
They bounced up to him, faces eager. “The kids want to know if we can come back tomorrow and sit in class with them,” Rhea announced to their father. “They said Miss Hunter is really, really nice.”
Only young children could make friends within a matter of minutes, Brent thought. He was willing to bet it was Rhea who had led the way. Katie wasn’t unfriendly or any less eager to join in groups, but she wasn’t as unconditionally gregarious as her sister. Rhea was impulsive, Katie more reflective. He suspected Katie would prove the stronger personality in the long run.
“It’s not up to me, girls.” He wanted to give both of them a big hug for solving his dilemma. “Perhaps…” He glanced over at Devon.
“We have visitors sit in from time to time,” she said, seemingly as agreeable with the idea as they were. “We must first get permission from the headmistress, of course.”
“Yay! We’re going to school.” They clapped their hands.
“It’s not certain yet, girls,” their father warned.
“There are two extra seats against the back wall,” Devon told them. “You may take those for now and watch, if you like, whilst your father and I confer with Mrs. Sherwood-Griffin.”
While Devon spoke privately with her assistant, Brent reminded the girls to remain quiet in class and to speak only if they were spoken to by the teacher. A minute later, he and Devon left the room as the lesson recommenced.
“Funny,” he said as they walked down the corridor toward the headmistress’s office, “I can’t recall them ever being that enthusiastic about going to school back home.”
Devon laughed. “Foreign intrigue.”
Speaking of foreign intrigue, he was falling under the spell of that laugh and wanted to hear more of it.
“Their mother…” she started tentatively, obviously seeking information. She was probably expecting him to say his wife had decided to stay home, maybe with other children, or that they were divorced.
“She died a few years ago.”
Her shock and discomfort were palpable. “I’m so, so sorry. It must be difficult for them…for you…” Her words trailed off. A moment passed. “What about sleeping arrangements?”
Startled, he glanced over before he realized she’d intended only to change the subject. He hoped she couldn’t read the thought that had instantaneously shot through his head.
“Hotel accommodations,” she clarified, her pretty face tinged with pink. “You’re staying in London, I presume.”
“Oh…um…” He suddenly felt like a clumsy teenager. “I didn’t know how late we’d be finishing up here and figured this would be a good chance to see Oxford, so I booked us into the Sword and Shield for the night.”
“Good choice,” she said with a nod. “Many parents visiting their children stay there. It’s not especially grand, but it’s convenient and I’m told quite comfortable.”
“If you don’t already have plans, Miss Hunter,” Brent said, as they drew closer to the headmistress’s office, “we’d very much like you to join us for dinner.”
Four
“What do you mean, you turned him down?” Heather asked that evening. “Are you daft?”
Devon tried to ignore the question, as she gathered up the newspapers and magazines left on their sitting room settee. For the most part she enjoyed sharing a flat with her friend, but the girl could be so slovenly at times.
“For heaven’s sake, why?” Heather persisted.
“He’s too old for me.”
“He’s mature,” Heather corrected her. “He’s also handsome, well-mannered, and he’s certainly not poor. He’s also available. I heard him tell Mrs. S—”
“That his wife is dead. Yes, I know.”
“Well, then?” Heather raised both her brows and grinned. “And the way he speaks makes me want to curl up on a warm bed. Really, what more could you ask?”
Devon picked up a three-day-old copy of the Times, folded it and added it to the stack of things destined