Never Gamble Your Heart (The Secret Society of Governess Spies #2)

Chapter 8

T he next morning Frankie was hurrying down the corridor, coins jangling in her pocket, in hopes that she might dash outdoors and buy a paper before her lessons, when Jasper stepped out of the sitting room, still scowling down at a letter.

“Miss Turner,” he said as she attempted to slink past without catching his notice.

Frankie made a face at the cream-and-gold-striped wallpaper and then turned around with a pleasant smile on her lips. “Mr. Jones?”

The sunlight from the doorway to the sitting room backlit him with an angelic glow. Rather deceiving , she thought, considering he might be the actual devil. If he were, then he was a very nice-smelling devil. The shaving cream his valet used was infused with the most delicious scents: a hint of pine, cloves, and was that coffee? Jasper should give the man a raise.

Frankie caught herself leaning forward, the better to smell him, and straightened so quickly she was surprised her vertebrae didn’t click together. When she finally met Jasper’s scrutinizing eyes, she flushed against her will. She did not think anyone had such a searing, insightful gaze as Jasper Jones. It was as if he could see straight through her skull and into her secret mind. She did not like it one bit.

He leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms. His cravat was crisply white against the strong column of his throat, and his fawn-colored trousers clung to muscled thighs. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows as if he’d been busy with ledgers and correspondence that morning and did not want to stain them with ink.

“Perdita’s reply came with the morning post.” He lifted the letter. “Your headmistress apologized for the mix-up, but writes that due to a bout of illness at the agency, she cannot send your replacement for a fortnight.”

Frankie did her best not to react with glee. The Dove, the brilliant woman, had bought her another two weeks. Jasper waited, studying her with those dark, stomach-scrambling eyes. Frankie thought he might be waiting for a reply, but she was not sure what he expected her to say.

“Oh, er—holy Queen V! Is it the plague?”

His eyebrows lifted.

Maybe that had been too strong. “What I mean is: I am very sorry everyone is ill.”

“Indeed. Against all of my better judgment I am going to keep you on for the intervening time. Cecelia has been happy the past few days and I do not wish to upset the routine of her life until your replacement arrives.”

Frankie blinked in confusion. Once again he was considering his niece’s happiness over his own desire, which was to be rid of Frankie. Could he genuinely care for the orphan who’d been thrust upon him and disrupted his rakish lifestyle?

“I accept your plea to stay,” she said. She did not think it was prudent to divulge that Cecelia’s happiness was due to planning a surprise soirée that he would hate, rather than her presence.

“It was not a plea. It was an order.”

“Please stop begging, Mr. Jones. It does not become you.”

Jasper gaped at her. “ Begging ? I assure you, Miss Turner, I do not beg.”

Frankie took a backward step, her heel sharp on the tile. She suffered from a lack of social graces, but she was aware enough to know she was taunting him, and she could not fathom why. Perhaps it was because he seemed like a man who was so rarely taunted and very much needed to be.

Jasper advanced forward as she continued to walk backward, and she felt a bit like prey being stalked on the plains. “Need I remind you that I am tolerating you because I have little other choice? Rest assured, when your replacement arrives you will be free to torment another hapless family.”

“Torment!” Frankie halted her retreat and glared at him. If anyone was being tortured it was she! Why, the man was practically an ogre. He appeared to be genuinely kind to every person in his employ except for her, whom he stared at as if she were a… a… a spy in his house.

Which, Frankie conceded grudgingly, she was. Could Jasper Jones’s instincts be that good? She shivered involuntarily. The Dove had told her he was eerily insightful. What if he suspected her true purpose for being there?

Jasper must’ve seen the shiver because he halted his advance. In a low voice that prickled up her spine he said, “You need not fear me, Miss Turner. I am only a threat to those who scheme to hurt me or my loved ones. As that is not your intent, you have no reason to worry. If that were your purpose, I would be very concerned indeed.”

Frankie drew herself to her fullest height, and even though that was still a good ten inches below Jasper’s, she managed to look down her nose at him. If her sixteen-year-old sister could bravely dash off to help her friend, she could face down a man who dispensed threats as easily as he breathed.

“ Mr . Jones,” she said coldly, “I fully respect your stance on the matter, as I feel similarly. Men often underestimate women, but I assure you that if someone were to hurt a person I care for, I would make him pay dearly.”

Jasper’s lips parted in surprise, but she did not stay to hear what else he had to say. She turned her back on him and flew down the corridor. It was only when she reached the schoolroom that she realized her hands were shaking.

Frankie spent the rest of the day trying to entice Cecelia into the schoolroom, but when she succeeded the girl talked nonstop about flower arrangements, the terrible hunt for a harpist, and food deliveries.

“Perhaps we can calculate the cost,” Frankie said desperately, hoping to incorporate even a smidgen of mathematics into the process. Cecelia airily waved her hand and declared that Uncle Jasper was footing the bill, so why bother?

The next day was similarly unproductive. The house was now under a constant flurry of activity, with servants rushing about with armfuls of flowers and trays of crystal. There were maids polishing banisters, footmen heaving boxes, and Mrs. Hollendale storming the corridors snapping out orders with every breath. In short, the house was never still long enough for Frankie to investigate Jasper’s study unseen.

When at last she finally did have a chance to discreetly turn the knob to the study, she was disappointed to find that it was indeed locked. She spent that night thinking over her options and decided she needed to visit Hookham’s Circulating Library for answers.

The next afternoon, after several hours of a fruitless attempt to harness Cecelia’s mind in the sweltering schoolroom, Frankie gave up and dismissed her restless pupil, resigned to the fact that there would be no learning until the soirée was over.

Free for the remainder of the day, Frankie spent the afternoon perusing Hookham’s shelves until at last she found the manual she sought. While returning to the Jones residence, book in hand, she fell into deep thought over a mathematics problem she had come across in The Gentleman’s Scholarly Pursuit of Mathematics and Angles , a wordy journal title that still did not hold the record for most ridiculous name. The authors of the paper claimed their general quantic equation was unsolvable. Frankie had been thinking on it since she’d read the article, and she believed the authors were incorrect. If one applied elliptic functions, it was possible that—

She was so caught up in solving the math problem that she tripped over an apple cart, stepped in a hole left by a loose stone, and nearly ran into the rear end of a horse. Frankie had grand mathematics dreams, but for now she submitted her theorems to established journals under the name Horace P. Smith, taking every precaution to ensure her anonymity, including walking over two miles to mail the letters. It was her greatest secret. Well, now it was one of her greatest secrets.

Once Frankie reached her chamber—thankfully without meeting Jasper in the corridor again—she removed her dreadfully hot governess gown, extracted her hairpins, and lay on her bed in her chemise. With her blond hair gathered over one shoulder, she opened the book she’d borrowed from the library and read by the light of the lantern. When she finished, dawn was emerging beyond the window, gray and watery, and her brain was swimming with theory that she somehow needed to convert into skill.

As the first glow of sunlight touched the brick tops of the buildings across the street, Frankie drew the curtains and lay on top of the covers to sleep. Cecelia’s soirée was that night, and Frankie knew there would be no wrangling her into lessons. Instead, she rested, because later, when everyone was busy with the soirée, she was going to break into Jasper Jones’s study.