The Governess’s Guide to Spells and Managing Misfit Marquesses (The Parasol Academy #2)

Chapter 1

In Which a Governess Takes Matters into Her Own Hands; A Ship is Slyly Boarded; Walruses, Polar Bears, and Sardines are Featured; And the Merits of Certain Expletives are Considered …

St Augustine’s Reach, Port of Bristol, England

Miss Mina Davenport, a proudly prim and proper Parasol Academy governess, never set out to break the rules. But oh, when she did so, it was in a truly spectacular fashion.

Yes, this is definitely an I’m-never-ever-going-to-explain-this-away sort of incident if anyone ever finds out, thought Mina as she discreetly opened her capacious Parasol Academy–issued umbrella then whispered the magic incantation, “Cloakify” to make her entire person, and her umbrella, disappear from view.

Though with any luck, now she was completely invisible to anyone bustling about on Bristol’s crowded quay, she might just get away with the felonious crime she was about to commit.

Of course, kidnapping a child was not customary for Mina by any means.

And without a shadow of a doubt, it was strictly proscribed in the Parasol Academy Handbook, which governed all areas of a licensed graduate’s practice.

It was a handbook that Mina had always adhered to, to the letter.

To the very T. Indeed, she knew the handbook’s every regulation better than she knew the back of her own hand (or even the staunchly guarded secret yearnings of her heart).

But when one’s former charge—a seven-year-old viscount—was being forced to embark on a perilous sea voyage by his glory-seeking guardian (a supposed “gentleman” explorer by the name of Sir Bedivere Ponsonby)—one must go above and beyond and do what one must.

After all, a mere month ago, Mina had made a deathbed promise to the Dowager Countess Grenfell, young Lord Fitzwilliam’s late godmother, that she would protect the boy’s life at all costs. No matter how. No matter what.

No matter how presently involved sneaking aboard Sir Bedivere’s newly acquired survey ship—a majestic, three-masted beast of a vessel, the Valiant—and rescuing the young viscount from an inherently dangerous situation.

Lady Grenfell had been convinced that the prophetic dream she’d had in the week before her death—that her godson would meet an untimely end in a frozen Arctic wasteland—was indeed correct.

Not only that, but she’d very much feared that the real reason behind Sir Bedivere’s callous disregard for his ward’s well-being, was that the baronet had been ensorcelled by a cursed family heirloom.

A silver and obsidian ring that had once belonged to the ill-fated King of England—a rumored Fae changeling—Charles I.

No doubt Lord Fitzwilliam—sweet boy that he was—was somewhere on board the Valiant, alone and afraid, shivering in his small kid boots.

Well, not for much longer, whispered Mina beneath her breath. She might not be Lord Fitzwilliam’s governess in an official capacity anymore—the high-handed Sir Bedivere had summarily dismissed her a fortnight ago for no discernible reason—but she must do what was morally right.

What she’d promised Lady Grenfell she would do.

“No matter what,” Mina whispered to herself. Even if the viscount’s godmother had been mistaken and Sir Bedivere’s ring wasn’t cursed and her dream had simply been a nightmare and not a genuine portent of impending doom, common sense dictated that the North Pole was no place for a child.

Ignoring the frantic tripping of her heart, and determinedly crushing down any second thoughts, Mina picked up the navy wool skirts of her Parasol Academy uniform, stepped out of the deep shadows of a quayside warehouse, then studied the steady stream of laden carts and passersby, looking for a clear path to Sir Bedivere Ponsonby’s ship.

The Valiant’s gangplank was still down, but she was almost ready to launch.

A waiting tugboat chugged away at the prow and there was a small crowd—including Sir Bedivere—gathered on the quarterdeck.

Although, as far as Mina could tell, there was no sign of little Lord Fitzwilliam. His fair head was nowhere to be seen.

She needed to make haste, but carefully.

Although Mina was invisible, it was always best to be cautious when employing the Cloakify spell.

Even an inadvertent collision might knock her umbrella and its protective shadow askew, exposing part of her person.

The unexpected appearance of a disembodied body part, or even an untoward billow of her bell-like skirts, would be sure to draw attention; attention that she could ill afford to attract.

Subterfuge, just like an immaculate uniform and perfectly professional demeanor, was paramount.

When Mina at last spied a relatively unobstructed gap in the crowd, she marched smartly across the quay heading straight for the Valiant.

She trusted that no one would detect the light tap of her heeled boots on the cobblestones.

Or her gasp, then muttered curse, when a sailor lugging an enormous sack almost ran into her.

Just sneak aboard, find Lord Fitzwilliam, hide him beneath your umbrella, then disembark.

Sir Bedivere will be so caught up in the hubbub of the Valiant’s launch, he won’t notice his ward is missing until it’s too late.

At least, that’s what Mina told herself as she swiftly scaled the gangplank—thanks to her Parasol Academy training, she had excellent balance—and gained the main deck of the ship without incident.

As she began to creep along the portside railing toward the fair-headed Sir Bedivere—all the while hoping to catch sight of her former charge—an inopportune wind swept across the deck, and for a few fraught moments, Mina fought against the bullying breeze, struggling to keep her umbrella in place.

Drat and darn! She did not need this.

Then, thank goodness, the wind abated with a gusty sigh, and Mina couldn’t help but breathe her own huge sigh of relief.

Sir Bedivere—he was quite the braggadocio—suddenly released a hearty laugh, catching Mina’s attention.

“Right-o, Captain,” he boomed, clapping the shoulder of a pewter-haired gentleman beside him.

In the afternoon sunlight, the baronet’s silver and obsidian ring flashed, momentarily blinding Mina.

“Let’s get this vessel underway! The Northwest Passage awaits! ”

Oh, double drat. Mina huffed out an exasperated sigh. There was no time to lose.

She hurried toward the quarterdeck, frantically scanning everywhere for a small fair-headed boy—but Lord Fitzwilliam was definitely not on deck.

He must be below. Unless Mina’s source of intelligence—Napier, the steadfast butler at Fitzwilliam House in London, an upstanding character who’d been loyal to Lady Grenfell—had been wrong about his young master’s whereabouts.

Though Napier had been right about the details of the Valiant’s imminent launch—her maiden expedition to the Arctic since Sir Bedivere had acquired her … with his ward’s money.

At that moment, the Valiant’s captain barked an order and the crew leapt into action—seamen unfurled the mainmast’s sails, unhitched the mooring ropes tethering the ship to the quay, then hauled up the gangplank.

When the tugboat sounded its horn, the Valiant creaked and shuddered and lurched and began moving ponderously along the River Avon, on its way to the river mouth and the Bristol Channel.

Well, now you’re definitely too late to beat a hasty retreat on foot. Mina curled her gloved fingers around the railing to help maintain her balance. All was not lost, though. She had other magical means, courtesy of her Parasol Academy training, at her disposal to effect an escape.

As long as she could find Lord Fitzwilliam and avoid detection. That was her priority.

But where could the boy be? Locked in the captain’s cabin or below deck in a cabin of his own or Sir Bedivere’s?

There was only one way to find out.

As the City of Bristol slid past, Mina turned her attention to the “lay of the land”—or perhaps she should say, the “shape of the ship”?

Unfortunately, her knowledge of all things nautical was rudimentary at best. A doorway bracketed by two sets of stairs leading up to the quarterdeck was directly ahead.

The captain’s cabin was usually at the stern of the ship not too far below deck—or so Mina thought—and the quarters for passengers and higher-ranking crew members wouldn’t be too far from that, surely.

Mina started forward, making a beeline for the door …

only to discover that there was no way on earth her umbrella was going to fit through such a narrow space, let alone the passageway—really a chute—with its ladder in lieu of stairs that led below.

It would be akin to stuffing a whole Victoria sponge into a mouse-sized mouth—physically impossible.

Why, her skirts would barely fit.

Glancing about the deck, Mina made sure no one was looking her way, and of course, that no one was lurking below the ladder, before she drew a deep breath and in one smooth maneuver, turned neatly and balanced on the topmost rung.

Then, she swiftly closed her umbrella, tucked it firmly beneath her arm, and gently drew the door closed.

Upon descending the ladder, she found herself in a low-ceilinged, shadowy passageway—deserted, thank goodness—that opened onto a relatively spacious cabin with a fine mahogany dining table, matching dresser, and several large chests. The officers’ and gentlemen’s mess perhaps?

So far, so good.

All she could hear—apart from the rapid tattoo of her own heart—was the creak of timbers, the susurration of waves, the muted calls of the crew above, and the occasional thud or clank or scrape.

Dare she try her luck and call out to Lord Fitzwilliam?

Surely most hands would “be on deck”—apart from those on duty in the galley.