Chapter 17 #2
When Mina cast the marquess a skeptical look—because really, how could a former boxer who purported not to read much at all, know about such things?
—he added, “My sis-sister liked Jane Austen’s novels too.
After I began prize-prize-fightin’ and had a bit o’ a wee windfall one time, I bought her a subscription at one of the cir-circulatin’ libraries in Dublin for her birthday.
She could nev-never stop ravin’ about how delicious someone n-n-named Mr. Darcy was.
Tell me, Miss Dav-Davenport”—Lord Kinsale lowered his voice so perhaps only she could hear him—“are you … are you a romantic at heart? It sounds like you m-m-might be.”
Mina paused in her perusal of the titles on display and considered the question. Heavens, how to respond? “I suppose I … I simply like happy endings,” she said, meeting Lord Kinsale’s gaze directly.
His beautiful green eyes glowed softly with a smile. “Well, I can’t … I can’t say that I blame you.”
At that moment, there was a yelp then a howl of pain behind Mina.
Spinning around, she discovered Tom was leaping about, waving one arm wildly, squawking like his trousers were on fire.
“Get it off! Get it off!” he screeched. A white-faced Christopher was huddled against the bookcase while several other customers sent disapproving looks Tom’s way.
Get it off? It was then that Mina spied what the problem was. Several of Tom’s fingers were caught in a mousetrap.
A mousetrap? What on—?
Lord Kinsale, registering the cause of Tom’s distress too, took action. Stepping forward, he caught the boy’s arm with one large hand, then swiftly prized the snap trap off the boy’s fingers with the other.
“Ow, ow, ow!” cried Tom. As he massaged his abused fingers, he threw a baleful look at Mina. “’Oo the ’ell keeps a bleedin’ mousetrap in their blinkin’ pocket?”
Oh … Mina suddenly knew what had happened.
While she regretted that Tom was hurt—she didn’t like seeing him so upset and in pain—she suspected that he’d just learned something very valuable: One should never try to pick the pocket of a Parasol Academy governess.
Much like a snapping turtle, uniform pockets could bite back to protect their magical contents.
Mina reached into her pocket and found that it had produced a small pot of ointment and a length of linen bandage, almost as though it was trying to make amends for injuring the child. “Here, Tom. I could bind them—”
But the boy shook his head and backed away. “I don’t fink so, miss.”
Christopher placed a hand on Tom’s arm. “It’s all right. You can trust Miss Davenport. She’s only trying to help.”
Guilt pinched Mina’s heart. “I’m sorry your fingers got injured, Tom,” she said softly. “But picking my pocket wasn’t a very good idea.”
Tom pouted. “I just wanted to filch a few coins so I could buy some sweets for Christopher.”
“Ah, Tom, lad. That’s not … That’s not the way to go about things,” said Lord Kinsale, his expression grave. “Re-remember I said that we’d visit the sweet shop after we were fin-finished here?”
“You did,” said Tom. “But grown-ups often say fings they don’t mean.”
It was clear to Mina that Tom was naturally wary after living on the streets for so long.
And even though he’d tried to steal from her, it was important to try and build his trust. She would extend an olive branch.
“We’ll still go to the sweet store,” she said.
“But after we’ve concluded our business here.
I understand that you might not particularly enjoy looking at books, Tom.
But I’m a governess and I need books in order to help you and Christopher learn. ”
“I like books,” said Christopher brightly. “And I think I can see one of my favorites, just over there.” He pointed to another bookcase a little farther back in the store. “It’s called Little Downy: or, the History of a Field Mouse. It even has pictures. Do you want to take a look, Tom?”
Tom gave a little shudder. “As long as there’s no bleedin’ mousetraps in it,” he said, and Mina tried very hard not to laugh.
“Oh dear,” she said as the boys moved away. “That was rather a lot to deal with.”
“I think you d-d-dealt with the situation re-remarkably well,” said Lord Kinsale.
Mina permitted herself a small smile. “Thank you, my lord.”
“Although …” the marquess added. His expression had grown curious. “I, for one, would … would like to know why you had a mouse-mousetrap in your pocket in the first place. Did you su-suspect Tom might try to pick your p-p-pocket?”
“Ah, no. Not quite,” said Mina. Of course, she’d had nothing at all to do with the mousetrap materializing in her pocket.
It was Fae magic, and Parasol Academy uniform pockets just happened to produce whatever was needed no matter the situation.
But she couldn’t very well tell Lord Kinsale that.
She’d have to come up with a tiny white lie.
Which was permissible to protect the Academy’s secrets.
“I … earlier this morning, I er … I found evidence of a mouse in the schoolroom, so I asked Mrs. Aldershot if there might be a spare mousetrap somewhere. She er … she gave it to me just before we left to go on our book-buying excursion and I put it in my pocket.” She shrugged a shoulder. “Tom was just unlucky.”
“It w-w-would seem that young Tom has learned an im-important life lesson,” returned Lord Kinsale with a grin. “Whatever you do, do not muck about with a Parasol gov-governess.”
Mina smiled back. “Very true,” she said. A sharp yip from outside—it sounded like Brutus—suddenly drew Mina’s attention toward one of Hatchards’s wide front windows. And then she nearly expired on the spot because there, outside on the pavement, was Sir Bedivere Ponsonby.
Oh God! Christopher’s guardian was back in London?
As the golden-haired baronet peered through the store’s windowpane at the books on display, he stroked his sleek mustache and goatee beard. The silver and obsidian ring on his finger flashed in the sunlight, seeming to wink at Mina. Ice-cold dread speared through her and her breath froze.
At least Christopher was presently shielded by a bookcase, but what if Sir Bedivere noticed her? He’d be sure to come inside and demand to know if she knew the whereabouts of his ward.
Damn and blast and buggeration! (Not words she would usually use but they seemed entirely appropriate for the present situation.) Mina hadn’t brought an umbrella or parasol with her, so testing out the Point-of-Confusion on him wasn’t an option.
And of course, she couldn’t very well put up her umbrella or parasol and employ a Cloakify spell in the middle of Hatchards anyway.
Or use the Glamify spell for that matter, even if the potion bottle magically materialized in her pocket.
A befuddling potion might work at a pinch.
Or violence. A swift kick to the baronet’s nether regions would disable him long enough to make a getaway with Christopher. But that would create a scene. And there were children present. And Lord Kinsale would be sure to ask questions she didn’t want to answer.
All these thoughts raced like quicksilver through Mina’s head in a matter of seconds. She had to do something, anything, before Sir Bedivere did see her.
There was nothing for it. Mina seized upon the only sensible course of action open to her. She’d hide. Duck down. “Excuse me, my lord,” she said in a breathless rush. “I need to tie my bootlace.”
In one swift movement, she dropped to one knee, lurched forward as she reached for her half boot … and then the very top of her head, coal-scuttle bonnet and all, accidentally smashed into Lord Kinsale’s crotch. Hard.
“Feck. Me,” wheezed the marquess, stumbling backward a few paces. He’d folded at the waist and was clutching his groin with two gloved hands. And then he toppled like a felled tree, crashing into a nearby elegant oval table stacked with a neat book display.
Oh no! The table went over along with Lord Kinsale. Books went flying and a woman shrieked.
Mina hurriedly tugged off her crumpled bonnet then scrambled on hands and knees over to the marquess.
“Oh my God. I’m so, so sorry,” she cried, hands hovering about the man’s shoulders.
She wanted to pat him, offer comfort, but didn’t think it would be well received, considering she’d just grievously injured the poor man.
She was also highly conscious of the fact that Sir Bedivere might have heard the commotion and had come into the store to investigate.
She prayed that he hadn’t. Glancing at the small crowd of half a dozen or so customers who’d already gathered, she couldn’t see the blond baronet. Not yet at any rate.
Christopher and Tom had joined them. “What’s happened to Lord Kinsale?” asked Christopher.
Tom was chuckling. “Miss Davenport head-butted him in the goolies.”
“Goolies?” repeated Christopher, clearly confused.
“You know, the cods, knacker bag, stones, nuts, meat and two veg. The bollocks.”
“Oh,” said Christopher, wincing. “Ouch.”
Ouch indeed. Mina prayed she hadn’t done her employer any permanent damage. (Unlike her bonnet. Now that was completely ruined.)
“Here, what’s going on, you lot?” The proprietor of Hatchards had appeared and he was none too happy. A fierce frown was deeply etched into his brow and his mouth was set in a poker-straight line. “I ought to call the police!”
Mina rose to her feet. “Sir, my sincerest apologies for creating a fuss. But my employer, the Marquess of Kinsale, just fainted. Rather than threatening to call the police, perhaps you could offer assistance? Offer his lordship a glass of water and a quiet place to sit until he’s recovered his equilibrium? ”
The man’s eyebrows shot up toward his thinning gray hair. “Marquess of Kinsale, you say?”
“Aye.” Lord Kinsale had managed to sit up. His face, which had turned an alarming shade of red when he’d first been hit, was now paler than milk. “I am Lord Kin-Kinsale.”
“Oh … Oh, my apologies, my lord.” The man flapped his hands. “I had no idea. Please. Come and sit in my office. I can have someone bring a pot of tea. I might even have some brandy—”
“No. Its-it’s all right,” said Lord Kinsale.
He pushed to his feet and Mina handed him his top hat, which had gone flying too.
“Thank you,” he said, running a hand through his tousled dark locks before redonning his hat.
(Ugh, why did this man look so good with messy hair? Whereas Mina just looked unkempt.)
“Are you sure you are all right? Can you walk?” she murmured, daring to touch his forearm. He looked down at her hand, then covered it with his own.
“I … I am.” His mouth inched into a weak smile. “I’m in the w-w-wars today, aren’t I?” he said. “You might want to give me f-f-fair warn-warnin’ next time you need to tie your laces though. Give-give a man a chance to step b-b-back first.”
Mina scrunched up her nose. “You have no idea how sorry I am, my lord,” she said. “I-I don’t know what I was thinking. That’s no excuse of course. If there’s anything I can do to make it up to you …”
“Oh, I’m sure I’ll think of some-something,” he said in a low, velvet-soft voice meant only for her.
Heat flared in Mina’s cheeks. Surely he didn’t mean—
“I know,” he declared. “You must pick out a stack of your fa-favorite novels and perhaps even a book of po-poetry or two, and that’s what I’ll start recitin’ this evenin’.”
“All right,” said Mina. “That sounds like a wonderful idea.” The coast appeared to be clear.
She hadn’t spotted Sir Bedivere in the store and he wasn’t outside anymore.
Perhaps he’d been in the area for a reason that had nothing to do with book browsing.
White’s and Boodle’s were practically around the corner.
It just meant she’d have to take extra care when out and about town. At least until the baronet decided to quit London and head off on another exploratory venture.
Hopefully that wouldn’t be too long.