Chapter 26
In Which Another Invitation Arrives; And Mysterious Ways, Waltzing, and Flying Figs Are Featured …
When Mina arrived back at Kinsale House, it was to discover that her presence was required by the marquess after all. But not in the way she’d expected.
When she entered her bedroom at a quarter past six, she found a piece of parchment pushed beneath her door. In fact, it was the Marquess of Kinsale’s personal stationery. And written on that stationery was the following:
Miss Hermina Davenport,
The Marquess of Kinsale cordially invites you to a soirée.
Where: The Kinsale House ballroom
Dress: Your favorite gown (Though, I’m rather hoping it isn’t your Parasol Academy uniform.)
Time: 7:00 p.m. sharp
RSVP: Not required, but I do hope you will attend.
Yours faithfully,
Kinsale
A soirée?
What on earth did Lord Kinsale mean by that?
Mina worried at her lower lip, even as her heart did an excited little jig. Perhaps … perhaps the marquess wanted to practice speaking without stammering in front of a larger audience than just one unremarkable governess.
But then, why ask her to attend at all? Of course, he might simply need a friendly face in the crowd.
Odd though, that she hadn’t observed an increased level of activity when she’d arrived back at the house.
There weren’t servants or footmen rushing about in a mad flap, ensuring that everything was extra neat and tidy.
She hadn’t noticed any extravagant flower arrangements or other decorations in the entry hall or musicians arriving to provide entertainment.
But then, it might only be a small affair.
A “welcome back to London” dinner perhaps, for the Duke and Duchess of St Lawrence? Surely Emmeline would have said something though.
It was all quite a mystery.
As for gowns—favorite or otherwise—that weren’t Parasol Academy issued … Mina frowned as she sorted through the meager contents of her wardrobe. She had three dresses to choose from, and to be perfectly frank, they were all rather ordinary except for one.
It was a very pretty, entirely frivolous gown of pale lemon silk covered in a pattern of tiny pink roses and spring-green leaves.
Frothy white lace adorned the en coeur neckline and cascaded from the three-quarter-length sleeves—it was the sort of dress one might wear to a country dance or perhaps even an afternoon tea with a duchess.
Mina’s mother and sister had made it for her—it must have been a labor of love considering the voluminous skirts and the intricate needlework.
Mina had worn it but once—to Emmeline and Xavier’s wedding in fact, and it seemed a shame not to wear it again.
And if there were any guests at Lord Kinsale’s soiree who’d also been in attendance at the Duke and Duchess of St Lawrence’s wedding, so be it.
Mina wasn’t wealthy and it was the best she could do at short notice.
Although, it was fortuitous that Emmeline’s lady’s maid had expertly arranged Mina’s hair into a becoming coiled braid at the back of her head while her face was tastefully framed by two small bunches of ringlets.
It wasn’t Mina’s usual “look” by any means—and certainly not “regulation” as per the Parasol Academy Handbook’s uniform guidelines.
But the style was eye-catching all the same and Mina thought it rather fetching.
It didn’t take her too long to attend to her toilette and change into her lemon-and-rose-patterned gown and matching silk pumps.
But when Mina looked at herself in the looking glass above her dressing table, her cheeks turned a bright shade of pink.
She’d forgotten how much of her flesh was displayed by the heart-shaped neckline.
Her shoulders were exposed and so was her ample cleavage.
(Good heavens, sometimes she really did wish that her breasts weren’t quite so … so plump.)
Perhaps she should wear a shawl. And then Mina looked herself in the eye and told herself to stop being such a prudish miss.
Her mother had had a hand in creating this gown and she was as conservative as could be.
(Although, she was the one who’d reminded Mina about Jane Eyre when they’d been discussing Lord Kinsale’s marital status.)
Pushing all thoughts of governesses who married their employers to the very back of the broom cupboard in her mind (where they belonged), Mina dabbed a tiny bit of rose-and-jasmine-scented eau de cologne behind her ears and on her wrists (because one ought to smell nice when attending a soirée).
When she glanced at the mantel clock, it was ten minutes to seven.
What to do, what to do for ten minutes?
Mina crossed to her bedside table and retrieved The Governess’s Guide to Fluent Speech Instruction from the top drawer.
Perhaps she could have a quick look through the section on “Exercises for Reducing Tension in the Oral Musculature.” Because surely there wouldn’t be anything about kissing as being a legitimate “exercise” to promote stammer-free speech.
But there was!
There really was!
Mina’s mouth dropped open as she read: Exercises that involve light lip pursing or puckering, or even soft sucking movements and gentle tongue thrusting—such as mouth-to-mouth kissing between consenting adults—may prove useful for some individuals who stammer.
While positive results—that is, reduced moments of stuttered speech—may be quite marked initially, the effect might only be temporary.
Nevertheless, it is a therapeutic technique worth trying (especially since such an activity is undoubtedly pleasurable.
Any activity that cultivates feelings of well-being should never be dismissed).
Mina had been through this guidebook from cover to cover—pored over its pages, in fact, as she’d devised novel treatment sessions to help Lord Kinsale manage his stammering—and she was absolutely certain that she’d never read this piece of advice until now.
It was almost as though the guidebook was giving her permission to kiss Lord Kinsale.
It was, without a doubt, an astonishing turnup for the books. Or in this particular case, a guidebook that had magically turned up in the pocket of her governess’s uniform.
When Mina quit her bedroom a short time later, she’d decided that if the marquess wanted to kiss her again, she had a perfectly legitimate reason to say yes.
Who was she to question any advice provided by the Fae? Perhaps Emmeline was right and they did move in mysterious ways.
“She’s on ’er way, milord,” Tom whispered dramatically over his shoulder to Phinn. “She’s almost at the bottom of the stairs.” The boy was filling the role of lookout, peering out a narrow crack between the ballroom doors into the hallway beyond.
Phinn gave a nod. “Thank you, lad,” and then Tom scampered across the polished floor to join him and Christopher and Brutus beneath the gas chandelier in the center of the dance floor.
Was it stuffy in the ballroom? Or was he just overthinking things? Sweet Jaysus, Phinn prayed he hadn’t started to sweat.
He ran a finger around the inside of his stiffly starched collar, then tugged at the cuffs of his snugly fitting evening jacket of fine black wool that his new tailor—the one recommended by Frobisher—had recently created for him.
His entire body—every muscle, every tendon—was taut with nervous energy while his blood thrummed with sweet anticipation.
He’d engineered this “soiree” tonight for several reasons. He wanted Tom and Christopher to attend an occasion akin to a family dinner, to make them both feel truly welcome and at home at Kinsale House.
He wanted to waltz with Miss Davenport—or at least try to waltz. Feck, he’d be happy to shuffle about the floor with the woman.
Most of all, he wanted to spoil the governess. To make her feel valued. To show her how much he appreciated all the wonderful things she’d done for him and for Tom. And for being a wonderful mother to Christopher.
In honor of the occasion, Christopher and Tom had both donned their best clothes—white cambric shirts and neckties, silk waistcoats and velvet jackets, knickerbocker trousers, fine wool stockings, and polished patent leather shoes.
At Phinn’s suggestion, Frobisher had trimmed Tom’s shaggy mane of sandy hair into something approaching respectable.
The boy had been reluctant to undergo a haircut at first, but he eventually agreed when Christopher admitted he’d recently had one and he now much preferred shorter locks.
Even Brutus had allowed one of the footmen to bathe him and dress him up for the evening. He sat at Phinn’s feet, sporting a sky-blue bow around his stocky neck—Frobisher had agreed to sacrifice one of Phinn’s neckties to the cause.
“Right, everyone. Are … are we ready?” murmured Phinn. The boys nodded, Brutus wagged his curly tail, and Frobisher, who sat at the pianoforte—Phinn had recently learned that the valet was quite the pianist—placed his fingers on the keys, ready to play.
And then a moment later, the two attendant footmen swung the doors wide and Miss Davenport appeared.
She hovered on the threshold, suspended in perfect stillness for a second or two.
Then her hands flew to her glowing cheeks as she released a surprised gasp.
Her bright hazel gaze danced over the ballroom that had been transformed into something that Phinn imagined might resemble a fairy bower. At least, that had been his intention.
His punching bag and any other exercise paraphernalia had been removed.
Instead, hothouse flowers spilled from enormous vases that graced the tops of marble pedestals placed at regular intervals around the room.
The window pelmets and crystal chandelier were festooned with ivy and fragrant roses and blooms Phinn really didn’t know the name of.