Page 9 of Once a Courtesan (Once Wicked 2)

But the headmistress had slipped. Her nervousness after they’d encountered the two girls at the end of his tour told him their appearance had been an accident, a mistake. More would surely follow. All but the cleverest criminals made more than one blunder. She’d make another.

Touchy business sometimes, ferreting out the truth. In this particular case, he sensed it would take time. Time to gain the students’ trust and, hopefully, that of the other teachers. Once they grew accustomed to him, they’d relax their guard and loosen their tongues.

He’d be there waiting, listening.

Above all, he must appear nonthreatening. Being the only male in an all-female institution put him at a distinct disadvantage—at first, anyway. A chuckle rose in his throat as he began unpacking. If my sisters could see me now. How ironic it was to have fought so hard in his youth to assert his masculinity, only to have to resort to the survival tactics of childhood in order to cope now.

Already, he’d won over Mrs. Hayton—a dyed-in-the-wool spinster if ever he’d met one. It was unfortunate he couldn’t use her to gain further insight into the mysterious headmistress, but it would be dangerous to question her too much concerning her former tenant. It might get back to Trouvère, and that would be no good at all. The best he could hope for was that she’d drop some useful information now and again in conversation.

The distant tolling of bells from a church a few streets down was fortuitously timed with the emergence of his mantel clock. Synchronizing it, he realized it was nearly time for the evening meal. Removing and dusting off his worn jacket, he hung it in the wardrobe and donned something cleaner so as not to offend his hostess.

Hayton’s other tenants were already gathered in the downstairs parlor. There were two other gentlemen, one elderly and soft about the middle, the other young and thin as a walking stick, as well as one sour-faced, middle-aged woman. The lady wore no ring and looked as though she’d never danced in her life. She stood by the fire, glaring at the room’s other occupants, her back as rigid as a gallows pole, her hair tightly bound and covered by a lace cap. Her basilisk gaze settled on him, and the furrow between her brows deepened.

Mrs. Hayton swept in. “Miss Flanagan, you will come and meet Mr. Woodson, won’t you? Mr. Woodson, this is Miss Flanagan, my faithful friend and companion since we were…well, a long time. Miss Flanagan, this is Mr. Woodson, the gentleman who has taken the uppermost suite. He’s accepted a position as a teacher of mathematics at Madame Trouvère’s school.”

He bowed before the stern-faced lady. “A pleasure, madame.”

“Likewise, sir,” the spinster replied stiffly.

Awkward silence fell. Forcing a smile, he broke it. “Are you acquainted with Madame Trouvère?”

Her chilly gray stare flicked up to impale him. “I am.”

At a loss, he forged on. “Everyone I’ve met who knows the lady seems to think highly of her.”

“As they should. She’s kind and generous.” Miss Flanagan cocked her head to the side. “Tell me, sir, what made you apply for a position at her school?”

One good sniff was all it took to smell the rat in the room. “Until recently, I was employed by Lord Mulgrave as schoolmaster for his children, and now the youngest son and daughter—twins—have gone. Young Master John is away at Eton now, and Lady Julia to finishing school. I was no longer needed. When the advertisement remained in the paper for so long, I took it as a sign.”

Slowly, she nodded, her sharp eyes still assessing him. “Not many men would be bold enough to apply when a preference for female applicants is indicated. I’m surprised she accepted you.”

As am I, madame spy. Looking down, he affected an embarrassed laugh. “Madame, of the eight children born to my parents, I’m the only male and the youngest of the brood. In addition, having taught Lord Mulgrave’s older daughters for a number of years, I feel well-qualified. Evidently, the lady thinks so, too.”

Mrs. Hayton gave her companion a quelling look. “If she welcomes you, then so do we.” Her cheer returned as she clasped her hands against her

ample bosom. “Heavens, but seven sisters! I’m an only child—Mama was too ill after my birth to give me any siblings, God rest her soul. But I have Miss Flanagan,” she said, favoring her companion with a syrupy smile. “After six years at my side, she’s quite the sister to me.”

The corners of Miss Flanagan’s mouth lifted a little and her cheeks pinked with pleasure at the compliment, transforming her arctic expression to one of surprising warmth. “You are too kind, Eleanor.” When she turned to him, her manner was a tiny bit less frigid. “Welcome to Hayton House, Mr. Woodson.”

Taking leave of the ladies, Will approached the two gentlemen. The elder looked up and scowled. “Another bookworm has been added to our company, I see,” he growled rudely, glancing up at his companion. “That should please you, Mr. Sharpton.”

The younger man stepped forward and addressed him with good cheer. “Don’t mind him, he’s just out of sorts because Mrs. Hayton selected you rather than the other fellow.” He lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper, clearly believing the other man incapable of hearing. “That one was even older than him. I doubt the poor fellow could have trod the stairs more than twice a day, if that.”

Will took his eagerly outstretched hand, hard put not to return his conspirator’s grin. “While I pity the fellow his infirmity, I’m exceedingly grateful to have benefited by his loss,” he whispered back. “This house is but a short walk to my new place of employment. William Woodson, at your service.”

“Lionel Sharpton,” replied the other man. He gestured to their elderly companion. “And this is Mr. Watlow.”

Will offered his hand and was surprised when the old fellow snorted and looked away.

“Forgive him, Mr. Woodson,” whispered Sharpton with an apologetic smile. “He’s really not a bad sort once you get to know him. It was a fortnight before he spoke to me with any civility, and now we’re fast friends.”

Mrs. Hayton summoned them all to the dinner table, where she sat at the head and Mr. Watlow sat opposite at the foot. Will was seated on her right with Sharpton as his tablemate, and Miss Flanagan sat to her left, facing them.

Conversation revealed that Sharpton, who lived on the floor just below him, was the proprietor of a small bookshop a few streets away. “I prefer living here rather than above the shop,” said he. “Too noisy at night there. I let the rooms to the young man who helps me run the store.” He shook his head and smiled. “This is the perfect house for one who prefers quiet living. As I understand it, you’ve taken the teaching position at Madame Trouvère’s school.”

“I have. Are you acquainted with her?”

Sharpton’s eyes took on a telltale glow. “Indeed. A singularly intelligent woman, Madame Trouvère. I’ve enjoyed each of her visits, though they’ve been all too rare since the school has grown more popular. The lady is always so well-informed concerning whatever subject matter on which she speaks. A good sport, too. Enjoys all manner of parlor games, including chess. The last time we played she actually won, and that is saying something, for I consider myself a better than fair player. You don’t play, do you?”

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