Page 74 of A Governess Should Never… Tempt a Prizefighter (The Governess Chronicles 1)

Chapter Eighteen

“One reading lesson of poetry in the week is surely enough for children.”

Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.

Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.

Matilda glanced to the left, then to the right as she took Seth’s hand to alight the carriage.

Beneath the grey clouds brushing the rooftops, this Marylebone street of their literary hostess heaved with noise and folk – bellowing hawkers with sweet buns aplenty, lads waving the latest song sheets, ladies scowling as they yanked their hems from the road sweeper’s broom, and straight-backed gentlemen upon elegant steeds bobbing past.

This parish encompassed every class from lower gentry to higher courtesan and all walks in between.

As Seth gave instructions to a groom from the mews, she spied the approach of a familiar rangy figure.

Mr Kian Finlay.

During dinner last night, Seth had revealed that for all Mr Finlay’s unrufflable nature and roguish winks, a sadness lurked, eternally in grief for his beloved wife, how he’d never so much as looked at another woman with either intrigue or lust.

Rather a shame for females of the species, as Matilda thought him such an agreeable man.

“What a pleasure, Mr Finlay,” she called over the incessant din of hammers, shouts and whistles from a building with no roof. He swished towards her in a voluminous greatcoat of deepest black and, as at the prizefight, a sharp ebony feather was tucked in his hatband – what peculiar plumage. “But what are you doing here? Have you a fancy for Shakespeare also?”

Mr Finlay’s soulful eyes creased as he chuckled. “Good afternoon, Miss Griffin. I’m not averse to a play but reading’s not my passion. I’m here as a…precaution.”

“Oh. How thoughtful. Well, I am grateful. Although I’m sure it won’t be necessary. Are you well versed in walloping also?”

“Och, not at all, but I make do with a few wee bits and pieces should the need arise.” He unbuttoned his capacious greatcoat and tugged, revealing one side to her gaze.

A cornucopia of knives and silvered objects confronted her. She blinked. Small and sharp, large and sharper, all attached to the interior of his coat with little sewn-on hooks.

“Gosh, Mr Finlay, and I thought you such an agreeable man.”

“Yer should see what I’ve got tucked in the other side.”

“I’d imagine you have to walk rather gingerly.”

A grin and he tipped his hat. “Yer a fine lass, Miss Griffin.”

“Kian!” barked Seth, tapping cane to cobbles. “Stop dallying with my governess and take care up there. We’ll see you in…” He twisted to Matilda. “Two hours?”

“Usually, yes,” she replied. “Though we can go on a bit. Where will you be, Mr Finlay?”

“The roof.” And he winked before striding off, the three capes of his greatcoat lifting in the breeze.

The roof?Matilda frowned and turned. “Is that a cant expression?”

“No. He’ll be keeping an eye out for anything untoward from the rooftops.” Seth slipped a hand to her waist as they crossed the road. “As a lad, Kian was a sweep and is happier up there clambering amongst the chimney pots than down here in the streets. I keep telling him he’s no longer a fledgling and he’ll fall if he doesn’t take care…” His brow puckered as they stepped to the pavement. “But I worry he truly doesn’t care some days. That’s the problem.”

Matilda patted his arm, the most propriety allowed in a hectic Marylebone thoroughfare, and they paused outside No. 16. A brick terraced house, it had wrought-iron railings with the latest gaslights and four stone steps led to a blue-painted door.

The three o’clock stagecoach turned into the street, mud splattering and horns blaring, and so with all haste, they hurried up the steps and rattled the brass door knocker.

* * *

On occasion,Seth had felt envious picturing the swells and their salons – places of literature and learning, with like-minded souls quoting poetry to each other, laughing in accordance upon luxurious chaises of silk.

And he’d been right to be envious because this literary event was splendid, those chaises of silk strewn with vibrant cushions, manuscripts and pallid poets. A table in the corner held a cornucopia of food – pigeon pie, lobster patties and sweetbreads, with every type of liquor at hand. The poets gulped absinthe, the women sipped champagne and all before the chime of four.

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