To Distraction (Bastion Club 5)

“Three under five years old, and another on the way?” Emmeline nodded direfully. “She’ll certainly need more help than just a nurse, or even two.”

“The position certainly sounds perfect for Miss Spry.” Phoebe glanced at Loftus. “Are they actively searching for a governess?”

Loftus smiled, a trifle smug. “They hadn’t thought of it, but they’re thinking of it now. I mentioned the Athena Agency—I fancy you’ll hear from Mrs. Follingworth within the week.”

Phoebe tilted her head, fingertips tapping, eyes bright. “Bloomsbury, and a family with no connections to the Chifleys, indeed moving in quite different circles. That should be safe enough, provided we hide any mention of Constance’s recent employment.”

Emmeline rifled through a stack of papers, consulted one, then shook her head. “We’ll have to get her a reference to cover it. The date’s on her one before that, wishing her well for her new position, what’s more, so we can’t hide the gap.”

“So we need a forged reference.” Phoebe grimaced. “You can’t—you’ve done too many recently.”

“And you can’t,” Emmeline returned, “for the same reason.” She looked at Phoebe. “So now what? We can’t get Constance to write one herself.”

A silence fell. Loftus broke it, clearing his throat. “I daresay I could write one—pretend it was from a Mrs. Loftus.”

Phoebe and Emmeline just looked at him.

“No—you can’t.” Deverell met Loftus’s eyes. “Nor can I.” He smiled. “Wrong sort of hand.”

Phoebe nodded. “Thank you, Loftus, but Deverell’s right—it has to be a lady’s hand.” She frowned. “I can’t ask Edith—”

The bell over the front door tinkled. They heard Birtles, minding the counter, say, “Good afternoon, ladies. Can I assist you?”

A soft shushing of skirts brushing the floor was followed by the sound of the door closing. Emmeline pushed back her chair and rose.

“Actually, I was wondering if my niece was here—Miss Malleson?”

Widening, Phoebe’s eyes flew to Deverell’s.

“And I believe my nephew might be here, too—Deverell. You might know him as Paignton.”

There was no doubting Audrey’s extremely well bred accents any more than Edith’s softer tones.

“Sounds like an invasion.” Deverell pushed back his chair and rose.

Phoebe muttered something unintelligible and followed him as he headed down the corridor to the front room.

“Ah—there you are!” Audrey saw them first. She was wielding an ornate lorgnette, an appropriate final touch to her costume. Draped in silks of various gold and green hues, a brassy satin turban fixed with an oval of pearls swathing her head, she was currently affecting the Egyptian style.

Deverell nodded. “Aunt.” He bowed to Edith, expression mild. “To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?”

Phoebe jabbed him in the back—as much, he suspected, for his languid drawl as his words—as she pushed past him. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no, dear.” Edith was looking about her curiously, taking in the desk and chairs, the boxes on the shelf, the counter. “We just, well, we wanted to see…”

Audrey snorted. “We decided if Deverell could visit you here, then we could, too. We’ve been assisting you much longer than he has.”

Deverell managed to swallow his laugh, but knew it showed in his eyes as he met Phoebe’s, still mystified.

Edith patted her hand. “I decided it really was time I knew, dear—especially after whoever it was knocked poor Fergus on the head. I was really quite bothered, and it never does for a lady not to know what’s going on in her own household. Or even pretend not to know.”

Emmeline had hung back at the mouth of the corridor. Seeing her, Edith smiled. “And who’s this?”

A trifle stunned, Emmeline hurriedly bobbed a curtsy. “Mrs. Emmeline Birtles, ma’am.”

“Hmm—you’re familiar.” Wielding her lorgnette, Audrey studied Emmeline. “Now where…” Suddenly Audrey’s magnified eyes widened; she let the lorgnette fall. “Great heavens! You’re that missing companion—what was the name?—Miss Ponsonby, that’s it. You went missing from Lady McAllister’s summer house party….” Audrey frowned. “But that was years and y

ears ago.”