Emma was halfway through a terrified apology before she realized that the question had not been directed at her. The bellow had come from behind a closed door a few steps down the hall, and she could now make out the sound of a softer voice answering. Cautiously, Emma approached the door and bent her head to listen.
“No, you may bloody well not tidy up my blasted room, and if I catch you dusting under the beds in the nursery one more time, I’ll tear your arm off and beat you with the bloody stump! Have I made myself clear?”
Emma flattened herself against the wall as the door flew open and a dark-haired, frail-looking little boy scooted out. He was pursued by a woman who was at least as old as Crowley, a head taller than Emma, and built like a Sherman tank. Her short white hair was tightly curled and trailing multicolored bits of thread. Snippets of bright-red yarn were scattered over her tweed skirt and twin set, a pincushion bristled on her wrist, and a tape measure dangled around her neck. The woman pointed a pair of pinking shears at the boy and bellowed, “Scat!”
The boy stood his ground. He was as neat as a pin, in navy-blue shorts and knee socks, a white polo shirt, and running shoes, and he regarded his formidable adversary with a look of nervous defiance.
“What about our lessons?” the boy demanded.
The hand pointing the pinking shears dropped to the woman’s side. “Lessons?” She scratched her head, sending a shower of thread to the floor. “You had some yesterday, didn’t you?”
“We’re supposed to have them every day, Nanny Cole,” the boy said doggedly.
“Every day? How in God’s name am I supposed to finish Lady Nell’s ball gown if I have to see to your dratted lessons every day? I want you outside, right now, quickstep march, and none of your cheek. Fresh air and sunshine are your lessons for the day, Peter-my-lad. Now, march!”
Scowling, the boy turned to go, but paused as he caught sight of Emma. His dark eyes narrowed for a moment; then he tucked his chin to his chest and stalked off down the hall without a backward glance. Emma cowered against the wall as Nanny Cole’s belligerent gaze came to rest on her.
“Who the hell are you?” Nanny Cole barked. She thrust her face toward Emma’s. “Not lurking, are you? Not snooping, like that underbred sack of bones?”
“No,” Emma said hastily. “I’m Emma Porter and I was—”
“Ah.” Nanny Cole straightened, put a finger to her lips, and nodded. “The garden lady from the States. Should’ve guessed. You have that look about you. Solid. Close to the earth.” Rocking back on her heels, Nanny Cole bellowed, “Turn round, turn round, let’s have a look at you. Haven’t got all day.”
Bewildered, but not daring to disobey, Emma turned a slow circle in the hall while Nanny Cole whipped a gold pen out of her pocket and began jotting something on the inside of her wrist.
“Mmm,” muttered Nanny Cole. “Full figure, strong chin, fine head of hair. Eyes ... gray? Yes. All right. That’ll do. You can go now.”
“Er—” Emma began.
“Good Lord, woman, get a grip. I can’t spend all bloody morning standing in doorways.”
“I was trying to get to the chapel garden and—”
“The chapel garden? What would the chapel garden be doing up here?”
“It’s all right, Nanny Cole. I’ll take her.”
A little girl stepped out from behind Nanny Cole. She wore a short, fluttery pleated skirt and a white middy blouse trimmed in pale blue. In one arm she cradled a small chocolate-brown teddy bear in its own sailor suit, complete with bell-bottom trousers and a round, beribboned cap. In her free hand she held a plump, juicy strawberry.
“Good girl, Lady Nell,” said Nanny Cole. “But mind how you go in that outfit. Took me all night to finish those dratted pleats. What a bloody way to start the day ...” Still grumbling, Nanny Cole slammed the door.
As Lady Nell raised the strawberry to her lips, Emma wondered why the duke hadn’t mentioned having a daughter. She was a pretty child, with pink cheeks, a cupid’s-bow mouth, and a halo of loose golden ringlets. She might have been insipid had she been less self-possessed, but she carried herself with the dignity of a prima ballerina, and her limpid blue eyes gave Emma the uncanny sensation that a far older and wiser woman was looking out of them, taking her measure.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” Nell declared.
“Have you?” Emma responded, surprised.
“Aunt Dimity said you’d come, but we didn’t expect to wait such a long time. I’ll be six in September, and Peter’s very tired,” Nell stated firmly.
“I’m sorry, Lady Nell.” Emma wondered if she should curtsy. “I’m afraid I don’t know your aunt, and Grayson—that is, your father—must have forgotten to tell me.”