Susan snorted and handed back the letter. “I must say, Eugenia, sometimes I think you’re as old as the hills, and the next moment, you’re as naïve as a cloistered nun.”
Eugenia skimmed the letter again. “There’s nothing salacious here, other than that improper postscript about my given name.” If her stepmother were in London, she could show it to her. But Harriet was in the country and although Eugenia often intended to visit, she hadn’t managed it in . . . a year? More than a year.
Luckily, her darling papa and Harriet often came to London to see her, dragging children and dogs with them.
Somehow, in the last few years, Eugenia’s world had both expanded and contracted. Expanded, because most of the female side of the ton trooped through her registry, and contracted because she rarely had time to attend balls or parties.
She spent every day in her office with Susan, meeting parents in an often fruitless attempt to determine whether they were sane before she committed one of her employees to their household.
“Do you suppose that Mr. Reeve can possibly believe that I might engage in an affaire with him?”
Susan crowed with laughter. “Don’t you think it’s more likely that he’s wooing you? After all, he doesn’t know that the woman with the most irreproachable reputation in all London has been contemplating a turn toward sin.”
“Sin?”
“Deliciously wicked propinquity with a gentleman of your choice,” Susan amended.
“He knows nothing about my reputation,” Eugenia said. “As a matter of fact, he hasn’t the faintest idea who I am. He’s never been to Almack’s. He thinks I’m a former governess, one who runs a registry office for the benefit of my fellow workers.”
Susan began giggling madly. “You? A governess? That’s absurd!”
“I could have been a governess under different circumstances,” Eugenia protested.
It was shocking to imagine that big, beautiful man writing her a letter. Not that she wanted any man to write her a letter. She had Andrew—the memory of dear Andrew—that was enough.
She looked over the sheet again. “I honestly don’t see anything indecent, other than that odd remark about my name.”
“You can take my word for it: if Mr. Reeve is not thinking of you in a marital light, then his letter is a prelude to an attempted seduction.”
Eugenia couldn’t stop herself from smiling, so she raised her glass and swallowed the last drops of sherry. It rolled over her tongue, tasting first of apples and then salty, as if splashed with seawater. “Do you think I should consider it?”
“Why not?” Susan got up and fetched the decanter. She refilled Eugenia’s glass and her own. “I would, if I liked that sort of man.”
“What sort is that?”
“Broad chest . . . too broad, really,” Susan mused. “One of those brawny types. He could probably pick even me up and carry me to bed. And there’s his hair. I prefer a more well-groomed man.”
“Really? Because I—” Eugenia stopped. Took another sip of wine.
“All that disheveled hair,” Susan said, wiggling her toes again. “And his eyes . . . like hot chocolate. Alas, Mr. Reeve is a bastard, and thus ineligible to be my husband. Can you imagine my father’s response?”
“My father always says that a man should be judged by his accomplishments, not the circumstances of his birth.”
“That’s not a vicar-ish idea,” Susan said briskly. “The more pertinent fact is that you aren’t looking for a husband, and Mr. Reeve wrote to you, not to me.” She put her glass down with a click. “He asked for professional advice as regards his two forlorn, grief-stricken charges, and we cannot ignore his plea.”
“We?” and, “I don’t think that was a plea. I’m not sure what it was.”
Susan ignored her. “I’ll reply, after which we’ll think about who should sign it.” She jumped up. Sitting at Eugenia’s desk, she started writing, the scratching sound of the quill providing an accompaniment to her voice as she read aloud.
“Snowe’s Registry, Cavendish Square, London, April 23, 1801. Dear Mr. Reeve, Thank you for your letter. Miss Midge is an excellent tennis instructor, among her other abilities. You will enjoy the game; it was one of King Henry VIII’s favorite pastimes.”
“Is that true?”
“I have no idea,” Susan said. “But that’s what I always tell parents who fuss about building a court. Now, what should we say about his wards?” She put the quill down and picked up her sherry instead.