The Duchess of Gilner was one of a cabal of society despots who considered Eugenia to have irredeemably lowered herself to the level of a merchant. Most of them hid their opinions because they—or their daughters-in-law—were well aware of the crucial importance of not alienating the proprietress of Snowe’s.
The dowager was apparently incapable of such diplomacy.
Eugenia didn’t care what the lady thought of her. “I gather that you do not wish your grandchildren raised by one of my governesses,” she said, with a syrupy smile. “Should you succeed in your petition against Mr. Reeve’s guardianship, I shall be happy to direct you toward another registry. One hesitates to call other agencies lesser, but I’m confident that they will be able to find you a good enough governess in due time.”
The dowager’s eyelids twitched.
Eugenia turned to Ward and dropped a magnificent curtsy. “I am very sorry to disappoint you in this matter, Mr. Reeve, but it’s clear that Her Grace does not feel the need for her grandchildren to have one of my governesses. What a pity, since they seem to have been disadvantaged in their early life.”
The tearoom was now bustling with patrons and virtually every table was listening avidly to their conversation.
Ward picked up Eugenia’s lead. “Mrs. Snowe,” he said, voice dripping with pathos, “I implore you not to withdraw your promise to send me a governess, as a consequence of the duchess’s rash statement.”
He turned to the dowager. “As I understand it, a Snowe’s governess is essential to my orphaned wards’ future.” His voice turned cold, implacable, and decisive. “I am certain that their late father—who explicitly left them to my guardianship—would wish them to be raised with the best possible care.”
The duchess’s nose twitched as if a rotten egg had cracked nearby. “I comprehend that you are angling for better terms, Mrs. Snowe. Although it offends propriety to engage in such a distasteful negotiation in public, I shall compensate you double Mr. Reeve’s fee.”
“I was not negotiating,” Eugenia corrected her. “All London knows that I send my governesses only to the very best houses, Your Grace. I shall carefully consider your petition, should you win your lawsuit.”
And with that, she left, with Ward close behind.
Chapter Fifteen
Back in the carriage, Eugenia settled in her seat, feeling as if she’d run the gauntlet. “I see exactly why you want to keep the children under your care,” she told Ward.
“It’s a wonder my mother wasn’t even more cracked than she was,” Ward replied.
Eugenia gave him a sympathetic smile. There wasn’t much to say on that subject. She pulled aside the velvet curtains pinned to the bottom and top of the windows. Clearly, His Royal Highness hadn’t wanted passersby catching a glimpse of himself and Mrs. Jordan inside the carriage.
“Your coachman is headed in the wrong direction,” she exclaimed. “Did you instruct him to return to my house?”
Ward was lounging on the opposite seat, eyes eating her up with burning intensity. “No.”
She was nearly waylaid by the husky growl of his voice, the unspoken promise, but then his response sank in. “I cannot spend the day with you.” Even though the idea sent a pulse of warmth through her stomach.
She plucked the curtain aside again. “That’s Chiswick House!”
“We must be making excellent time.”
All trace of desire fled Eugenia’s body. She sat upright, feeling a jolt of alarm. “What do you mean?”
He smiled at her. “We’re heading for the post road to Oxford.”
The words whirled in her mind until they settled into place. “What? I don’t . . . What are you doing, Mr. Reeve?”
“Kidnapping you.”
She stared at him, trying to read his expression. “Are you joking?”
“Not at all.”
“Did I somehow convey the mistaken impression that I planned to visit your house?” she demanded, her voice rising as anger flooded her.
“You did not. I—”
She cut him off. “You have made an enormous mistake, Mr. Reeve.” She was so outraged she could scarcely form the words. “Turn this carriage around on the instant or I shall have you imprisoned again!”
He leaned forward. “Eugenia, please hear me out. I need your help. I’m damn well desperate. I spoke at length to Miss Lloyd-Fantil this morning, and we agreed that you are my best hope—perhaps my only hope—to keep the children.”
All morning and afternoon his voice had been light—even when it was husky with desire or laughter—but now his words were somber.