just when you’re tempted to have a good time.”
“Well, she won’t have any luck with us in the long run, will she?”
“Not in my opinion.” Gabriel tossed the cushion back onto the chaise. “But that doesn’t mean she won’t take up the challenge and put us through torment in the meantime.”
Adrian laughed. No one in his memory had ever taken him as a cause. It sounded almost pleasant.
“She improves young girls, Gabriel. Not battle-scarred soldiers like you and me.”
Gabriel backed toward the door. “Now there’s a thought. She can buff you up with beeswax for one of her debutantes. I might even suggest it to her before I leave.”
“Why, in God’s name?”
Gabriel grinned. “Because as long as she’s got her hands occupied with one sinner, she’s not likely to try reforming me. Don’t let her delicate appearance fool you, Adrian. Emma is the equal of her brothers when it comes to having her way.”
Emma’s temples began to pound with tension. Why had she been possessed to think she could change a girl from the gutters of Seven Dials into a gentlewoman?
A peek at Lord Wolverton while he slept.
Had he even been asleep? “What time did you perpetrate this unforgivable intrusion, Harriet?” she asked in a choked voice.
Harriet shrugged her thin shoulders. “Not long after you walked your nightly patrol.”
“It is not a patrol,” Emma said in vexation. “Did Lord Wolverton awaken during your misdeed?” she demanded.
“Didn’t you ’ear him?” Harriet asked with a grin. “He roared to bring down the walls.”
“You should send her back to the slums, Lady Lyons,” Lydia Potter suggested. “My parents would be ever so upset if they knew I was rubbing shoulders with the likes of her.”
Harriet smirked. “I’m sticking a big brown spider up yer nose while you’re asleep tonight—”
Emma took hold of Harriet’s arm. “You shall do nothing of the kind. Please, Harriet, do behave.”
“Why do you even bother?” Harriet asked, as if it were a question she’d heard a thousand times in her life. “I’m a hopeless cause. Everyone knows that. I’m only gonna come to a bad end and bring the rest of you down with me. Why bleedin’ bother?”
She spoke the words without pity or even defiance, as though she’d long ago resigned herself to the fact. Emma found herself torn. She had an obligation to her paying students, the vow she had made to their parents, that their daughters would emerge from their cocoons of awkwardness into enchanting social butterflies.
But nobody wanted to help the street girls of London, the orphans, the abandoned, the abused. Were they truly hopeless? Surely not all. Surely a woman of conscience could not sleep at night without trying.
She released Harriet’s arm. “I shall attempt one more time.” She picked up her manual from her desk. “‘The invention of eating utensils such as the spoon precedes the wheel.’”
“Well, hell,” Harriet said. “Who’d have guessed? Or cared, for that matter?”
Emma continued as if she had not noticed the interruption. “Does anyone know what is said to distinguish a gentleman—and I cringe even using the term—from a clodpate?”
“His ancestors?” Miss Butterfield asked brightly.
“No.” Emma allowed a fleeting look of disdain to settle upon her aristocratic face. “It is the use of a fork—”
“A fork,” Harriet said. “Well, blow me down with a friggin’ feather.”
“—over a spoon,” Emma continued calmly. “The
use
of a fork over a spoon separates the gentleman from his lessers. And I daresay we still raise countrymen on our proud island who may as well eat with a shovel, so abysmal are their table manners.”
Harriet regarded her wistfully. “Lady Lyons, if you honestly think that using a spoon to eat is the worst crime a man can commit, I would be willing to enlighten you otherwise.”
“Please, don’t,” Emma said quickly. She pressed her
“Well, she won’t have any luck with us in the long run, will she?”
“Not in my opinion.” Gabriel tossed the cushion back onto the chaise. “But that doesn’t mean she won’t take up the challenge and put us through torment in the meantime.”
Adrian laughed. No one in his memory had ever taken him as a cause. It sounded almost pleasant.
“She improves young girls, Gabriel. Not battle-scarred soldiers like you and me.”
Gabriel backed toward the door. “Now there’s a thought. She can buff you up with beeswax for one of her debutantes. I might even suggest it to her before I leave.”
“Why, in God’s name?”
Gabriel grinned. “Because as long as she’s got her hands occupied with one sinner, she’s not likely to try reforming me. Don’t let her delicate appearance fool you, Adrian. Emma is the equal of her brothers when it comes to having her way.”
Emma’s temples began to pound with tension. Why had she been possessed to think she could change a girl from the gutters of Seven Dials into a gentlewoman?
A peek at Lord Wolverton while he slept.
Had he even been asleep? “What time did you perpetrate this unforgivable intrusion, Harriet?” she asked in a choked voice.
Harriet shrugged her thin shoulders. “Not long after you walked your nightly patrol.”
“It is not a patrol,” Emma said in vexation. “Did Lord Wolverton awaken during your misdeed?” she demanded.
“Didn’t you ’ear him?” Harriet asked with a grin. “He roared to bring down the walls.”
“You should send her back to the slums, Lady Lyons,” Lydia Potter suggested. “My parents would be ever so upset if they knew I was rubbing shoulders with the likes of her.”
Harriet smirked. “I’m sticking a big brown spider up yer nose while you’re asleep tonight—”
Emma took hold of Harriet’s arm. “You shall do nothing of the kind. Please, Harriet, do behave.”
“Why do you even bother?” Harriet asked, as if it were a question she’d heard a thousand times in her life. “I’m a hopeless cause. Everyone knows that. I’m only gonna come to a bad end and bring the rest of you down with me. Why bleedin’ bother?”
She spoke the words without pity or even defiance, as though she’d long ago resigned herself to the fact. Emma found herself torn. She had an obligation to her paying students, the vow she had made to their parents, that their daughters would emerge from their cocoons of awkwardness into enchanting social butterflies.
But nobody wanted to help the street girls of London, the orphans, the abandoned, the abused. Were they truly hopeless? Surely not all. Surely a woman of conscience could not sleep at night without trying.
She released Harriet’s arm. “I shall attempt one more time.” She picked up her manual from her desk. “‘The invention of eating utensils such as the spoon precedes the wheel.’”
“Well, hell,” Harriet said. “Who’d have guessed? Or cared, for that matter?”
Emma continued as if she had not noticed the interruption. “Does anyone know what is said to distinguish a gentleman—and I cringe even using the term—from a clodpate?”
“His ancestors?” Miss Butterfield asked brightly.
“No.” Emma allowed a fleeting look of disdain to settle upon her aristocratic face. “It is the use of a fork—”
“A fork,” Harriet said. “Well, blow me down with a friggin’ feather.”
“—over a spoon,” Emma continued calmly. “The
use
of a fork over a spoon separates the gentleman from his lessers. And I daresay we still raise countrymen on our proud island who may as well eat with a shovel, so abysmal are their table manners.”
Harriet regarded her wistfully. “Lady Lyons, if you honestly think that using a spoon to eat is the worst crime a man can commit, I would be willing to enlighten you otherwise.”
“Please, don’t,” Emma said quickly. She pressed her
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