Ward’s butler, Cyrus Gumwater, was not the imperious, stately butler whom one might expect in a great house. Instead, he was a failed inventor, going on fifty and surly to boot. He was tall and lanky with ferocious black eyebrows that seemed to go upward and sideways, in vague harmony with his hair.

Ward had come across Gumwater’s design for a “flying aerial machine adapted for the Arctic Regions,” and considered that he had saved the man’s life when he persuaded him that butlering was preferable to landing face down in a pile of snow.

These days, Gumwater spent his free moments making things for the house, like an improved pickle fork, and a portable holder for multiple umbrellas, even though Ward had only one umbrella.

If that.

Inventions aside, Gumwater was a fine butler, and managed to keep Fawkes House running as smoothly as a well-tuned clock. It was the house Ward had bought for Mia, because betrothed gentlemen were expected to buy a big heap of stone and set up a nursery. Lucky him: if he ever did get married, he had the house, and the nursery was already full.

“Miss Midge has arrived,” Gumwater said now.

“You may show her in,” Ward said, looking up from a diagram of a steam engine.

Mrs. Snowe had followed through on her promise and dispatched the new governess directly. He had the feeling that she never broke her promises.

Unlike Mia.

Not that it was relevant in the least.

“Miss Midge is refreshing herself after the journey.” This was followed by a meaningful pause, so Ward put down his quill.

“She is one of those women,” Gumwater stated.

Ward raised an eyebrow.

“A managing woman. She demanded fresh goat’s milk for breakfast every day.”

“Surely you can obtain some? I suppose we could keep a goat, if need be.”

Acres of land had come along with the house. They could have a herd of goats. They could even house them in the picture gallery—what was he supposed to hang up there? A portrait of his late mother cuddled up to her fifteen-year-old lover? Or the grandmother who was suing him on the basis of immorality?

When Gumwater scowled, his brows turned into one line, like the hedge around the kitchen garden. “Goat’s milk is not the issue. She asked for the whereabouts of the tennis court, and when I told her that it was in some disrepair, she announced that it would have to be up to snuff by tomorrow or the day after, latest.”

“I think Mrs. Snowe mentioned tennis,” Ward said.

He was surprised by how often he’d found himself thinking about Mrs. Snowe. Yes, she was lovely. Beautiful, even. And luscious. Even thinking about the way her gown clung to her rounded hips made him—

Really, it was preposterous. He should go to London and do what every other unmarried gentleman did: pick out an opera dancer and set her up in a house in Knightsbridge.

He wouldn’t pick an opera dancer with a mop of red curls because that would be . . .

No.

Gumwater was nattering on about the tennis court, and Ward was starting to get the general idea of his complaint. Unlike Miss Lumley, who had been tearfully submissive to the household structure, Miss Midge meant to challenge it.

She and Gumwater had already skirmished, and Gumwater had lost.

An odd name, Alithia Midge.

It made him wonder what Mrs. Snowe’s given name was. Likely it was something flamboyant; in his experience people who grew up on the outskirts of society had grandiose names.

Georgette, perhaps. Marguerite. Wilhelmina.

Rosamund. That would be appropriate, in keeping with the color of her hair. An extravagant name would suit her. Something more exotic than the names given to high-born ladies.

“Mia,” for example, was short and ladylike, just like his former fiancée. Another reason he was lucky to have escaped that marriage. He would have developed neck cramps kissing his wife.

Georgette Marguerite Wilhelmina Snowe—or whatever she was called—was tall for a woman. She made him think of a wildflower with slightly ragged, velvety petals and a deep perfume.

“Gumwater,” he said, interrupting a diatribe that could be summed up as “women don’t know their place these days.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What do you know about Mrs. Snowe and her registry office?”

“Nothing, sir,” the butler said promptly. “An office run by a woman. I shall say no more on the subject.”

“You look as if you’ve taken a bite of a green persimmon,” Ward observed.

The door opened and a tall, thin woman entered, wearing a navy blue gown with a discreet silver cross at the neck. She looked dispassionate and utterly competent.

One look and he knew Mrs. Snowe was right: there would be no tears from Miss Midge.

In fact, if he were asked to place a wager on this particular governess’s response to events in the Book of Revelation, he’d come down on the side of Miss Midge’s responding with unruffled civility to any number of horsemen raining from the sky to herald the end of days.

Ward rose and found his hand being shaken with brisk efficiency.

“I have been thoroughly briefed,” Miss Midge announced, as if she were reporting for duty aboard a naval vessel.

“Indeed,” Ward said, taken aback.

“The betting ring will have to be shut down. Gentlemen do not profit by taking ha’pennies from their inferiors. It is common.” Clearly, vulgar inclinations would be rooted out, just like dandelions from a rolled lawn.

Ward managed not to wince. Although he had not known Lizzie and Otis long, he was certain that the children’s instincts were lacking in refinement, as were his own.

He himself had had at least eight governesses as a boy, and none of them had succeeded in weeding out the tasteless interest in making money that his brother also seemed to have inherited.

Ward had never encountered a boy more focused on profit and loss. In fact, most grown men didn’t have Otis’s fierce ambition.

“My mother wore a veil on the occasion of my father’s death,” Miss Midge was saying. “I sympathize with the wish to cover one’s face during the exigencies of grief. I shall allow the veil, though not during vigorous exercise.”

Ward tried without success to imagine his sister bouncing around a tennis court. “I am quite certain that neither Lizzie nor Otis know how to play tennis.”

“I shall do my best,” Miss Midge said, unexpectedly taking his hand again and giving it another shake. “I believe myself capable of miracles, although never having been called upon to perform one, I cannot be sure. The Lord tests us in order to make us stronger.”

Ward had no opinion on that doctrinal point, but luckily Miss Midge didn’t pause for agreement.

“You must choose a healthy activity with which to engage in with the children,” she said. “Fresh air is a great facilitator of family harmony.”

Did they need facilitating? Ward felt as if Lizzie and Otis had lived with him forever, even though it had been scarcely a fortnight.

His father and stepmother had picked a bloody inconvenient time to accept a diplomatic mission to Sweden. King Gustav was a hare-brained fool, and he couldn’t imagine his father’s diplomatic skills would do much to change that.

“No tennis,” he said. “I cannot see myself chasing around after a small ball. I suppose I could teach them to fish.”

He gave the butler a look that had Gumwater moving forward instantly.

“I should be glad to meet my charges now,” Miss Midge said. She seemed to be very given to pronouncements. “Gumwater, I’ll thank you to introduce me, if you would.”

The butler bowed in Ward’s direction, his rigid frame implying silent reproach.

“You know, Gumwater, I could recommend a hair tonic,” Miss Midge said, in a clear, carrying voice as they left the room. “It would tame your resemblance to Samson, before his encounter with Delilah, of course.”

As the door closed behind them, Ward gave a little kick to the massive wooden desk that dominated the room. “Come out from under there, Otis, and tell me what you think.”

Otis crawled out of his hiding place and straightened up. “Look what I made, sir.”

It was some sort of grimy wooden box. “What is it?”

“It’s a mousetrap,” Otis said. “The mouse walks up this ramp, you see, and he falls through this hole. He doesn’t realize it’s there, because he doesn’t know that cheesecloth won’t hold his weight.”

“Why does he walk up that ramp?”

“Because there’s a piece of cheese in the box!” Otis lifted up the cheesecloth. “See?”

“That doesn’t look like cheese.”

“Monsieur Marcel is frightfully stingy, so I’m using a corner of my bath sponge. Rubbing it with a smelly cheese is better than wasting money on food for a mouse.”

“That was your new governess.”

“Yes, I heard,” Otis said, completely unconcerned. “I’m going to charge six pence for this trap, sir, what do you think? I expect I could make quite a lot of money in the market.”

“Would you pay that amount?”

“No, but I don’t mind living with mice.”

“I doubt that a mouse will be fooled by the cheesecloth, because it would feel unsteady,” Ward pointed out. “What does Jarvis think?”

One of the reasons Miss Lumley had to be dismissed was that she had been adamant that Jarvis, a plump rat with long whiskers and bright black eyes, live in the stables.

“Jarvis is asleep,” Otis said, peering into the small canvas bag he had slung over one shoulder. “But I see what you mean.” He walked a dirty finger along the ramp and paused on the cheesecloth. “It wiggles.”

“You’d better go upstairs and meet Miss Midge,” Ward said. “She’s expecting to find you in the nursery.”

“I’ll go up there in a bit. If I put a ramp inside, balanced on a rock, the mouse would step on it and the ramp would plummet down. He’d be stuck in the box.”

“Possibly,” Ward said, choosing not to commit himself. A blind mouse might be fooled, although he’d have to be terribly hungry to mistake a piece of bath sponge for cheese.

“It will take more wood for the ramp, so I’ll charge seven pence for it,” Otis said, starting for the door.

“Would you like to learn to fish?” Ward asked.

Otis stopped and cocked his head. “Not particularly. I imagine that Lizzie would be interested in dissecting a fish. She wouldn’t like to see it die, though.”

“We could keep it in a bucket of water,” Ward said.

“They gasp for air as they die. I don’t think it feels very good for the fish. Lizzie wouldn’t like it.” He slipped out the door.

Otis had never said a word about their mother’s death. Not a single word. Was that normal? Ward had no idea.

Surely his brother hadn’t been present when their mother died. Or had they been living in a one-room caravan at the time? He didn’t even know. And he didn’t know whether he should ask.

Was it better to look into a tragedy of this nature, or simply let the memories fade?

That was surely a question for an expert.