Eugenia’s clients occasionally sent notes to her, when a son won the house tennis cup, for instance, or a daughter trounced her suitors at archery. This letter was altogether different.

She was trying to decide how to respond when the door opened and Susan’s head appeared. “I’m making up a list of our waiting families, and we’re short twenty-three governesses. Shall we schedule another training course for next month?”

When Eugenia had first opened the registry office, she had thrown herself into the enterprise. She had loved conducting training courses and watching her newly minted governesses go out into the world and put her ideas into practice.

It was only now that she’d reached the top of her profession that she found the business growing wearisome. She pushed away the stack of letters and stood up.

“I suppose we must. Come have a glass of sherry. It’s already late.”

Eugenia went to a cut-glass decanter that had belonged to Andrew’s mother. She poured two glasses of sherry and handed one to Susan, along with Mr. Reeve’s letter. “Have a look at this.”

“That’s a lot of cheek!” Susan exclaimed a moment later.

“How so?” Eugenia sank into a nearby chair and took a healthy sip of golden wine.

“You’re a respectable widow.”

“He’s merely asking for advice.”

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.

“He ought not to push the children to talk about their mother.”

“You know, if you’d talked more about Andrew since his death, it would be easier to forgive yourself for surviving.”

Eugenia almost spit out something about how that was absurd . . . but was it?

“I’ll write that if you wish,” Susan said, tapping ink from her quill. “It’s your letter.” She started writing, reading aloud once more. “I advise that you not press the children for particulars regarding their mother. I still dislike talking about my husband, who died some years ago.”

“You didn’t write that!” Eugenia gasped.

“Yes, I did,” Susan replied, and went on, “I realize, of course, that Lady Lisette was your mother as well, and perhaps, like the children, you feel her loss but are reluctant to speak of it.”

“This is an appallingly inappropriate letter,” Eugenia noted.

“It’s not inappropriate; I’d prefer to call it candid. Don’t you ever tire of bland conversation?”

Eugenia looked at her over her glass. “I grew up in a house in which polite subjects were far too tedious to be discussed. So no, I don’t get bored.”

“Considering your father’s disreputable house parties, it’s amazing that he has settled down to such happy domesticity with your stepmother.”

“I spent my early years in a chaotic mix of the most intellectual, albeit debauched, company in all England, until Harriet taught me the joy of an ordered life.”

Eugenia shook her head at Susan’s frown. “My father never allowed debauched behavior in front of me. He was ferociously protective, but children aren’t stupid. They instinctively understand the tenor of a household.”

“All that debauchery led you to appreciate polite conversation,” Susan said, summing it up.

“I’m dreadfully boring, aren’t I?”

“No. On the contrary. You are a lady who observed enough unconventional behavior to give her the courage to start her own business and turn it into a wild success.”

Eugenia gave a startled little laugh. “I opened Snowe’s because Andrew died.”

“I find myself wondering if Lizzie wears her veil to bed,” Susan said aloud, turning back to the letter.

“How did you know about Lizzie’s veil? I didn’t tell you that!”

Susan raised her head. “The peephole, you ninny. After I realized that a gorgeous man, who appeared undaunted by your pedigree and accomplishments, was paying you a second visit? I was glued to the wall.”

“I didn’t . . .” Eugenia fell silent.

“How is Otis?” Susan said, scribbling away. “I expect that Miss Midge put a stop to his gambling activities, yet a boy that creative will find ways around her rulings.”

“We will not post this letter,” Eugenia stated.

“Certainly not,” Susan said soothingly. “We’re merely fooling about.” She dipped her quill back into the ink.

“You know, Lady Lisette was completely mad,” Eugenia said. “The newspaper accounts were right about that.”

“Did you ever meet her?” Susan tapped the nib carefully against the lip of the bottle.

Eugenia nodded. “Once. When I was around ten, she came to one of my father’s house parties. She was beautiful, in a threatening sort of way. She had lovely blue eyes, but there was something vindictive about them. She glittered.”

“‘Glittered’?”

Eugenia waved her hand, and nearly spilled her sherry. “Like Rundell & Bridge’s window when coal smoke turns everything dark, and the street lamps light up the diamonds.”

“Very poetic,” Susan said approvingly. “I do believe that Mr. Reeve brings out your romantic side.”

“It’s the wine,” Eugenia said, and set her glass down. “After a day or so, my father summoned a carriage to take Lady Lisette away. He said she was the type who would keep drinking tea while faint screams came from the dungeon.”

“I can see where you inherited that poetic bent,” Susan said. She was still scrawling on the letter.

“It’s no wonder the children don’t mention their mother,” Eugenia said. She stood up and stretched. “I must go home. I have appointments from eight in the morning straight through the day.”

“I cannot remember the last time you left London.”

“There’s always something to do,” Eugenia pointed out as she placed the empty glasses on a silver tray in the corner.

She turned. “No, you cannot!”

Susan was carefully sanding the letter. “Certainly I can. Mr. Reeve is a client like any other. He wrote a letter asking you about a delicate situation with his orphaned wards. The poor man deserves the courtesy of a reply. Unless you want me to rip up his letter?”

That seemed impolite. But Susan’s letter was impolite as well.

“All right,” Eugenia said reluctantly. “I suppose it’s best to respond.”

Susan gave the letter a final shake and closed the sand box. “I am curious to see his reply.”

“What else did you put in that letter?” Eugenia asked suspiciously. “You stopped reading aloud toward the end.”

“I merely said that Snowe’s is always here to provide support for our governesses.”

“Lord knows what he’ll think of me.”

“You are scarcely a good judge, since you’re generally bosky as a goose after a second glass of sherry, and we have had three. It’s a good thing I wrote the letter—since I’m not the one wildly intrigued by a certain Oxford don. Who knows what you might have written!”

Before Eugenia could swat her, Susan escaped, laughing.