The Nanny's Handbook to Magic and Managing Difficult Dukes

Book 1: Parasol Academy

by Amy Rose Bennett

Genres: Fantasy Romance; Victorian Romance

Synopsis

Mary Poppins meets Bridgerton in a feel-good blend of cozy fantasy magic, historical romance, humor, and Victorian era charm, as a recent graduate of the Parasol Academy for Exceptional Nannies and Governesses finds her supernatural abilities are little help when it comes to falling for the shy, mysterious inventor who happens to be her employer…

For readers of Heather Fawcett, Allison Saft, Katherine Arden, Freya Marske, and Olivia Atwater’s Regency Faerie Tales series.

Emmeline Chase, 25-year-old widow and new alumna, may be more high-spirited than the Academy would like. Few graduates, however, could turn a mismanaged teleportation onto a duke’s rooftop into an offer of employment. But Emmeline’s circumstances, along with her desperation to support her bankrupt, incarcerated father, have made her dauntless. Which seems the primary qualification to work for expert horologist Xavier Mason, Duke of St. Lawrence, and manage his three rambunctious wards. Yet Emmeline soon discovers that the nobleman’s heart-melting voice and captivating mind present an entirely different sort of trouble. She cannot risk losing her license by fraternizing with her employer . . .

Xavier’s wards have sent two nannies packing in a month thanks to frogs, firecrackers, and general mayhem. In addition, Xavier’s professional reputation is on the line. He’s already considered odd, with his talking raven companion and his fascination with timekeeping instead of pleasure-chasing with his peers. Charming, vivacious Emmeline seems intrigued with his quirks—but Xavier must have absolute peace to design London’s “King of Clocks” for Westminster Palace before the competition closes. Emmeline can no doubt restore order. As long as he doesn’t fall under her spell . . .

Yet, with a possible saboteur in their midst, and the attraction flaring between them threatening to become a deliciously disastrous distraction, a touch of magic may be required . . .

Release date: September 30, 2025

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

Concerning the Nanny’s Plight; Spilled Tea, Dickens on Toast, Cucumber Sandwiches, and Jelly; A Teleportation Cock-Up of Magnificent Proportions; And an Unexpected Encounter with a Raven …

The Parasol Academy, Sloane Square, London

Spring 1851

At the age of five-and-twenty, Mrs. Emmeline Chase had come to the realization that, much like her unruly red hair— which seemed to do whatever it liked unless ruthlessly pinned into submission—she would never be quite the right amount of prim and proper to satisfy Polite Society. Indeed, even though Emmeline had just graduated from the Parasol Academy for Exceptional Nannies and Governesses, it was common knowledge within its ranks that she sometimes struggled to comply with the Academy’s exacting standards of etiquette, despite her best efforts.

So when Emmeline spilled her half-finished cup of tea down her snow-white nanny’s pinafore and, without thinking, exclaimed, “Blast and drat and dickens on toast,” in the middle of the Academy’s refectory, it really shouldn’t have been a surprise to anyone. Nevertheless, there were more than a few censorious glares from teaching staff sent her way, along with a flurry of horrified gasps from fellow Academy graduates and the latest cohort of up-and-coming students. There was definitely a titter or two.

Her cheeks flaming, Emmeline blew out a frustrated sigh and blotted ineffectually at the unsightly brown splotch with a linen napkin.

“It’s just because you’re nervous,” murmured her bookish, fiercely intelligent friend, Hermina “Mina” Davenport, who was seated beside her. “Everyone knows you’re not your usual bright self. No one would blame you for spilling a bit of tea given the circumstances.”

Of course, Mina’s thick chestnut hair never misbehaved regardless of the circumstances, thought Emmeline. It was always as smooth and glossy as the polished surface of the elegant oak dining table at which they sat. A hurricane could hurtle through the Parasol Academy and Mina would still look completely unruffled. But Mina was so sweet and supportive, Emmeline couldn’t begrudge how perfectly poised she was. Or how clever. She would always be grateful she had such a steadfast friend.

Emmeline drew a breath and offered Mina a smile. “I suppose you’re right. Although, when it’s time for me to leave, I fear my knees won’t support me. They’re already quivering like a barely set jelly.”

In less than an hour she would be attending an interview for a nannying position—her first ever since she graduated from the Academy a fortnight ago. And Emmeline needed the job more than she needed a spotless pinafore, or hair that behaved, or knees that didn’t knock together. Because if she didn’t secure a permanent position with decent wages, she had no idea how she would be able to continue to pay off the turnkey at Newgate Prison where her father was currently incarcerated. This week’s payment was already late …

Emmeline’s situation might not have been so dire if her ne’er-do-well late husband, Jeremy, hadn’t frittered away everything they had, leaving her nothing. She also couldn’t rely on her brother, Freddy, to come up with the money. After all, it was his fault that their father’s antique clock store had fallen into bankruptcy in the first place.

The fact that Emmeline’s father was in prison for unpaid debts was the only thing that Mina didn’t know about Emmeline. No one at the Academy knew either. And Emmeline’s secret had to remain exactly that. Secret. Because who would employ a nanny whose father was locked away in one of England’s most notorious prisons?

“You didn’t even touch your luncheon,” said Mina, her clear hazel eyes soft with understanding.

Emmeline grimaced at the neat row of cucumber sandwiches on her porcelain plate. The Academy’s cook obviously used a set square to cut each one into a perfect equilateral triangle. “I hate being so wasteful, but my stomach’s full of rampaging butterflies at present.”

Mina touched Emmeline’s forearm. “You’ll be fine. You’re one of the bravest, smartest people I know, and I’m certain you will get this job.”

Emmeline smiled back at her friend. “Thank you. I wish I had your confidence—”

“Mrs. Chase?”

Emmeline looked up to find the relatively new headmistress of the Parasol Academy, Mrs. Felicity Temple, standing right in front of their table.

Oh, double blast and drat and a bucketload of botheration as well. At least Emmeline remembered to swear in her head this time. Although, according to the Parasol Academy Handbook’s guidelines in Chapter 2, which pertained to nanny and governess etiquette, “botheration” and any of its variations were permitted, along with: oh my; oh dear; my goodness; good gracious; good heavens; heavens above; for mercy’s sake; and on the odd occasion, by Jove, or by Jupiter. Unfortunately, “drat” was too close to “damn” so its use was discouraged.

Even though Mrs. Temple was only thirty years old (and styled herself “missus” because she was a headmistress, not because she was or had ever been married), there was an unmistakable air of authority about her. A marked steeliness in her bearing. In fact, up until six months ago, Mrs. Temple had been employed by none other than Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, in the Royal nursery, and everyone at the Academy was in complete awe of her.

Yet there was a soft gracefulness about Felicity Temple too. Her pale blond ringlets perfectly framed her heart-shaped face, and her petite frame was always immaculately attired in a haute couture gown. Indeed, there were occasional whispers in quiet corners of the Academy that Mrs. Temple might just be the teeniest bit vain given she always kept a rather ornate silver and crystal-encrusted hand mirror upon her office desk. Emmeline didn’t believe such talk though. In her mind, the headmistress was the epitome of everything the Academy stood for: prim and proper and prepared for anything.

Right now, Emmeline feared she might have to prepare herself for a public drubbing of the verbal kind. She swallowed to moisten her dry mouth. “Yes, Mrs. Temple?” she ventured in a suitably polite tone. The refectory had grown as hushed as a church hall as there was a collective holding of breath.

“May I see you outside?” the headmistress asked quietly. But, to Emmeline’s relief, there was no hard edge of disapproval in her voice, and the expression in her gray eyes was thoughtful, perhaps even compassionate. Perhaps she would simply express her disappointment and issue Emmeline with a stern reminder about the “rules.”

Emmeline could but hope. She inclined her head in acquiescence. “Yes of course, Mrs. Temple.”

As she put down her napkin, Mina gave her hand a reassuring squeeze and murmured, “Good luck.”

Emmeline nodded her thanks as she pushed unsteadily to her feet. Truth to tell, she was grateful her knees didn’t give out as she followed the headmistress into the deserted corridor outside the refectory.

When Mrs. Temple came to a halt by the door of the study hall, she gave Emmeline a smile. “I’m not going to reprimand you for using impolite language, if that’s what you’re concerned about, Mrs. Chase.”

“Oh …” Emmeline pressed a hand to her stomach to help still the rioting butterflies within. “Thank you, Mrs. Temple. I assure you that I do know which particular exclamations are permitted as per the Parasol Academy Handbook.”

“I know you do.” Mrs. Temple gave her another reassuring smile. “Just like I know that you’re nervous about your upcoming interview with Mr. Culpepper Esquire. I can practically see that you’re quivering in your half boots. But you really shouldn’t be so anxious. I’m confident that you’ll do very well.” Her smile widened. “As long as you remember not to say things like ‘blast’ and ‘drat’ and ‘dickens on toast.’ Especially in front of the Culpeppers’ two young children.”

“I promise I won’t,” said Emmeline. “And thank you for your understanding.” She might not be perfect, but it seemed the Parasol Academy’s headmistress didn’t think she needed to be absolutely perfect all the time either.

“Now,” said Mrs. Temple as she examined Emmeline’s uniform, “let’s see what we can do to remedy your attire so that you won’t be late for your appointment.” She withdrew a small feather duster from the pocket of her dove-gray silk skirts, then murmured, “Unsmirchify,” as she made a grand sweeping gesture down the front of Emmeline’s pinafore.

A soft incandescent glow enveloped Emmeline’s person for a brief moment, and a warm breeze, almost like a sigh, gently swirled around her, ruffling her clothes. When she looked down at herself, she could see that the tea stain had magically vanished; the white linen of her pinafore was spotless once more.

She smiled at the headmistress. “You’re too kind, Mrs. Temple. Although”—she glanced toward the arched window at the end of the hall that revealed a bleak leaden sky—“I do hope my uniform can survive the trip to Bedford Square.” She didn’t have any spare coin to afford a hansom cab or even an omnibus fare at present, but she couldn’t very well tell Mrs. Temple that.

“Of course, you have my permission to teleport to your interview,” said Mrs. Temple. “It’s official Academy business after all. There’s a Metropolitan Police box at the northern end of Bedford Square you can make use of to conceal your arrival. Then it will be but a short walk to the Culpeppers’ residence.”

Emmeline nodded. Te-ley-porting, which harnessed the secret leyline magic of the Fae, was just one of the many magical tools a Parasol nanny or governess had at her disposal to discharge her professional duties. But one had to be discreet about it. Teleporting out in the open where members of the general public might see one mysteriously disappear or materialize as if from nowhere was frowned upon and one of the worst breaches of the Academy’s rules. As per the guidelines in Chapter 1 of the Parasol Academy Handbook, strictly guarding the Academy’s unconventional practices was of paramount importance, so cupboards and wardrobes and pantries and, on occasion, Metropolitan Police sentry boxes, were the preferred “vehicles.”

Although, as Emmeline understood it, access to police boxes for the purpose of teleportation was a relatively new practice. The Academy had recently been granted a Royal Charter by Queen Victoria, so an “arrangement” with Scotland Yard had been established. Needless to say, Parasol nannies and governesses still had to be judicious with exercising such a privilege. Anyone who was careless with the Academy’s secrets risked having their training cut short or even their Parasol nanny or governess accreditation revoked. Such an eventuality was something that Emmeline could ill afford.

Emmeline farewelled Mrs. Temple then hastened to the Academy’s dormitory on the floor above. Once she’d donned her navy-blue cloak, her coal-scuttle bonnet, and had retrieved her Academy umbrella from the stand near the door, she was ready.

Well, as ready as I’ll ever be, she thought. She checked her Academy-issued silver pocket watch, which kept perfect time, and noted she still had half an hour to make it to her interview. If she successfully teleported to Bedford Square without making a hash of it …

Tel-ley-porting was always a discombobulating experience. And when Emmeline lost her focus, that’s when things tended to go spectacularly awry. That’s when she ended up in places she wasn’t supposed to be. That didn’t happen often, thank goodness, but when it did (like that one time she’d ended up in the middle of the Thames and had to be rescued by the River Police), it proved to be all kinds of mortifying and inconvenient, to say the least.

But not today. She couldn’t afford to lose her focus, today of all days.

Emmeline dug out her pewter leyport key from her pocket, then crossed the room with sure strides to the wardrobe she shared with Mina. Even though the door wasn’t locked, she needed to use her key to open up the leyline portal. Without it, the wardrobe would be an ordinary closet, not a conduit for teleportation.

The wardrobe’s interior was cloaked in deep shadow, but when Emmeline pushed all the clothing aside, a small but bright light glimmered at the very back like a beckoning candle flame at the end of a long dark tunnel. The key had sparked the leyline magic to life.

Emmeline inhaled a deep breath, bracing herself for the journey. The process was simple enough in theory. All she had to do was step inside the wardrobe and focus on the leylight while simultaneously picturing herself where she needed to be. She’d whisper the required Fae incantation to set the magic completely aflame and then she’d be on her way.

“Keep calm and nanny on,” Emmeline murmured as she hopped into the wardrobe, her eyes fastened on the flickering leylight flame. No sooner had she conjured up a mental image of Bedford Square and murmured, “Vortexio,” when there was a sudden flare of blinding light. A familiar but also unsettling whoosh filled her head, and then a strange sensation of whirling weightlessness—like one was spinning around inside a Catherine wheel—engulfed her.

And then the movement and the rushing sound stopped, leaving Emmeline panting and slightly dizzy. Even though she’d closed her eyes at some point, she could sense that the intense white leylight had faded away.

Inhaling a bracing breath, she dared to crack open an eyelid … and when she discerned exactly where her derriere had landed, her stomach pitched and she uttered a string of curses a lot worse than blast and drat and dickens on toast.

She was not in a stone police box. She was not even in a wardrobe or cupboard.

She was on a roof. A roof!

Another wave of dizziness assailed Emmeline and she clutched at the rain-slick tiles beneath her gloved palms to stop herself accidentally plunging to a quick and untimely death.

Was she at least in Bedford Square?

There was only one way to find out. Emmeline forced herself to open her eyes and then she very carefully adjusted her seat so that she could peer down at the cherry-tree-lined square below. Belgrave Square according to the sign. Not Bedford Square.

Blooming hell with bells on. Had she said the wrong word in her head? Belgrave and Bedford both started with B. Had she conjured up the wrong mental image because Belgrave Square was close to the Parasol Academy in nearby Sloane Square? She must have.

What a monumental cock-up. What a complete henwit she’d been.

The mildly startled pigeon perched upon the row of chimney pots to Emmeline’s right stared at her as if in complete agreement with everything she’d thought. A soft empathic coo was followed by a ruffling of its gray feathers, but then the bird took off, winging its way over the London rooftops to whatever its destination might be … unlike Emmeline, who was well and truly stuck on a most precarious perch for a human— four stories up with no foreseeable way down.

Emmeline couldn’t help but mutter, “Lucky blighter,” as the pigeon became a mere speck against the cloud-shrouded sky. And then she fell to contemplating her options and her future, which hopefully wouldn’t be short-lived.

One: Stay stuck on this roof forevermore. While Emmeline hadn’t envisioned a future as a nanny weathervane, she reasoned that it was a slightly better fate than her next logical option …

Two: Fall and become a rather unfortunate splat on the cobblestone square far below. Emmeline shuddered. Although that particular outcome would be far from ideal, at least it would be over with quickly. But the drawback was that she’d never see her dear father, who rather depended on her, again. Or her brother for that matter. Or darling Mina. Becoming a “splat” wasn’t a good choice in the big scheme of things.

Three: Call out and hope someone would be moved to rescue her. There did appear to be a Metropolitan Police box at the other end of the square, but Emmeline doubted her voice would carry that far. And the bobby might be anywhere.

What she needed was an impossibly long ladder. Even a long rope would do at a pinch. While Emmeline’s training had equipped her with the ability to scale a tree or a wall should she need to rescue a trapped charge, or even a charge’s far-too-curious cat, she’d still need a rope and possibly a grappling hook to lower herself to safety.

In certain circumstances, Emmeline could simply reach into her uniform’s magical “nanny pocket” to procure whatever she needed to manage a difficult situation. But as per Chapter 4, Section 2 of the Parasol Academy Handbook, she could only produce “necessary items” from said pocket, “while in service to a child in her care, or in certain situations, a child in need.” Getting oneself stuck on a rooftop because you were distracted and failed to discreetly teleport from one location to another did not signify.

Emmeline blew out a heavy sigh and frowned at the toes of her kid half boots. Her fourth consideration was probably the most important of all. If she did survive this massive teleportation blunder, she hoped to God that Mrs. Temple didn’t hear about it. She’d already been in enough trouble for one day.

“Remember, you’re a Parasol Academy nanny, Emmeline Chase. You’re prim, proper, and prepared for anything. Exactly like Mrs. Temple,” she sternly reminded herself as she somehow shoved down her nerves, much like one would shove down a mouthful of castor oil. Her nerves had gotten her into this mess to begin with, so she had no time for them at the moment. “You will work out how to get down from here without breaking your neck. You will not sully your reputation or the Academy’s by drawing undue attention to yourself. And you will secure that nannying job. Failure is not an option.”

Emmeline examined the impressive townhouse she was presently seated upon. It was entirely on its own at one corner of the square. Craning her neck to look behind her, she spied two whitewashed wings that jutted off the main edifice. Each wing had numerous casement windows. Perhaps she could attract the attention of one of the townhouse’s occupants. Well, if they looked outside.

Taking a deep breath and tightening her grip on the slate tiles, Emmeline carefully swung one of her legs over to the other side of the steeply sloped roof, then proceeded to inch herself along the ridgeline toward the row of chimney pots and the nearest wing. She supposed she could always lob her umbrella at one of the windows. She was a good shot, and surely that would arouse someone’s notice.

There! A movement—a dark sort of fluttering—in one of the windows on the second floor caught Emmeline’s attention. Someone was watching her, she was sure of it.

Emmeline made herself let go with one hand then waved madly. “Hulloooo,” she called. “I say, hullooo!”

What the deuce? What on earth are you doing up there? sounded a voice in her head. An avian voice with a distinct rasp that reminded Emmeline of a distinguished gentleman who was fond of pipe-smoking. The sort of man who’d don a velvet banyan and prop his leather-slipper-clad feet upon a footstool with a brandy at his elbow and the latest copy of the Times spread out before him.

Emmeline dared to lean forward a little more as she squinted at the windowpane in question. It’s all rather complicated, she replied to her all-but-invisible conversational partner. She suspected that he was a bird of some kind. Aside from dogs and horses, birds were the easiest animals for Parasol Academy graduates to communicate with by thought alone. Cats, on the other hand, were altogether too aloof and not likely to respond at all.

As you can see, I’m in a bit of a pickle, Emmeline continued in what she hoped was a friendly manner, not a panicky, Oh-Lord-I’m-going-to-die fashion. Is there anyone inside the house that might be able to help me? If someone could summon a chimney sweep, I could climb down his ladder …

I see … I suppose I could do that … As long as you’re not up to anything nefarious … Suddenly the casement window swung open, and a rather magnificent raven appeared on the window ledge. Cocking his head, his dark inquisitive gaze met Emmeline’s. I hope you’ll excuse my impertinence, but what is your name? It’s not often that I come across someone like you. An animalis sussurator or animal whisperer, so to speak. You are a rarity, indeed.

Animal whisperer … Emmeline liked the sound of that. Not all Parasol Academy graduates could telepathically communicate with animals. The ability seemed to be a side effect of using Fae magic and you either developed it as a skill—like learning to play the pianoforte or speak another language—or you didn’t. And like any other skill, once you had attained it, you possessed the ability for life. At least that’s what Emmeline had learned during her Parasol Academy training.

Casting a smile at the raven—it wouldn’t do to appear rude— she responded to his question. My name is Mrs. Emmeline Chase and I’m … She drew a fortifying breath. I’m a nanny with certain singular talents. She didn’t think it would be wise to elaborate further on that score—disclosing she had magical abilities would certainly ruffle feathers in more ways than one—so instead she asked, And to whom am I speaking?

The raven puffed out his chest and his glossy black feathers gleamed like polished ebony. Horatio Ravenscar, Esquire. At your service, madam. I shall summon my master. I shan’t be long. And then, with an elegant flap of his enormous wings, he disappeared.

Emmeline released a shaky sigh of relief. Things were looking up after all. Well, as long as Horatio Ravenscar’s master wasn’t an arrogant, snobbish pain-in-the-derriere who refused to help her. She didn’t like playing the role of damsel-in-distress. And she really should curb her unruly tongue, even in her head. She was in Belgravia. Not Cheapside, where her father’s store had been. Or Shoreditch, where Freddy’s struggling music hall, the Oberon, was located.

But then, Horatio’s master wasn’t going to employ her. Mr. Culpepper of Barclays Bank would. All going well. If only she could get down from this infernal roof.

In Which a Raven Turns into a Pirate; A Horological Design Is Ruined; A Sooty Smudge Ruffles Feathers; A Tin Solider Is Recovered; And the Duke Meets Archimedes …

“Nanny ahoy! Nanny ahoy!”

Xavier Mason, the seventh Duke of St Lawrence, jumped so violently in his seat that his fountain pen skittered over the intricate horological design he was working on, leaving an unsightly zigzagging line that bisected the middle of the page.

Damn.

Looking up from his ruined work, he frowned at his pet raven, who’d soared into his private study in a great flurry of midnight-black feathers. As Horatio landed on a pile of books at the end of Xavier’s desk, the resultant breeze set a number of other pages flying, and Xavier emitted a disgruntled sigh.

Would he never get any peace and quiet? At this rate, his design for a veritable “King of Clocks”—a spectacular and incredibly accurate clock mechanism that would grace the top of St Stephen’s Tower in the newly rebuilt Palace of Westminster—wouldn’t be finished until the end of the century. Which meant he’d miss the deadline for submissions to the Astronomer Royal on the first of June, an eventuality altogether too frustrating for words. The horological competition to win the commission was fierce and as the clock was ticking—both literally and figuratively—he couldn’t afford any more delays.

Xavier released a heavy sigh as he placed his fountain pen in its silver stand. “Nanny ahoy?” he repeated. “What on earth do you mean, Horatio? Is something amiss with Nanny Snodgrass?” Again.

The woman had only been working for Xavier for a fortnight—employed to care for his three young wards, Harry, Barry, and Gary, after the last nanny up and left in the middle of the night—and chaos still continued to reign in the nursery.

And elsewhere in St Lawrence House, if truth be told.

A headache began to beat at the back of Xavier’s skull as he contemplated what might have gone wrong this time.

The raven bobbed up and down. “Nanny ahoy,” he croaked again, then fluttered over to the window ledge behind Xavier. “At two o’clock. In the crow’s nest.” Horatio pecked at the glass pane with his glossy black beak. “All hands on deck. Fetch Jacob’s ladder. Raise the mizzenmast. Sound the ship’s bell.”

“Nanny ahoy at two o’clock? In the crow’s nest? Have you gone mad?” Xavier pushed out of his seat and then crossed to the window. “And why are you talking like a dashed pirate?”

Xavier peered out of the casement window in the direction Horatio had indicated. And then his mouth fell open. “Good God,” he muttered as a great tide of incredulity flooded his brain. “There’s a woman on my roof.”

A petite copper-haired woman in a smart, dark blue gown and matching cloak and bonnet with an umbrella tucked beneath her arm, to be precise. Xavier pushed open the window. “I say, what in God’s name are you doing up there?” he called out. “Are you all right?”

The woman lifted a gloved hand and waved. “I’m er … Well, good sir, to be perfectly frank, I’m more than a little embarrassed as well as more than a little stuck,” she called back. “And while I’m dreadfully sorry to be creating such a fuss and most likely putting you out … if you wouldn’t mind … if you would be so kind, would you be able to fetch a chimney sweep? I’m going to need a ladder to climb down from here. Perhaps onto one of your balconies? Because I’d rather not fall and become an ignominious blob of strawberry jam on the pavement. Between you and me, that would be far too awkward for words.”

Xavier scrubbed his own gloved hand through his hair. An ignominious blob of strawberry jam? Who said things like that? If he weren’t so flabbergasted, he would have laughed. But then, what sort of person got themselves stuck on top of a four-story townhouse? Unless he’d fallen asleep at his desk and this was all a bizarre sort of dream? He had been having trouble sleeping lately.

Horatio gave Xavier a sharp little peck to the arm as though to remind him that he wasn’t, in fact, asleep, and that he needed to do more than gape like a complete and utter berk. “All right,” Xavier muttered at the raven. “There’s no need to get tetchy with me. I’ll help her.”

He placed his gloved hands on the window ledge and leaned farther out. Damn it, it looked like rain, too. Xavier hated the rain. On a scale of duck to cat, he was firmly at the feline end. Nevertheless, he said, “We won’t need to summon a chimney sweep. Behind that row of chimney pots at your back is a small rooftop terrace and a trapdoor leading down into the attic. If I help, do you think you’d be able to climb over to the other side, miss?”

She glanced over her shoulder then gave Xavier a decided nod. “Most definitely. And it’s missus, by the way. Not miss. Mrs. Emmeline Chase.”

Xavier inclined his head. “Mrs. Chase. How do you do? I’m the Duke of St Lawrence. I shall meet you up on the roof in a tick. Don’t move until I get there.”

“I promise I won’t!” she called back.

If the woman fell … Xavier pushed down a rising tide of panic on Mrs. Chase’s behalf. While he wasn’t afraid of heights himself, not everyone was like him. Although, he suspected that Mrs. Chase wasn’t quite like anyone else, either. He still had no idea how she’d come to arrive on his roof, but he supposed he would find out in due course.

In a handful of strides, he was across the room and scaling the stairs to the upper floors and the attic of St Lawrence House.

The door to the attic creaked open, revealing a crowded space that was dimly lit. It had been years since Xavier had been up here, and he hovered on the threshold for a moment. A cold gray light filtered through a small, high-set gable window illuminating trunks and crates and discarded furniture shrouded in holland cloths. In one dark corner stood a silently brooding walnut longcase clock with a cracked face. A clock that had once belonged to Xavier’s father.

Unpleasant memories Xavier would rather not contemplate gathered like cobwebs at the corners of his mind, but he steadfastly pushed them away as he crossed the dusty wooden floor to the ladder that led up to the small trapdoor and thence, the roof. He was on a rescue mission and time was of the essence. He didn’t have time to dwell on the past.

To his relief, when Xavier peered around the low brick wall crowned by a row of chimney pots, Mrs. Chase was still upon the roof, sitting astride the tiled ridge like she was riding a damned horse. Indeed, the woman’s skirts were slightly rucked up and her neat black leather half boots, a sliver of fine white stocking, and the lacy hem of a pair of drawers were clearly visible.

Egad. Xavier swallowed and his cheeks heated as he momentarily averted his gaze. The poor woman was in a most precarious position. He should not be gawking at her like a green schoolboy who’d never glimpsed a woman’s ankle before. Or even worse, a leering, lecherous old roué.

He certainly didn’t want to be living up to the horrid moniker he’d been dubbed at Eton: Lord Weirdbrook instead of Lord Westbrook, the courtesy