Free A Soul of Steel by Carole Nelson Douglas Page A

I am not at all certain that her hair is its natural color.”
    He shook his head. “I fear I still suffer from delirium, Miss Huxleigh. The picture you paint is exceedingly different from what I would expect of our placid governess of Berkeley Square.”
    “There are times that I find my life since then a delirium, too, Mr. Stanhope. Really and truly, it is for the most part excessively dull, unless Irene becomes involved in one of her tangles.”
    “She has ambitions of making me into one of these ‘tangles,’ does she?”
    “Possibly, but the tangles come to her, rather than vice versa. I would not underestimate her, Mr. Stanhope. She found a missing girdle of diamonds that belonged to Marie Antoinette. Later, she saved a young Parisian girl from disgrace and freed the demoiselle’s poor aunt from a charge of murder. Ignore her flamboyant ways; Irene has done much good, despite herself.”
    “No doubt due to your good example.”
    “Well...” I smiled modestly. “Certainly I have offered advice on occasion. She, being an opera singer by training, suffers from an impetuous nature and requires the moderation of a cooler head. That is where Godfrey comes in so usefully, although he is so besotted at times with his bride that his normal sensible nature can be corrupted—only in the most minor ways, of course. If it were not for me, who is to say upon what questionable ventures Irene might lure him?”
    “Not I.” Lucifer had settled at the invalid’s side and had begun grooming his glossy black flank. Mr. Stanhope stroked the cat’s flowing ruff. “You are a virtual Scheherazade, Miss Huxleigh, spinning exotic tales. I cannot believe that you are the same diffident, lonely young person I knew.”
    “You did not know me, Mr. Stanhope. A governess is but one step up from a servant. And I was not lonely! I had my two charges, Charlotte and Allegra—how grown they must be by now. Young ladies...” My sigh was echoed by Mr. Stanhope’s.
    “I cannot tell you how many times I thought about Berkeley Square when I was abroad,” he said fiercely. “It came to symbolize the innocence of England in a world vastly more dangerous. Once I found myself captivated by that crueler, older world. Once I thought I could be at home in that landscape of clashing opposites and raw gemstones and crude hopes. Yet I always came back to dreaming of England, particularly of Berkeley Square. Remember a day when I surprised you and the girls and their friends—little wren-haired Mary Forsythe, remember her? You were barely taller and older than they, playing blindman’s buff. I joined in for a few moments. Do you recall such a day?”
    “I—I may,” said I, brushing the black cat hair from my cream wool skirt. I could not quite look at him, so my eye focused on Lucifer, disapprovingly. “That animal is most inconsiderate of his leavings! Perhaps I could spin these wasted quantities of his hair into yam and put some part of him to good use in my crochet work. Did they spin cat hair in Afghanistan, Mr. Stanhope?”
    He was regarding me strangely. Indeed, my face had blossomed with sudden warmth. I was again that speechless girl of two-and-twenty, not a woman of the world who could regard a corpse without blanching and had resisted the overtures of such scandalous persons as Oscar Wilde and Sarah Bernhardt. Now a virtual stranger was unraveling me simply because he had seen me as I was and would not be again, and had not forgotten.
    “You do remember?” he pressed so eagerly that I had not the heart to deny him.
    “Yes, I do. You were... amused by me.”
    “Not amused. Surprised. You always seemed so grave and stern in company, like a little tin soldier sent out from your father’s parsonage in Shropshire. Huxleigh, the prim and proper governess. Then there you were blindfolded, stumbling about the schoolroom like a schoolgirl yourself. How shocked you were to find me suddenly in the game.”
    “Yes, I was. You played a