A Governess Should Never... Tempt a Prizefighter Page 7

  Mr Hawkins twisted to her with gaze serious. “Your cousin is not likely to be lurking at the museum, is he? Or any of his set?”

  “Unlikely, unless as a stuffed exhibit in Room 3, Cabinet 6, labelled Lacklustre Specimen of Viscount.”

  Laughter gushed forth, that lopsided smile emerging, and Matilda felt inordinately pleased with herself.

  “Miss Griffin, I cannot believe you ever thought yourself a bland cauliflower.”

  “I may well look like one at Bullock’s too, as just in case, I’ll wear a veil with my white bonnet to obscure my features.”

  “I had thought to take you all to Gunter’s confectioners afterwards, but ices and a veil sounds a calamitous mix.”

  “I’ve never attended Gunter’s. Mother considered it plebeian.” She slammed a hand to her mouth. Why did she keep insulting her employer – it did not bode well for her future. “Oh, I didn’t mean…”

  “Sweet strawberry ice with flecks of mint, Miss Griffin. Does that not appeal?”

  Her mouth watered and corset groaned. “It sounds divine,” she admitted, licking her lips.

  “Then tomorrow, we shall visit.”

  “That would be most agreeable.” She fiddled with her saffron skirts. “Well, thank you for your time, Mr Hawkins. I know you must be busy.”

  “Not at all, Miss Griffin.” And he swept a short bow, shirt ties slack and parting to reveal that well-defined chest.

  Attempting a swift bobbed curtsey, Matilda tangled her feet and almost tumbled akimbo, but with a nonchalant air, she swept from the room, feeling more breathless than when she’d watched Mr Hawkins hit things.

  How curious.

  Chapter Eight

  “Conjure not up ideal misery, but strive to do your duty, and cultivate a contented mind.”

  Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.

  Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.

  Silence shrouded their little group as they lingered on the pavement to absorb the splendours of Ancient Egypt plonked in the middle of Piccadilly.

  Matilda peered through her veil at the highly decorative frontage and mused that Father may have been correct regarding the academic relevance of Bullock’s Museum after all.

  Red-brick buildings of a more conventional nature crowded either side of the white-painted museum like wallflowers harassing the diamond of the season.

  “Do you think, Miss Griffin,” said Chloe with a scrunched nose, swinging her skirts, “that Egypt looks like this?”

  “Not in any pictures I’ve seen, Chloe. And there is usually more…sand.”

  “Magnificent columns though,” commented Mr Hawkins, looking inordinately handsome with his clean-shaven jaw and ruffled hair.

  Flanking the museum’s entrance door were white fluted pillars with bulbous heads and lotus bud capitals supporting a cornice which jutted forth with splendour. Above, upon a plinth, stood two fifteen-foot-tall stone statues with haughty glares, gods who’d seen cities rise and fall and obviously found Piccadilly rather a bore.

  Tall oblong windows either side were filled with octagonal leaded glass that glinted in the sunlight, surrounded by stone inscribed with ancient script. Pediments above protected the carvings of winged suns unable to take flight in their solidity.

  “Who are the statues of, Miss Griffin?” enquired Chloe. “They must be nippy in this weather without togs.”

  “Isis and Osiris, I believe.” She tipped her head further back. “And those are sphinxes above…and then a scarab beetle.”

  It was garish, tasteless and possibly the most enthralling place Matilda had ever seen.

  A fierce gust blew down the street, the never-ending construction works to the east gilding the white paint of the museum in a layer of London’s subterranean dirt.

  “Shall we?” declared Mr Hawkins, holding both arms out, and in utter exhilaration, Matilda and Chloe squeezed tight and dragged him forth.

  Heads of Hathor loomed atop fake columns like menacing gargoyles, metal serpents coiled up railings and signs of the zodiac crowded the ceiling.

  Seth gaped.

  This was merely the hallway which preceded the main exhibitions, and his governess likewise shifted foot to foot, veil swishing left and right.

  “Do you…like it?” he enquired politely, aware that such garish Egyptian decor was equally fashionable for the swells’ pads in Mayfair.

  “Well…” She tapped her foot. “It’s not at all reminiscent of the drawings in Description de l'Égypte. Perhaps Mr Bullock has taken artistic licence?”

  He’d certainly taken something.

  Whilst Seth had procured the tickets and catalogue from the booth, Modesty had arrived, and it had been decided that it might be prudent to first view the infamous carriage of Napoleon before the crowds of London descended.

  An elaborate sign ahead indicated Exhibit Room 1, a wide archway presenting the backs of bonnets and beavers, gowns and boots. A crush of colour…and of people with the same idea.

  “Maybe we should come back la–”

  Gleaming wheels flashed in a gap between the buckskins and gowns, and his daughter shrieked, grabbed hold of Modesty and tore off at quite a clip.

  “Chloe!” Miss Griffin called. “No running in the…” But it was too late.

  “No matter,” offered Seth as the girls charged towards Napoleon’s magnificent blue carriage as though invading Russia. “We are not young for long.”

  “But as governess, I should–”

  “This morning is time off for us all, although I must apologise that ices at Gunter’s is not possible afterwards. A meeting has cropped up, but I’m sure we can all visit at the weekend.” Her lips curved behind the veil…at least he thought so anyway. “Are you interested in the spoils of war or something else? There are upwards of fifteen thousand natural and foreign curiosities, antiquities and productions of fine arts.”

  “You read that in the catalogue.”

  Seth merely winked and placed a steadying palm to her shapely waist as hooting bucks and their doe-eyed counterparts galloped past, the back-up calvary late for battle.

  Truly, he’d never seen such a confounded cannonade of bodies, and as they approached the archway, he wondered what his members who’d survived Waterloo must think of all this clamour.

  A pink-bonneted matron scratched the dark-blue carriage door for proof of its supposed resistance to bullets, a grey-haired gentleman with monocle frowned at Napoleon’s supposedly gilded coffee pot and a young buck stuck his nose in Napoleon’s supposedly gold chamber pot.

  “Rather than the carriage, may we see specimens of the Birds of Paradise?” asked Miss Griffin, wincing as Chloe and her friend scrambled aboard and up to the coachman’s seat. “I’m not sure which hall they are in though.”

  Seth ushered her from the archway to a quiet corner and studied the museum plan, turning it this way and that, while Miss Griffin consulted the catalogue, only to find the two bore no relation to one another whatsoever.

  Instead they wandered at will, studying curiosities from the South Seas in gleaming glass cases and speculating as to their uses. Miss Griffin, as one might have guessed, was knowledgeable yet without pretension. She simply…knew stuff.

  A mock-medieval hall housed a gruesome armoury of spikes and chains, and classical art lined the walls of a Roman gallery.

  This William Bullock certainly was a showman – Egypt, Italy, Polynesia and Africa, all contained within No. 22 Piccadilly.

  “I believe the Pantherion,” he directed, now examining the plan upside down, which seemed to make more sense, “is where you may possibly find your birds. Take the left door here to pass through Exhibit Room 6, where, and I quote, ‘a wondrous exemplification from Scotland can be found’.”

  The veil granted him a nod and marched onwards, but the spectacle of Exhibit Room 6 halted their stride.

  Bizarre basaltic rocks lined the roof, walls and floor, a lone torch casting an eerie flickering glow to this…cav
e, for want of a better description.

  Those raucous bucks from the carriage melee lurked and sniggered whilst their ladies prodded the strata.

  “The catalogue states,” Seth murmured, “this is Fingal’s Cave on the Isle of Staffa.”

  Miss Griffin’s veiled face twisted left then right before she raised the material, tucking it into her bonnet, and at last her tawny eyes gleamed in the torchlight. “Having never been to Scotland, I cannot naysay Mr Bullock, but I believe a cave may be somewhat cooler. It’s hotter than Satan’s lair in here.” She peeled off her gloves, wafting them around while studying the strange hexagonal-cut walls.

  A hoot of laughter from the corner, and Seth raised his head, noticed a grinning buck sidle up to the torch, lift a hand and…

  Darkness smothered the cave, followed by disorientating doe’ish shrieks and a buck’s chortles.

  “Miss Griffin? He thrust out a hand, caught silky material and then…let go. He could be grabbing anything. “Do not be afraid.”

  “Oh, good grief,” he heard her mutter after another feminine shriek. “It’s a fake cave in Piccadilly, not ghostly Green Park at dawn.”

  “I believe one of those bucks snuffed out the torch for fun.”

  “Fun! Honestly, the male species has some strange ideas. Where are you? I have no wish to fall.” And fingers descended upon his chest, firm and pressing.

  “You’ve found me,” he managed to bite out as her hand wandered.

  “Hmm. Is that… I hope that’s your pectoralis major. It certainly feels like it, most defined and…broad. I’ve never felt a real one before. Only marble.”

  Breath stuttered to a halt as Miss Griffin’s touch now spread across his chest, vanilla and flowers scenting the air, all other noise forgotten. It was suffocating, the dark, the heat and her caress, entombed lust roaring to life.

  He covered her hand with his own.

  Matilda gasped, her bare fingers trapped between the heated silk of a waistcoat and the calloused skin of an immense palm.

  Her nails dug. A faint rumble juddered.

  The cologne of leather, the rough edge to Mr Hawkins’ breath, and the silk-clad muscled indentations beneath her hand provoked an awfully strange rumpus within, coiling and decidedly unstudious for a museum attendee.

  “Yes, Miss Griffin,” she heard him state huskily at last. “You do appear to have found my pectoralis major.”

  Oh.

  Maybe the bucks had the right of it and a darkened cave did have its amusements. The clandestine nature of it all compelled her hand to continue its wander – purely to steady herself of course. Mr Hawkins’ palm pressed firmer, his fingers interlacing with hers. “Do you think I could–”

  Torchlight flickered anew, and in that moment, their gazes met.

  Mr Hawkins’ features held no amusement.

  In fact, his jaw was tight, pupils cast to Stygian black, lips thinned. Bare restraint and…more that she did not recognise held sway, but it both terrified and thrilled in equal measure.

  The light slanted away, their hands dropped and her swift exhale was echoed by his.

  “Well…” She puttered with her veil. “It appears a new torch has been procured.”

  Mr Hawkins spun to inspect the walls. “Indeed,” he murmured.

  All at once, a sinking sensation pervaded her as Matilda suspected a proper governess should never mention chest muscles – especially if they belonged to one’s employer.

  With a rustle, Mr Hawkins twisted back, arm proffered. “Shall we continue, Miss Griffin?”

  She noted his expression had returned to amiable and considerate, and so resolving to never again mention his rather magnificent pectoralis, she took his arm and they followed a short passage, turning a tight corner to reveal…

  A colossal room, light falling from a circular dome in the roof upon a mishmash of items crammed in cheek by jowl. The high walls were decorated with armour, shields and pistols, whereas lower down, cases of glass contained legions of stuffed animals eerily staring out.

  “The Pantherion,” she whispered.

  Central to it all, and guarded by an armoured medieval knight for some reason, was a roped-off display of statuesque animals from Africa – an elephant, zebra and giraffe, plus a few creatures she’d not a name for. A slack palm tree shaded the sight, a huge stuffed python coiling around its trunk, and upon another branch were blue peacocks – which she thought came from India not Africa.

  “A mite macabre for my tastes,” Mr Hawkins declared.

  Matilda sauntered amongst the cases, peering in at lifeless crows, motionless woodpeckers and less than magnificent plumed pelicans, until at last she found her Bird of Paradise.

  But…

  Its tail drooped and some of the feathers had fallen off; a vagrant leaf could not disguise the stitching. It looked…sad.

  The adjacent case helped not – the Black-bodied Bird of Paradise had faded to grey and it was missing an eye.

  “Oh.”

  Peculiar and sinister, and she so wished to hear their song. More birds squinted down from branches, but without life, their magnificent tails curved downwards not upwards, their demeanour stilted and unnatural. All useful, she supposed, for study, but the drawings she’d viewed held more emotion and…motion.

  “Not what you hoped for, Miss Griffin?”

  All night, she’d been so excited at the prospect of seeing these birds, had dreamed of them in flight, their tail feathers brushing her face.

  “I…” The next case held a Golden Bird of Paradise – the one she’d wished to see most of all – but the gold had tarnished.

  A fierce sadness enveloped her – for the lifeless birds and, pitifully, for herself.

  Never would she view them in the wild, had been dreaming foolish dreams when she’d talked of voyaging to the Molucca Islands.

  Her scattergood of a cousin had destroyed that hope – by squandering her parents’ money and the dowry that would have been hers in August.

  Yet here, at least, Matilda had thought she might imagine the birds in flight, share their exotic life and be dazzled by their colour…just for a few short moments.

  “No. Not what I expected. Although perhaps I expected too much.”

  A robust hand took her own and she gazed at Mr Hawkins. His eyes appeared brighter than those of any creature here – kind and strong and full of soul.

  Today, a handsome burgundy waistcoat with fine gold buttons adorned his person, its high collar accentuating his firm chin, delicate embroidery his broad chest, while jet-black coat, buckskins and shiny top-boots completed an effortless poise and immense power.

  “Why do you like these birds so much?” he enquired.

  “Many reasons – their colouring, grace, feathers and so forth, but also flight. I oft yearned to be a bird when young. To feel the sky rushing about me, to escape whenever and wherever I wished, to see the land so far below. I have lived a life based on theory rather than experience thus far, and to be a bird would be to experience…everything. To travel anywhere.”

  “‘Unpath’d waters, undream’d shores’.”

  Matilda winched a brow. “From another discarded theatre print, Mr Hawkins?”

  His lips twitched. “Litter, Miss Griffin, is the very menace of London.”

  They sauntered the room, but Matilda’s mood struggled to lighten, not even when Chloe and her friend arrived, arms windmilling about and cheeks as red as roses, having discovered the bed in Napoleon’s carriage.

  “It’s beneath the coachman’s seat,” Chloe gushed. “There’s a bedstead of steel and a writing desk, a gold booze case and a hand basin – all with a big N inscribed, in case he lost them.”

  “Which considering they are all housed in Piccadilly, he most certainly did,” said Mr Hawkins wryly. “Now, I believe Gunter’s ices are in order. The girls, I’m sure, have worked hard at their lessons.” Chloe nodded; Modesty’s eyes darted to her toes. “And Miss Griffin…” Matilda glanced up. “Needs a little
cheer.”

  “But your meeting?”

  “A duke can wait, Miss Griffin, but strawberry ices melt.” And he cast her a wink.

  A curl of joy seeped through Matilda’s doldrums.

  No one had ever been thoughtful of her feelings or aware of her mood. Her confidantes considered her shrewd, level-headed and never one for succumbing to wayward emotion; her parents had purely been interested in her tutelage and Astwood viewed her as a commodity to be sold.

  But Mr Hawkins had sensed her sadness…and sought to alleviate it.

  A muscled ex-prizefighter he may be, but solicitude and quiet perception underpinned his nature – a man as deep and unfathomable as the hieroglyphics in the Egyptian Hall.

  The silver spoon lifted and tilted to rosy lips, strawberry ice teetering, and then, as Seth’s governess consumed the sweet, she sighed her pleasure.

  He shifted uncomfortably and leaned as near as he dare in a tea shop. “How is the ice, Miss Griffin?”

  Those lips curved, which was all he could see with the veil covering to just below her nose, a tantalising glimpse of forbidden fruit.

  “Not plebeian in the least, Mr Hawkins. I’d say positively patrician.”

  Seth chuckled, but caught a glimpse of his daughter watching him with a thoughtful expression as she licked her spoon, so he nonchalantly drew back.

  As luck would have it, this little place on Berkeley Square was relatively empty for once, and they’d managed to nab a table in the corner. No perusal of the menu had been needed for Chloe and her friend, as in the past they’d plundered all the ices and now had their favourites. Miss Griffin, however, had spent an inordinate amount of time dallying over each option, asking questions as to sweetness and acidity.

  She’d plumped for the strawberry with mint flecks.

  Seth himself had solely ordered a cup of strong coffee in order to fortify himself for an irate duke. Yet he still couldn’t find it within himself to regret this visit to Gunter’s – helpless to do otherwise after he’d listened to Miss Griffin tell of her love for the birds, her wish to view them full of life…and then her sudden awareness that she may never be granted such a wish.