Page 6 of The Marriage Method

Miles exhaled. “There,” he said, sitting back on his haunches. “No damage done.”

No sooner had he uttered the fateful words than the door was thrust open and Higgins burst in carrying a small box in his hand.

“Mr. Quincey? This was just delivered at the front desk. Bob said as how you’d want to be notified directly…” The newspaper clerk’s words trailed away as he beheld the scene before him—Miss Trewlove on the floor with her skirts above her knees and Miles looming over her like some vile seducer.

Higgins wasn’t alone. An older, distinguished-looking gentleman stood a short distance behind him in the hall. The esteemed member of the parish council, presumably, come early for his appointment.

Seeing him, the color drained from Miss Trewlove’s face. She scrambled to a sitting position, hastily pulling her skirts into some semblance of order. “Reverend Pettiman!”

Pettiman’s florid countenance went crimson with outrage.

Miles didn’t flinch. Neither did he hesitate. “I’ll be with you in a moment, Higgins,” he said in the same curt, businesslike tones he employed when dealing with any other workplace catastrophe. “See to my next appointment before he has an apoplexy, would you? And if you wouldn’t mind closing the door?”

“Yes, sir. Apologies, sir. Completely my fault.” Higgins backed out of the office, shutting the door after him with a power that rattled the doorframe.

To Miles, the sound was as significant as the crash of the gallows’ trapdoor. His fate was plain. He accepted it with a grim sense of resignation.

Miss Trewlove’s eyes found his. “Mr. Quincey—”

“Given our current predicament,” he said, “I believe you had better accustom yourself to calling me Miles.”

2

Nell permitted Miles to assist her to her feet. The pale-faced horror she’d felt on seeing Reverend Pettiman in the hall rapidly gave way to an ungovernable rush of anger. “Of all the despicable tricks! What is a member of the parish council doing here?”

“I have an interview with him,” Miles said, sounding as infinitely calm and rational as he had when the clerk had burst in on them.

“What? But…why? I said I’d answer your questions. There was no cause to—” Nell stopped herself, hearing the shrill note of hysteria creeping into her words. She brought her voice down to a normal register. Whatever else happened, she was not going to panic. “This was uncalled for, sir.”

Miles’s hand remained at her elbow. “Unfortunate, certainly, insofar as timing, but I wouldn’t say it was uncalled for. When you wouldn’t agree to meet me, the logical next step was to seek out another person affiliated with the charity school.”

“Logical, you say? And I suppose it was logical to ask your clerk to close the door after we were discovered together?”

“It seemed the reasonable course until I’d assisted you up,” Miles said. “It was either that or have the whole of my office witness you flat on your back.”

A blush threatened. “But the reverend did witness it. If you only knew— Oh!” She gave a startled cry as his hand left her elbow, feeling her leg give way beneath her for the second time today.

Miles’s arm was instantly around her waist, strong as a band of iron. A fierce concern darkened his brow. “Did you injure yourself?”

She glared at him, heat stealing into her cheeks despite her best efforts to contain it. He was holding her far too close. Her bosom was pressed indecorously to his side, and her skirts—already rumpled beyond bearing—were crushed against his legs. “Yes,” she said tightly, drawing as far back from him as she was able. “Some time ago. If you would be so good as to help me find my cane?”

He stared down at her, frowning. “Your cane,” he repeated.

“It was leaning against the chair beside me. It must have fallen when I jumped up.” She looked around the office, exerting every resource she possessed to quell the rising tide of panic that clawed at her throat.

That had been Reverend Pettiman out there. The Reverend Pettiman. The same insufferable man who had the gall to dictate official Academy policy to Miss Corvus. And now he had seen Nell with a man under her skirts.

How on earth was she to explain it?

Miles helped her back to her chair. His hand remained at her waist until she was seated, even as he scanned the room for her missing cane. “It’s there,” he said. “Beneath the desk.”

“If you wouldn’t mind—”

“Of course.” He promptly retrieved her cane. His eyes lingered a moment on the raven’s head handle. “Here you are.”

“Thank you.” She took it, feeling at once more herself.

She hadn’t always used a cane. Indeed, when at the Academy, she generally refrained from relying on one. But it was different today. The train to London had rattled dreadfully, the streets were uneven and unfamiliar, and the chances of stumbling while climbing in and out of a hackney cab had been exponentially greater than the risk of losing her footing on the Academy’s staircase. The last thing she’d wanted was to end up in a heap on the ground.