Can a straitlaced engineer, three psychic children, and a lonely witch find love?
The daughter of an earl, Lady Phoebe Malcolm Duncan has the ability to talk to animals. She longs to be a veterinarian, but education requires more coin than she possesses. When the walls of her home come tumbling down, she has to take two steps back—to servitude.
Inventor Andrew Blair keeps his nose to the grindstone, knowing his friends and family depend on his talent for turning machines into money. He is about to embark on his biggest investment yet—rebuilding crumbling tenements in Old Town Edinburgh— until his beleaguered cousin begs him to hide his precocious children from a killer.
When the School of Malcolms sends Lady Phoebe as governess for his wards, Drew’s well-ordered beliefs are upended. Ladies don’t live in slum housing like the one he’s about to tear down, nor do they command ravens or encourage children to talk to dead mothers. It might take a vengeful ghost to show the disparate pair how to join forces, fight their fears and their enemies, and reveal a path to love.
“You mistake me,” a plummy feminine voice declared in icy hauteur from the foyer.
On his way up the stairs to wash before attending yet another business meeting, Drew hesitated.
The rounded vowels continued, “I am Lady Phoebe Malcolm Duncan. I will not use the servants’ entrance.” The lady’s cool tones conveyed imperiousness without once raising her voice. “If this is how I am greeted, then you may tell your master that he may find someone else to educate his children.”
Oh no, he wasn’t losing another nanny before she was even hired! He’d had to throw out the last one when he’d found her drunk in the kitchen after the episode with Clare and the ghost.
He hastened down the stairs despite the fact that he was missing jacket and cravat and his shirt was coated in oil and his worst nightmare was at the door.
The apparition in his foyer almost brought him to a halt. He had expected aristocracy at its worst—billowing skirts and soaring tresses and condemnation permanently engraved in her expression.
Instead, the visitor had no resemblance to any female he’d ever encountered. He couldn’t precisely gauge her height since she appeared to be wearing high-top shoes with heels beneath her too-short skirt, and her porkpie hat—adorned with roses—teetered above a stack of chestnut curls. A black duster hid most of her gown, but he was positively certain it didn’t conceal layers of petticoats. In fact, he was quite convinced the skirt was somehow. . . divided.
She was holding a high-wheeled bicycle. And her pocket was. . . squirming.
Now he was mesmerized.