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her teeth?” she asked. “Nanny always takes them out when she goes to bed. Shouldn’t we get them out for her? Maybe she’ll choke.”
     
    Una viewed television every night of the week, except on her night off. Then she went to the cinema. Tonight she sat in her armchair and watched Marlon Brando kissing his screen mistress. She sighed, and wondered for the millionth time what it felt like to be kissed by a man. The thought made her sneeze. She sighed again. A lot of people were allergic to something--cat’s fur, pollen, paint, alcohol. Una was allergic to males. Any sort of males, human or animal. And so, as Nanny Nesbitt, her work was restricted to female children only.
    Una was thirty-eight--age and bust. Fate made her attractive to men. But, sadly, made men unattractive to Una. She experienced all the normal feelings, but could never follow them through. A man had only to move in on her and she would sneeze violently. If touched, she came out in a rash. Once, when she was eighteen, a boy had started to kiss her. Regretfully, she’d fainted. She’d tried romances by telephone, even pen pals. They only made her more frustrated.
    Brando kissed the girl again. Una watched, her lips slightly apart, as his hands pummelled the girl’s body.
    Una thought of men. She thought of the 25th Earl. She hadn’t met him, but she remembered Melissa’s description. He sounded handsome. Such a pity he should have died so young. She tried to imagine herself in Hettie’s place and wondered how she’d have felt if it had happened to her. Just terrible. Now there was the problem of the message. She wondered why it was so important.
    “I’ll love you ... forever ... maybe,” mumbled Brando. He swung his leg over his motorcycle and roared away. Una sighed again, then sneezed.
     
    “Stand up,” said twenty-two-year-old Nanny Melissa, severely. “How do you expect me to soap you while you’re playing with that boat?”
    Randall Andrew Jerome the Fourth splashed noisily. He submerged himself until his eye was at bathwater level, then he sighted along his navel, through the steam, at the destroyer, which was just visible against the green marble end of the sunken bath. He torpedoed the warship with his big toe.
    A hard, sharp-nailed finger poked his stomach.
    “Master Randall,” threatened Melissa St. Clair.
    Randall stood. His red-haired nanny sponged him. She had gentle fingers, most of the time. He held his arms up. She soaped his armpits, then his chest and back.
    She splashed water on his thighs. He heard her sudsing the sponge. He looked up at the ceiling and whistled. It was hard to stay in tune while she lathered his thighs, but concentration on the music helped. As usual, he went off key at the critical moment.
    “Wash off the soap,” ordered Melissa. Her green eyes were determined.
    Randall sat down. She swilled hot water over him.
    “Now, out you get and dry yourself while I have a quick shower. Okay, darling?”
    He nodded.
    Randall Andrew Jerome the Fourth climbed out of the bath. He was tall, good-looking, and only twenty- six years old--the playboy heir to a multi-million dollar fortune. His father, always traveling, always busy extending his financial empire, relied on him to control the East Coast section.
    Randy’d had British nannies ever since he was a baby. His father had placed a standing order with a domestic employment agency, and another with his bank, to meet the nannies’ salaries. The orders had never been rescinded. Jerome Senior had forgotten them, and Jerome Junior preferred not to remind him. For, as Randy grew older, his nannies became younger and prettier. Melissa, he decided, was perfect.
    “Bedtime,” said Melissa, sharply, when she returned from the shower. “At once, Master Randall.”
    Randy grinned, and continued pouring himself a drink.
    “Now,” insisted Melissa. “Or I shall be very angry.”
    Randy poured another glass and handed it to her. She smiled at him, and put the