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“My father was vague in his rejection of Reverend Vale.”
    “Vale? Another reverend? I wonder . . .” He looked at her speculatively, and Mercy resisted the urge to squirm. “But here you are, Miss Franklin, ready to teach my niece.”
    “Yes, my lord,” she said, and suddenly realized what had seemed so “off” about the house. She had not seen any women here; no housekeeper, and not a maid in sight. Henry Blue had addressed Mr. Childers as corporal, and the men on the road had worn old army clothes. They seemed to have turned the place into an army installation. Not quite what she would consider an appropriate environment for a young girl.
    “You have not yet met my niece, Miss Franklin. How do you know you’ll be able to manage her? Or that your severe manner won’t terrify her?”
    “ Severe mann—” She stopped and took a deep breath, moistening her lips at the same time. She needed this post, at least temporarily. “I’m sure I’ll fare much better with your niece than a battalion of soldiers can do.”
    “Correction. Former soldiers,” he said, confirming her suspicions.
    “And ruffians, at that.” A muffled sound came from Mr. Lowell’s direction, but Mercy did not turn to look at him.
    For some reason, Lord Ashby brought out the worst in her. She wished she possessed better control of her tongue before those brazen words had a chance to slip out.
    Perhaps she wanted him to dismiss her before she could even begin.
    In any event, there’d been absolutely nothing wrong with her manner prior to meeting Lord Ashby. And since her parents had dictated her mode of grooming and dress, she knew they were perfectly proper, in spite of the fact that she was not wearing her mourning gown at the moment. It had been soaked in the rain and was drying by the fire in the kitchen.
    She sighed inwardly and decided she must try to redeem herself.
    “I would not call my manner severe, my lord. ’Tis merely sensible. Beyond that, I spent much of my time with the parish children and we got on well enough. Famously, in fact. I am sure your niece and I will carry on just fine together.”
    She thought she sounded convincing. At least, convincing enough for him to allow her to stay and try with the child.
    He rubbed the side of his head, and Mercy wondered if his facial damage was the result of battle. She supposed the injury could be what made him so irritable.
    Sympathy for the trouble the earl must have endured was out of place here and now. He had not yet indicated his approval of her as his niece’s governess and could send her away just as easily as keep her.
    Mercy slid her lower lip through her teeth and forced her nerves to settle as she took a surreptitious glance around the purely masculine room. A large desk occupied one corner, and the heavy, crimson draperies framed the filmy windows behind them. She had already noted that they were dusty with age and neglect—obviously, none of Lord Ashby’s men had taken note of their disreputable state. She hoped the nursery was kept in a more acceptable condition.
    “You’ll do, Miss Franklin.”
    “Thank you, my lord.”
    Mercy’s heart pattered with relief.
    She had a home, at least for the time being, and a means to earn a living. She wondered if she ought to speak of her salary now, for Mr. Lowell had not mentioned it in his letter. Never having sought employment before, she was unsure of the proper protocol.
    Nor did she know how to broach the subject. She should not be embarrassed to ask about the wages she intended to earn, but being in need stung deeply. “D-does your niece have a nurse, my lord?”
    Lord Ashby made a low sound, and Mr. Lowell quickly answered the question. “No, Miss Franklin. Emmaline is an independent child.”
    She’d forgotten Mr. Lowell was in the room. “I beg your pardon?” she asked, turning to him.
    “Private Blue looks after Lady Emmaline for the most part,” Lowell explained. “And Corporal Roarke spells him when