stirrups circled the soles of a pair of black and tan half Wellingtons with squared-off toes—the very height of fashion. “Only the best, eh, Ned?”
“Sir?”
“Never mind. How soon can you have your things packed?”
“Sir?”
Simon studied those dark eyes and again saw, behind the lad’s confusion, the simmering energy that had caught his attention that morning. Puzzlement gripped him, a sense that the spirit embodied by that spark simply didn’t fit the outer image of the ungainly Mr. Ivers, as if he’d been encased in a foreign, utterly mismatched shell.
“You know, Ivers,” he said, “for someone who is able to pour his heart out through his pen, you have surprisingly scant verbal skills. This could prove problematic.”
Alarm filled the boy’s eyes. “I promise it won’t, sir. I can be as verbose as you please when the occasion warrants it. It’s merely that ...”
“The boots?” Simon joked. “Cutting off the oxygen to your brain?”
Ivers’s oddly elegant eyebrows knotted and white lines of tension formed on either side of his nose. Then . . . his generous lips twitched and broke into a grin. “Indeed, sir, that must be it, surely. I must find a way to loosen them posthaste.”
Simon joined in the youth’s chuckles, until something about their shared mirth felt too familiar, too . . . intimate. He stepped another stride backward. What was it about this fellow that left him so flustered, and would it be a hindrance to their working together?
The thought of screening more applicants overcame his doubts. The lad was awkward and shy, but that would change once they established a rapport. Simon would make this work; either that or he must reconcile himself to working alone.
Simon regarded the boy, waiting respectfully if nervously silent. “ Mr. Ivers seems too formidable for such a wisp of a youth. What do they call you at home?”
The lad considered a moment before he smiled and lifted his chin. “Actually, sir, my sisters call me Ivy.”
“Ivy?” The sound of it made Simon feel like smiling, too, but he didn’t. No, like the fellow’s laughter, the nickname produced a too cozy, too damnably intimate sensation inside him. “That won’t do, either. What did you say your Christian name was?”
“Edwin, sir.”
“A bit formal, that. I shall call you Ned. You may call me Lord Harrow.”
“Yes, sir. Then . . . I have won the . . . the challenge, sir?”
Simon blinked and dropped his gaze in concern. “Those boots really are too tight, aren’t they? What the blazes do you think we’re doing here? Of course you won the challenge.”
“Thank you, sir . . . Oh, thank you!”
“Mind you, we shall proceed on a strictly trial basis. Upon the first indication that you might prove unsuited to the position—”
“There shan’t be, Lord Harrow. I promise. I swear, oh—”
“That will be sufficient, Ned.” Simon scanned the rows of Gothic, stone-cased windows of the building before them. “Are you presently living here?”
“I am, sir.”
“How soon can you have your things packed and ready to be moved?”
Ned’s eyes narrowed within their uncommonly thick lashes. “Moved . . . to where, sir?”
“Harrowood, of course.”
“But . . .”
“You can’t very well assist me from here, can you?”
“But I thought ...” Ned’s hands snapped to his hips. “I assumed the laboratory in question would be located on the university grounds.”
Simon emitted a laugh. “My dear boy, I am not employed by the university. I have one laboratory, and it is located at Harrowood.”
“And it is necessary for me to . . . move in?”
“Sorry, but yes. My research is of a sensitive nature and I won’t risk word of it leaking out prematurely. Does this pose some sort of predicament for you?”
Ned emitted a high, squeaky little note, but he shook his head. “No predicament, sir.”
“You needn’t worry, lad. This has been cleared with the dean of natural philosophies.
“Sir?”
“Never mind. How soon can you have your things packed?”
“Sir?”
Simon studied those dark eyes and again saw, behind the lad’s confusion, the simmering energy that had caught his attention that morning. Puzzlement gripped him, a sense that the spirit embodied by that spark simply didn’t fit the outer image of the ungainly Mr. Ivers, as if he’d been encased in a foreign, utterly mismatched shell.
“You know, Ivers,” he said, “for someone who is able to pour his heart out through his pen, you have surprisingly scant verbal skills. This could prove problematic.”
Alarm filled the boy’s eyes. “I promise it won’t, sir. I can be as verbose as you please when the occasion warrants it. It’s merely that ...”
“The boots?” Simon joked. “Cutting off the oxygen to your brain?”
Ivers’s oddly elegant eyebrows knotted and white lines of tension formed on either side of his nose. Then . . . his generous lips twitched and broke into a grin. “Indeed, sir, that must be it, surely. I must find a way to loosen them posthaste.”
Simon joined in the youth’s chuckles, until something about their shared mirth felt too familiar, too . . . intimate. He stepped another stride backward. What was it about this fellow that left him so flustered, and would it be a hindrance to their working together?
The thought of screening more applicants overcame his doubts. The lad was awkward and shy, but that would change once they established a rapport. Simon would make this work; either that or he must reconcile himself to working alone.
Simon regarded the boy, waiting respectfully if nervously silent. “ Mr. Ivers seems too formidable for such a wisp of a youth. What do they call you at home?”
The lad considered a moment before he smiled and lifted his chin. “Actually, sir, my sisters call me Ivy.”
“Ivy?” The sound of it made Simon feel like smiling, too, but he didn’t. No, like the fellow’s laughter, the nickname produced a too cozy, too damnably intimate sensation inside him. “That won’t do, either. What did you say your Christian name was?”
“Edwin, sir.”
“A bit formal, that. I shall call you Ned. You may call me Lord Harrow.”
“Yes, sir. Then . . . I have won the . . . the challenge, sir?”
Simon blinked and dropped his gaze in concern. “Those boots really are too tight, aren’t they? What the blazes do you think we’re doing here? Of course you won the challenge.”
“Thank you, sir . . . Oh, thank you!”
“Mind you, we shall proceed on a strictly trial basis. Upon the first indication that you might prove unsuited to the position—”
“There shan’t be, Lord Harrow. I promise. I swear, oh—”
“That will be sufficient, Ned.” Simon scanned the rows of Gothic, stone-cased windows of the building before them. “Are you presently living here?”
“I am, sir.”
“How soon can you have your things packed and ready to be moved?”
Ned’s eyes narrowed within their uncommonly thick lashes. “Moved . . . to where, sir?”
“Harrowood, of course.”
“But . . .”
“You can’t very well assist me from here, can you?”
“But I thought ...” Ned’s hands snapped to his hips. “I assumed the laboratory in question would be located on the university grounds.”
Simon emitted a laugh. “My dear boy, I am not employed by the university. I have one laboratory, and it is located at Harrowood.”
“And it is necessary for me to . . . move in?”
“Sorry, but yes. My research is of a sensitive nature and I won’t risk word of it leaking out prematurely. Does this pose some sort of predicament for you?”
Ned emitted a high, squeaky little note, but he shook his head. “No predicament, sir.”
“You needn’t worry, lad. This has been cleared with the dean of natural philosophies.
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