Marrying Winterborne (The Ravenels #2) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,12
the name, he absently stroked her cheek with a gentle fingertip. “Think of our children, cariad. Sturdy Welsh stock with a Ravenel strain. They’ll conquer the world.”
“I rather think you’ll conquer it before they have a chance,” Helen said, reaching for a fresh sheet of paper.
After she had written and sealed two notes, Rhys took them to the threshold of the office and called for Mrs. Fernsby.
The secretary answered the summons with unusual haste. Although her manner was professional as usual, the hazel eyes behind her round spectacles were bright with curiosity. Her gaze flickered to the room behind him, but his shoulders blocked her view.
“Yes, Mr. Winterborne?”
He gave her the notes. “Have these taken to the mews and delivered to the driver of the Ravenel carriage. I want them placed directly into his hands.”
The name earned a quick double-blink. “So it is Lady Helen.”
His eyes narrowed. “Not a word to anyone.”
“Certainly not, sir. Will there be anything else?”
“Take this to the jeweler.” He dropped the diamond ring into her extended hand.
Mrs. Fernsby gasped at the rich glittering weight in her palm. “Sweet heaven above. I assume you mean the master jeweler, Mr. Sauveterre?”
“Aye, tell him to bring up a tray of rings, in this size, that are suitable for betrothal. I’ll expect him within the half hour.”
“If he isn’t immediately available, shall I ask one of the other—”
“I want Sauveterre,” he repeated, “in my office, within the half hour.”
Mrs. Fernsby responded with a distracted nod, and he could almost see the gears of her sensible brain spinning as she tried to piece together what was happening.
“Also,” Rhys continued, “clear my schedule for the rest of the day.”
The secretary stared at him fixedly. He had never made such a request before, for any reason. “The entire day? How shall I explain it?”
Rhys shrugged impatiently. “Invent something. And tell the household servants that I intend to spend a quiet afternoon at home with a guest. I don’t want a soul in sight unless I ring.” He paused, giving her a hard glance. “Make it clear to the office staff that if I hear so much as a whisper about this, from any quarter, I’ll fire the lot of them without asking a single question.”
“I would dismiss them myself,” she assured him. Having personally supervised the interviewing and hiring of most of the office staff, Mrs. Fernsby took pride in their excellence. “However, their discretion is beyond question.” Closing her fingers over the ring, she regarded him speculatively. “Might I suggest a tea tray? Lady Helen appears rather delicate. Refreshments might be just the thing while she awaits the jeweler.”
Rhys’s brows drew together. “I should have thought of that.”
She couldn’t quite repress a self-satisfied smile. “Not at all, Mr. Winterborne. That is what you employ me for.”
As he watched her depart, Rhys reflected that Mrs. Fernsby could easily be forgiven for a touch of smugness: She was easily the best private secretary in London, performing her job with an efficiency that surpassed any of her male peers.
More than one person had suggested at the time that a male secretary would have been far more suitable for a man of Rhys’s position. But he trusted his instincts in such matters. He could detect the same qualities in others: appetite, determination, vigor, which had driven him on the long, laborious climb from shop-boy to business magnate. It mattered not a whit to him about an employee’s origins, beliefs, culture, or gender. All he cared about was excellence.
Mrs. Fernsby returned soon with a tea tray that had been sent up from the in-store restaurant. Although the secretary tried to remain inconspicuous as she set it on a small round table, Helen spoke to her gently.
“Thank you, Mrs. Fernsby.”
The secretary turned to her with surprised pleasure. “You are quite welcome, my lady. Is there anything else you require?”
Helen smiled. “No, this is lovely.”
The secretary lingered in the office, insisting on arranging a plate for Helen as if she were waiting on the Queen. Using a pair of silver tongs, she reached into a small basket adorned with white ribbon, and transferred tiny sandwiches and cakes to the plate.
“Enough fawning, Fernsby,” Rhys said. “You have work to attend to.”
“Of course, Mr. Winterborne.” The secretary sent him a discreet but incinerating glance as she set aside the silver tongs.
Rhys accompanied Mrs. Fernsby to the door, and paused with her just beyond the threshold. They kept their voices low, mindful of being overheard.