The Governess's Guide to Spells and Managing Misfit Marquesses (The Parasol Academy Book 2)

No doubt Lord Fitzwilliam—sweet boy that he was—was somewhere on board the Valiant, alone and afraid, shivering in his small kid boots.

Well, not for much longer, whispered Mina beneath her breath. She might not be Lord Fitzwilliam's governess in an official capacity anymore—the high-handed Sir Bedivere had summarily dismissed her a fortnight ago for no discernible reason—but she must do what was morally right.

What she'd promised Lady Grenfell she would do.

"No matter what," Mina whispered to herself. Even if the viscount's godmother had been mistaken and Sir Bedivere's ring wasn't cursed and her dream had simply been a nightmare and not a genuine portent of impending doom, common sense dictated that the North Pole was no place for a child.

Ignoring the frantic tripping of her heart, and determinedly crushing down any second thoughts, Mina picked up the navy wool skirts of her Parasol Academy uniform, stepped out of the deep shadows of a quayside warehouse, then studied the steady stream of laden carts and passersby, looking for a clear path to Sir Bedivere Ponsonby's ship. The Valiant's gangplank was still down, but she was almost ready to launch. A waiting tugboat chugged away at the prow and there was a small crowd—including Sir Bedivere—gathered on the quarterdeck. Although, as far as Mina could tell, there was no sign of little Lord Fitzwilliam. His fair head was nowhere to be seen.

She needed to make haste, but carefully.

Although Mina was invisible, it was always best to be cautious when employing the Cloakify spell. Even an inadvertent collision might knock her umbrella and its protective shadow askew, exposing part of her person. The unexpected appearance of a disembodied body part, or even an untoward billow of her bell-like skirts, would be sure to draw attention; attention that she could ill afford to attract.

Subterfuge, just like an immaculate uniform and perfectly professional demeanor, was paramount.

When Mina at last spied a relatively unobstructed gap in the crowd, she marched smartly across the quay heading straight for the 'Valiant'. She trusted that no one would detect the light tap of her heeled boots on the cobblestones. Or her gasp, then muttered curse, when a sailor lugging an enormous sack almost ran into her.

Just sneak aboard, find Lord Fitzwilliam, hide him beneath your umbrella, then disembark. Sir Bedivere will be so caught up in the hubbub of the' Valiant''s launch, he won't notice his ward is missing until it's too late. At least, that's what Mina told herself as she swiftly scaled the gangplank—thanks to her Parasol Academy training, she had excellent balance—and gained the main deck of the ship without incident.

As she began to creep along the portside railing toward the fair-headed Sir Bedivere—all the while hoping to catch sight of her former charge—an inopportune wind swept across the deck, and for a few fraught moments, Mina fought against the bullying breeze, struggling to keep her umbrella in place.

Drat and darn! She did 'not' need this.

Then, thank goodness, the wind abated with a gusty sigh, and Mina couldn't help but breathe her own huge sigh of relief.

Sir Bedivere—he was quite the braggadocio—suddenly released a hearty laugh, catching Mina's attention. "Right-o, Captain," he boomed, clapping the shoulder of a pewter-haired gentleman beside him. In the afternoon sunlight, the baronet's silver and obsidian ring flashed, momentarily blinding Mina. "Let's get this vessel underway! The Northwest Passage awaits!"

Oh, double drat. Mina huffed out an exasperated sigh. There was no time to lose.

She hurried toward the quarterdeck, frantically scanning everywhere for a small fair-headed boy—but Lord Fitzwilliam was definitely not on deck.

He must be below. Unless Mina's source of intelligence—Napier, the steadfast butler at Fitzwilliam House in London, an upstanding character who'd been loyal to Lady Grenfell—had been wrong about his young master's whereabouts. Though Napier had been right about the details of the Valiant's imminent launch—her maiden expedition to the Arctic since Sir Bedivere had acquired her...with his ward's money.

At that moment, the Valiant's captain barked an order and the crew leapt into action—seamen unfurled the mainmast's sails, unhitched the mooring ropes tethering the ship to the quay, then hauled up the gangplank. When the tugboat sounded its horn, the Valiant creaked and shuddered and lurched and began moving ponderously along the River Avon, on its way to the river mouth and the Bristol Channel.