Author's Note: Warning! The previous chapter was uploaded in the middle of last weekend's multi-day freeze. If you did not read that yet, you might want to go back and read that first, before embarking on this chapter!

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The children were already in the drawing-room, where Henry was loading his plate with his favourite tuna sandwiches, and Ginny was pouring tea for Philip.

"Philip," his father announced. "Here is someone I would like you to meet."

The children looked up, and Philip came forward, curiously eyeing the stranger.

"Philip, I would like you to meet Mr… I mean, Monsieur Girardaux, a music master from London. Monsieur Girardaux, this is my youngest, Master Philip Fitzwilliam."

Philip's jaw dropped. "For me?! A real music master for me?!"

"Yes." His father smiled at his reaction. "It seems Grandfather wanted to surprise us. Will you not greet him properly?"

"Oh!" Philip quickly sketched a bow. "I am really happy to make your acquaintance, sir!"

"As am I." Monsieur Girardaux's bow was deep, and somewhat overly reverent. "Philippe… Master Philippe, let me see your hands."

Surprised, Philip held out his hands. Monsieur Girardaux took them both in his, studying them, testing them, flexing them.

"Yes," he spoke half under his breath. "Long, strong, yet supple fingers, a beautiful sleek hand, and a flexible wrist. These are the hands of a true pianist."

Philip beamed at him. "I am a pianist."

"And how old are you, little Philippe?"

Hartwell flinched for Girardaux's sake, but Philip blithely answered, "I am eight, sir. I will be nine in October."

"And how long have you been playing?"

"Um…" Philip looked to his father. "I believe since I was three?"

Hartwell chuckled. "You have had lessons since you were three, yes. But you have been fascinated by the pianoforte ever since you were able to reach the keys."

"Excellent. Très, très bien," Monsieur Girardaux mumbled. "And who has been teaching you so far?"

"Miss Kenway, sir. She is my governess. And my Aunt Georgie when we were at Pemberley for Christmas. She is really good. Are you as good as her?"

Girardaux smiled down at him. "I am afraid I do not believe I have ever heard your aunt perform. But I hope I will not disappoint you." He gestured to the pianoforte in the corner. "Will you not play for me first?"

"Of course!" Philip already scurried off to open the instrument, and Hartwell quickly took the opportunity to introduce the other two as well. "Monsieur Girardaux, these are my other children: Master Henry Fitzwilliam and Miss Virginia Fitzwilliam."

"Enchanté," Girardaux bowed. "Do either of your play the pianoforte, too, by any chance?"

"Yes. I do, sir," Ginny said quietly. "Though Philip is much better than me."

Girardaux heaved a sigh. "That is life, ma petite Virginie. Some people just have it, while most of us struggle to reach even a level of mediocrity. I would not worry too much. We all do the best we can." With that, he turned his attention to the pianoforte where Philip began to prelude, and for the next hour, no attention could be spared for anything or anyone else.

Hartwell and his two eldest had their tea under quiet conversation.

"He seems a bit odd," was Henry's opinion.

"Well, he is French," his father extenuated. "People from other countries often have different habits. They are simply from a different culture. He may well be very normal for a Frenchman."

Henry chuckled. "I wonder what Uncle Richard would say if he knew we had a real life Frenchman here."

"He probably knows," Hartwell thought. "It was Grandfather who engaged the man after all. And Uncle Richard lives in the same house."

"But what if he is a spy?"

"Grandfather had him checked out. He seems to have no political or military connections at all. Grandfather judged him to be quite safe."

"Of course," Henry said with a doomsday voice. "That's what they all say."

And Ginny added darkly, "I don't like him. He is so… so… intense. Can I not continue my lessons with Miss Kenway instead, Papa?"

"Of course you can, sweetie. I am sure Miss Kenway would be happy not to lose both of you to this Monsieur Girardaux."

It turned out he had to actually pry Monsieur Girardaux away from the pianoforte if he wanted to discuss arrangements with him. And with him came Philip, who already was practically glued to the man's side.

"Sir, do you have any preference for how often and when you would like to work with Philip?"

Monsieur Girardaux cleared his throat. "I suppose he has other lessons as well?"

"Indeed he has. He is with his governess until one in the afternoon, followed by a small luncheon."

"Then I will take him after the luncheon. For two hours every day."

"Two hours?"

"Really? Every day?" Philip breathed in obvious awe. "Miss Kenway only did one hour on Monday, Wednesday, Friday!"

"Two hours. Every day," Monsieur Girardaux confirmed. "If you want to reach excellence, you need diligent practice and instruction every day."

"I assure you he practises a lot on his own as well," Hartwell felt obliged to point out.

But, "Papa! I want to practise with Monsieur Girardaux! I always thought Miss Kenway's lessons were far too short!"

"Well… alright then. We will see how it goes. So Monday to Saturday it is then, from say two to four in the afternoon."

"What about Sunday?" Philip queried. "Monsieur Girardaux said 'every day'."

"No, Philip," was his father's reply. "You can play as much as you like on Sunday. But the Lord instated Sunday as a rest day – even from piano lessons."

"But I want to!"

"I really would not mind, monsieur," Girardaux added.

But Hartwell held firm. "No, sir. I must insist on this. He needs a life away from the pianoforte as well."

Girardaux seemed to acquisce in that, even if Philip did not.

"Do not worry, little Philippe. I can give you so much to practise with on Saturdays, that it will easily tide you over the Sundays."

That was not exactly what Hartwell had in mind, but he decided to wait and see first how things developed.

After inviting the man to stay at Matlock until other lodgings could be arranged, the musical pair went off to the music room to further their acquaintance, and Hartwell had some estate matters to attend to.

Girardaux of course joined them for dinner that evening, too. He entered the drawing-room to await the summons for dinner with Philip still glued to his side. The pair of them could barely spare the attention to even acknowledge the others, so engrossed were they in their musical conversation.

Until Miss Kenway entered.

Girardaux's breath caught in his throat, and he was on his feet in an instant. "Quelle vision celeste…" he breathed as his eyes hungrily drank in her appearance.

Miss Kenway blushed and averted her eyes, and Hartwell, approaching them to make the introductions, sent a decidedly annoyed glare in Monsieur Girardaux's direction.

"Monsieur 'Artwell," Girardaux whispered, "Will you not introduce me to this arresting beauty?"

"Of course." Forcing his expression to neutral, he gestured to Girardaux. "Miss Kenway, allow me to introduce Monsieur Girardaux, Philip's new music master from London. Monsieur Girardaux, this is the children's governess, Miss Kenway."

Miss Kenway curtseyed. "Welcome, sir," she spoke formally. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance."

Girardaux bowed floridly over her hand. "Enchanté, Mademoiselle Kenway. I assure you the pleasure is all mine."

Behind him, Henry snickered. But the look of ardent adoration on Girardaux's face seriously irked Hartwell, and he was quick to divert Miss Kenway's attention to himself. "It seems my father wanted to surprise us. I had expected him to write first when he found someone."

"Well, I am here now," Girardaux stated with a blinding smile at the lady. "Mademoiselle Kenway, I understand you are the capable lady who has been teaching my little Philippe to play the pianoforte so far?"

"Yes, that would be correct, sir."

"And if I may be so bold to ask: who taught you?"

She smiled. "My mother did, sir."

"And what is her name?"

Miss Kenway raised an eyebrow at his line of questioning. "Does it matter, sir?"

"As a matter of fact it does." Girardaux steepled his fingers. "I would like to map out the influences that have shaped my little Philippe's playing so far. Will you not tell me your mother's name?"

"Very well then: she was Mrs Kenway, the late mistress of Hendon Hall in Dorset."

"I mean her maiden name."

That elicited another raised eyebrow. "Miss Anna Weston."

Girardaux shook his head, clearly disappointed. "Not a name I know. Do you know by any chance who taught her?"

"Sir," Hartwell brusquely interrupted, but Miss Kenway got in before he could deliver his rebuke.

"I am sorry, sir, but I do not know who taught my mother to play. I am afraid I cannot help you any further."

Girardaux sighed. "Quel dommage…"

Hartwell glared at him, but at that moment, Eldridge appeared to announce that dinner was served.

Hartwell thought quickly. He had wanted to spare Ginny the discomfort of having a dinner partner with whom she was not really at ease, but he did not want the man to harass or slaver over Miss Kenway either. But maybe if he…?

"Ginny, you accompany Monsieur Girardaux into dinner. Philip, you sit at his other side, and Henry next to Miss Kenway." There. Hopefully, the way they had been going so far, Philip would keep his new master occupied for the rest of the evening, with the welcome side effect that the man would be physically turned away from the ladies.

Mercifully, his strategy worked. Philip and Girardaux were absorbed in their own conversation to the point that they were completely oblivious to the rest of the company. Which was just the way Hartwell wanted it.

What he found most remarkable though, was that Philip happily allowed his new master to constantly call him 'little'. For years already, Philip had vociferously objected to being referred to as 'little' – or Heaven forbid, his toddler name Pip. From his music master however, he seemed to take the appellation 'little' as an endearment. Interesting!

After dinner, the two musicians continued their budding acquaintance while playing the pianoforte, and even Hartwell had to admit that it was nice to have musical accompaniment throughout the evening.

Henry and Ginny on the other hand roped him into a game of cards, and Miss Kenway took up her sewing as usual.

But Hartwell's attention was not on the game. Time and again, his eyes strayed to Miss Kenway where she sat, her head bowed over her sewing. But every now and then, she raised her head and pensively studied the duo at the pianoforte. What…? Was she…?!

His heart froze. Those stupid compliments; was she honestly falling for them?! That could not be, could it? True, Girardaux was considerably closer to her in age than he was, and according to lore, artists tend to exercise a certain bohemian appeal over young ladies. And the man certainly was not bad-looking; no greying at his temples yet.

But Miss Kenway?!

His Miss Kenway?!

His mind screeched to a halt. Wait. Since when was she his Miss Kenway?!

Ginny nudged him, and mindlessly, he threw down one of his cards.

Henry snorted – apparently, it had not been a particularly good one.

But Miss Kenway…? Could she really…?! With that Girardaux fellow? That fop, that… that dandy…?! Surely she was too intelligent to fall for someone of his stature? Yes, he may be proficient in music, but what could he possibly offer her? Would she really spurn him – the next Earl of Matlock and the de facto and future master of one of the richest estates in all of England – for the smarmy flirtation of…

Wait a second. Was he… jealous?!

Ginny nudged him again. "Your turn, Papa."

But with a mumbled apology, he put down his cards and got up. And wandered over to where Miss Kenway sat.

She looked up when he approached her, her eyes shining with delight. "He is truly an excellent pianist. Do you not agree?"

Hartwell glanced at the object of his scorn. Or jealousy. Whatever. "Is he?"

"Oh yes. He is far better suited to help Philip develop his skills than I am. Look at the boy: he is glowing!"

Hartwell looked back at his son. At least Miss Kenway seemed to be focused on him, and not on Girardaux. Good.

And yes, she was right: with his eyes starry and his cheeks flushed, Philip was obviously having the time of his life. He had rarely seen his boy this happy.

He sighed. A pity then that the man somehow rubbed him the wrong way. His empty flirtations with Miss Kenway, his own disconcerting sense of déjà-vu… It was a good thing that the man would be staying in the village somewhere; that would at least limit his chances of luring in Miss Kenway.

He turned back to the lady in question. "I am sorry I did not interfere sooner this evening. I hope he did not make you too uncomfortable?"

She smiled, and shook her head. "Don't worry, sir. It was nothing I could not handle."

But there, Ginny joined their conversation to confirm with Miss Kenway that she could continue her music lessons with her instead.

Dammit. Was he ever going to have a private and uninterrupted conversation with Miss Kenway – before the first musical dandy to cross his doorstep swept her off her feet?

As was his wont with new tutors, Hartwell sat in on their first lesson the next day. It was heartening to see how Philip drank in every word from his new master's lips, and even a musical illiterate like himself could hear that the boy's playing instantly improved. Philip was beaming like a lighthouse throughout the session, even when Girardaux corrected him. It was obvious that he was finally receiving the kind of tuition that he so craved, and even after two hours of intensive instruction, the poor boy was disappointed when Girardaux announced it was time for him to leave.

They accompanied him to the hall to say goodbye. Hartwell thanked the man for his time, and for his willingness to come all the way out here to teach his son.

"On the contrary, monsieur," Girardaux countered. "It is I who is honoured that you allow me to teach little Philippe. He has such a superb talent; it is a true privilege to work with him!"

Philip beamed yet another smile at him, but Hartwell cleared his throat. "Yes, well… There is one more thing I would like to mention." He looked down at his son. "Philip, will you leave us alone for a moment?"

Philip obediently moved to the far end of the hall, and Hartwell turned back to his guest. "Monsieur Girardaux, about last night… I have a strict policy for anyone who visits or lives in this house, and that is, that all females in this house, no matter their station, are off-limits for dallying of any kind."

Girardaux nodded with a frown. "That sounds like a sensible directive, monsieur."

"In that light," Hartwell continued sternly, "I was not particularly happy with your behaviour towards Miss Kenway last night."

Girardaux's eyes widened. "My behaviour? What was wrong with that? Surely you cannot fault me for attempting to descry the influences that have shaped little Philippe's skills!"

"I mean before that," Hartwell insisted. "You were practically slavering over Miss Kenway when you were introduced. I assure you, sir, I do not tolerate such behaviour under my roof. Is that clear?"

A sigh. "Oui, monsieur."

"Every female in this house is under my personal protection. If I find you dallying with them again – any one of them – you will be dismissed on the spot without reference, and without any pay I still owe you. You are here to teach Philip music, so focus on that, and leave the women of this household in peace. Do I make myself clear?"

Another sigh. "Oui, monsieur. I promise it will not happen again."

"Good." Hartwell nodded. "Then let's see you off to your new lodgings. Philip?"

Philip immediately came running back and took Girardaux's hand as they went outside.

Hartwell had loaned Girardaux a simple phaeton to ease his getting around in the area, and the servants were just about done loading his trunks in the back.

The wind was sharp and cold, and Hartwell studied the grey sky with a frown.

"Well, au revoir then, my little Philippe! Remember: practise diligently, and I will listen tomorrow how you are getting on."

"I will!" Philip promised eagerly.

But, "Sir, it looks like we might get a big snow tonight. Please – do not put yourself and others in danger. If the roads are not traversable tomorrow, please do stay home."

Girardaux laughed. "Surely, monsieur, you do not expect me to abandon my duty on account of a little snow? I am no sissy, monsieur. I can handle a little snow."

"A little snow, yes. But this is not London, monsieur. When it snows all night here in Derbyshire, the roads are blocked, and it will not be safe to travel even the few miles to Matlock. If you do, you put not only your own life at risk, but also the lives of the people who have to ride out to rescue you."

Girardaux looked utterly incredulous.

"Last year we had snow higher than the door!" Philip remembered. "We could not even go out!"

That seemed to do the trick: Girardaux visibly wavered.

"I beg you, sir," Hartwell pressed. "Ask your landlord tomorrow if it is safe to go out. And heed his advice. He has lived here all his life; he knows. With the roads blocked, we would not expect you to show up in any case. And now that you are here, we would not want to lose your services on account of recklessness."

Girardaux nodded pensively. "I will ask him, monsieur. You have convinced me." He shivered in the cold wind. "In what wilderness have I landed?" he mused quietly by himself.

But Philip heard him, and raised his eyebrows in surprise. "In Derbyshire of course!" he cried. "Did you not know, monsieur? This is Derbyshire!"

"Yes…" With a sigh, Girardaux climbed aboard his phaeton and took the reins. "Well, I hope to see you all tomorrow then. Or at least some time. Soon."

Father and son waved him off until he had cleared the gate. And when he was out of sight, Philip turned and hugged his father around the waist. "I love working with Monsieur Girardaux," he sighed in heavenly tones. "He knows everything!"

Hartwell lovingly ruffled his hair. "I am glad to hear it."

"But Papa...?"

"Yes?"

"What is dallying?"

And his father sighed. Darned little pitchers…