The Earl and the Governess Page 3

  Her heart was beating like a hammer. She forced herself not to look at him and fixed her sights on a sleeping dog at the end of the road. But she knew he was looking at her. She could feel his gaze on the side of her face.

  So she started to babble. ‘I…I might also work in a shop. Or I…might take in sewing. I could do any—’

  ‘Miss Thomas?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I have no doubt you’ll be successful in whatever you choose to do, but it might take a while. And you still haven’t sold your necklace, so you haven’t any money to tide you over. Just accept my offer, please. Don’t think of it as charity, since I am getting something in return.’

  Isabelle said nothing. She didn’t want to take his money—she really didn’t. But she also didn’t know why it mattered, since she’d planned to sell her necklace anyway. And the money he offered would pay for her lodgings for several months. It would feed her. It might even cover some of her debt…

  But taking money from him was different. It was more shaming. No matter what he said, it was charity.

  In the end, though, necessity won out over pride, although she still couldn’t meet his gaze. ‘If you truly wish to buy it, then I won’t argue. But I insist you keep it. I…I don’t need your gift.’

  He nodded, and they walked on in uncomfortable silence.

  After another minute, they reached the crowded street where she’d first encountered him.

  ‘My carriage is just over there.’

  She looked in the direction he indicated. His carriage had pulled to the side in order not to obstruct traffic; his driver, who’d been arguing energetically when she’d last seen him, now glared sullenly at the greengrocer, who’d still not moved his cart.

  ‘Your carriage?’ she asked.

  He was regarding the vehicle with mild displeasure, but he looked back at her to answer the question. ‘Yes—you’re coming to my house, remember?’

  Ride in his carriage with him? It was far too intimate. She couldn’t do it. ‘Perhaps I might hire a hack?’

  ‘Don’t be silly. It could be an hour before you see a hack around here.’

  ‘I could walk, then.’

  ‘You expect me to trust you with my sixpence? How do I know you won’t abscond with it?’

  She frowned at him. ‘You can have your sixpence back.’

  He crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Oh, for the…’ He managed to catch himself before emitting an oath. ‘You’re being silly. I’ll hire a hack for myself, so you won’t be alone with me, if that’s what’s stopping you. You can have my carriage to yourself.’

  No. ‘As you pointed out, hacks rarely come to these parts. I cannot allow you to inconvenience—’

  ‘It is not inconvenient,’ he said tightly, patently already both annoyed and inconvenienced. ‘You are not walking, but if you propose to stand here and debate it all day then I am willing to oblige you.’

  She didn’t want to debate all day, nor did she want to walk. Her stomach rumbled and her feet hurt. She looked away, wishing she hadn’t argued with him. It wasn’t proper for her to ride in his carriage, alone or otherwise, but she’d abandoned propriety many months ago. She was in no position to be so fastidious.

  ‘You will at least let me pay your fare.’

  ‘No, I won’t,’ he said irritably, his gentleman’s honour obviously insulted that she would offer.

  She blushed again, embarrassed by her gaucheness. But she had to acknowledge his generosity somehow.

  ‘I really am grateful for your kindness. I’m sorry if I’ve seemed impolite. What I mean to say is, well, thank you, my lord.’

  ‘You don’t have to be so formal.’

  But she did. Formality was all that was keeping her from melting on the spot. His eyes had warmed with her apology, and his tone had dropped subtly: deeper, richer, entreating. She couldn’t look away, and in the heavy silence, he reached out to tuck a loose curl behind her ear. She found herself staring at his lips. She thought he was going to kiss her, and stopping him was far from her mind. He was so close, and all he’d have to do was tilt his head…

  ‘Do you know what I think?’

  ‘What?’ she asked, feeling rather mesmerised.

  ‘I think you need more help than you’ll admit.’

  She blinked and looked away, realising that any kissing was merely the product of her overheated imagination.

  Will glanced in the direction of his carriage, where the argument had recommenced. ‘You’d better wait here while I sort this out. I don’t trust McGrath to mind his tongue when he’s riled. And pay attention this time.’

  He gave her a stern look and deposited the bag at her feet before walking purposely towards the carriage, just on the other side of the road. She watched him go, feeling rather dizzy. That morning she’d been penniless, friendless and scared. Through sheer happenstance she now had the promise of money and a most unlikely champion.

  She allowed herself to look at him, safe in the knowledge that for the moment he wasn’t paying attention to her. She liked the way his hair fell over his temples as he lowered his head to listen to the greengrocer. After a few seconds, he pushed it back, looking frustrated. He seemed—quite valiantly, she thought—to be holding his temper in check. He started patting his pockets, and she assumed the man was demanding money for his damaged potatoes. She couldn’t suppress her smile. Pity she’d taken his last sixpence, but she was certain he’d think of something. What with all that credit. There’d be a small parade of beggars, all with hands held out, following him home before the day was through.

  She looked at the sky, watching the clouds drift past and wondering how late it was. She’d been enjoying herself, in an odd sort of way, and she suspected more time had passed than she was aware of.

  Mrs William Stanton. She rather liked the sound of that. No, no—Isabelle, Lady Lennox. Or the Countess of Lennox, perhaps. How terribly grand. If only her father’d been a duke instead of a criminal.

  She rolled her eyes at her folly and returned her gaze to the street. Right, he’d instructed her to pay attention…

  But then the second her mind drifted back to earth she saw the man again. The one who’d followed her. She blinked, not quite believing her eyes, but it was definitely him. Dark hair, medium height. He didn’t seem to have seen her, but he appeared to be searching the crowd. She didn’t know who he was, but she had an awful idea who might have sent him.

  She immediately stooped to pick up her bag, gripping it tightly. She gave William Stanton one last glance, but he was still occupied with his driver. So much for riding in his carriage.

  She turned her body slowly in the other direction, hoping not to attract any attention as she eased deeper into the crowd. She looked over her shoulder, hoping the man still hadn’t noticed her.

  But now he was heading in her direction.

  She turned her head and started walking faster, not caring if it looked odd. He hadn’t necessarily seen her; perhaps it was chance that he’d seemed to be closer. After a few long strides, she turned again. This time, there was no sign of the man. She hoped she’d lost him. Or, perhaps, he’d merely blended in with the crowd. He could be as close as ever.

  She started to run.

  Isabelle arrived at her boarding house an hour later with a swiftly beating heart. She’d taken a circuitous route, hoping the man wouldn’t reappear. And, as far as she was aware, he hadn’t. She’d run much of the way, stopping to catch her breath only a few times; after a mere ten minutes she’d abandoned the marble heads on the side of the road. Worthless anyway, and they slowed her down.

  Now, she stood at the top of her front steps, facing a slightly shabby door. She wondered if the man knew where she lived, and she supposed he probably did.

  She wouldn’t think about it. She began fishing around her pocket, hoping that she hadn’t lost her key in the rush. She’d already forgotten it once, and Miss Standish, the house’s temperamental proprietor, had been remarkably put o
ut about having to answer the door.

  Isabelle located the key easily, and the door opened without so much as a sigh to notify Miss Standish that she’d returned. In the four days she’d been staying there, she’d learned it was best to avoid her.

  Isabelle quietly closed the door behind her and returned the key to her pocket. But then…what was that? The key had clinked against another heavy, brass object. She removed it, frowning.

  It wasn’t brass, actually. It was William Stanton’s gold watch.

  Good God, she’d stolen it after all.

  Chapter Three

  It was a typical, damp English afternoon. Will was in his drawing room, weighing the effort of walking to his club against the gloomy pleasure of perusing his paper in search of bad news. He turned the page, allowing inertia to win. A portly tabby cat curled in the carved giltwood chair across from him, shooting aggrieved looks every time he rustled the paper. He appeared to be in as bad a temper as his owner.

  Will’s bad mood could be blamed entirely on the female sex. His mood had soured soon after he’d turned his back on Isabelle Thomas the previous afternoon. At first, he’d actually felt rather pleased with himself as he’d crossed the road, leaving her to wait. His mind had only been half on the argument between his driver and the greengrocer, so much so that he hadn’t even balked when the man insisted he be compensated for his entire cart of vegetables when most still seemed perfectly saleable. Instead, he’d been thinking about the intelligent, beautiful, mysterious girl who would unexpectedly be visiting his house—a prospect that suggested many interesting possibilities.

  He didn’t mind buying her necklace, or even paying over the odds for it; it was a small price to pay to keep her off the street. And he’d hoped that once he’d taken care of that small matter, he might convince her to have supper with him, or perhaps go to the opera. He wondered how she’d react to that sort of invitation. Her blushes suggested she wasn’t terribly experienced, but she appeared to be old enough and independent enough to make up her own mind. He’d felt inordinately satisfied when he’d finally succeeded in making her smile. He usually charmed women with ease, but her…well, it felt like a real achievement. Her adorable smile had more than made up for her prickliness.

  Of course, he’d changed his mind once he realised that she was a thief, and a thief so skilled she hadn’t even had to steal. She’d so beguiled him with her charms that he’d simply given her his watch—and sixpence, for good measure. The whole thing was gallingly ironic since he’d accused her of lacking common sense.

  After he’d realised that she’d fled, he’d spent two angry hours searching the slums before finally giving up and returning home. He’d been damned fond of that watch; it had belonged to his grandfather.

  Only once he’d reached his house, his mood got even worse. A letter awaited him there, from Miss Hume. She must have sent it within hours of his departure from her blasted school. It seemed that Mary was being sent home, and since he was her guardian, her home was now his. According to the letter, sometime during the evening after he’d left, Mary had snipped a large segment of hair from one Major Fitzgerald’s daughter’s head, using a sharp pair of scissors. Her possessions had been packed posthaste, and she would arrive, courtesy of Miss Hume, some time tomorrow morning. Miss Hume did not plan on inviting her back. She was Will’s responsibility now, and he didn’t have the faintest idea what to do with her. He knew nothing about children, girls in particular, and it might take months to find another school that would accept such a hoyden.

  He lay down his paper and took the letter from his inside pocket, glancing yet again at the strident lines of text. Bloody unpredictable females, young and old…

  A quiet knock on the drawing room door interrupted his ill-tempered thoughts.

  ‘Yes?’

  Bartholomew, his butler, entered cautiously.

  ‘Good morning, my lord. It is your cousin.’

  This wasn’t welcome news. Will had several cousins, but all but two of them were considerate enough to leave him alone in the mornings. It was certain to be one of the demon twins, Henrietta or Venetia.

  ‘What—here? Which cousin?’

  ‘Which cousin indeed?’ an arch voice called in from the hall. ‘Surely you must know that Venny’s at Waddlehurst with Philip and the children.’

  Henrietta Sandon-Drabbe sailed into the drawing room, not waiting for permission to enter. She was a year younger than he, and the top of her head stopped just shy of his chin. She’d once been very pretty, and her pale blonde hair and blue eyes undoubtedly continued to appeal to most casual observers. Will, however, had a difficult time separating her personality from her appearance. She was intrusive, manipulative and bossy, as was her sister. Since they normally travelled as a pair, he considered himself lucky to have only one to deal with that morning.

  Bartholomew wisely eased out of the room, closing the door behind him. Will folded the letter and laid it next to him on the sofa, forcing a smile as he rose. ‘I hope she’ll be away for a long time?’

  ‘Until the end of the summer, sadly. But I know she would approve of my mission this morning.’

  He groaned. ‘Oh, Henny, don’t say you’re on a mission.’

  ‘Well, I am,’ she replied. Her gaze sharpened as it lit on the cat. ‘And why is that foul creature not in the kitchen? Surely you have rats enough to keep it occupied. Shoo!’ She waved her hand at it, and it insolently shifted its fat mass, but did not otherwise move. She glared at it before selecting another chair.

  Once comfortably arranged, she said, ‘I cannot imagine why you’re being so disagreeable. You haven’t even said good morning. I trust your mood will improve by tonight.’

  Will resumed his seat. ‘Good morning, Henny. What happens tonight?’

  She gave him a patient, patronising look—the sort she reserved for dense, unobservant men and her husband, Edward. ‘Constance Reckitt’s ball. You’ve known about it for weeks, and you promised you’d come.’

  Will frowned. He’d forgotten that he’d agreed to attend the ball, and he’d only done so because Henrietta had nagged him about it almost incessantly.

  ‘Edward going to be there?’ he asked.

  ‘No, he has developed a tickle in his throat.’

  ‘How convenient for him.’

  ‘Yes, suspiciously so. You, however, get no such reprieve. It is essential you make an appearance.’

  ‘I’d hardly call it essential. I don’t even know why you want me there, since all you’ll do is scold me under your breath. You know I detest these things.’

  For just an instant, her composure looked set to snap. In a tight, controlled voice, she said, ‘I want you there because you are the Earl of Lennox. You are four and thirty. Have you no concern for your duty?’

  He shouldn’t have posed the question, since the answer was always the same. He didn’t need his cousin to remind him of his duty. He was responsible for carrying on his family’s name. If he didn’t produce an heir, then eventually there’d be no more Stantons living at Wentwich Castle, his estate in Norfolk, and no more Earls of Lennox. Since he was the seventh Earl of Lennox, it was a tradition worth protecting.

  ‘I’ve never said I won’t marry. Just not right now.’

  ‘When? What will happen if you don’t produce an heir?’

  ‘James is married now—’

  ‘Yes, but your brother’s wife has managed to produce just one, tiny girl in three years. Do you not think you should make some attempt at respectability? You need a wife yourself, William. Not some unending string of…of women’.

  ‘You’ve been reading the scandal sheets again.’

  ‘I’m not the only one. Your misdeeds have been widely reported for years, and you now have the most appalling reputation. I’m not even certain anyone would marry you.’

  He closed his eyes momentarily, searching for patience, reminding himself that he didn’t really dislike Henrietta. Bossy she might be, but she did mean well. ‘Lis
ten, Henny, I don’t gamble and I haven’t had a mistress in months, not that it’s your business. So let’s speak of something else.’

  She backed off reluctantly. ‘You are in a foul mood.’

  ‘And you’ve done everything in your power to make it worse.’

  She sighed, looking around the room in search of another topic of conversation. Her gaze settled on the letter next to him. ‘But then why, I wonder, are you so put out this morning? Have you received bad news?’

  He looked at the letter, too. The last thing he wanted was to give her another reason to interfere in his life, but then again, he wanted to change the subject. Besides, he hadn’t the faintest idea what to do with the child when she arrived in less than a day. All three of Henrietta’s brats were girls; she might be able to help him.

  He rose to hand her the letter, sure that he’d eventually regret doing so. ‘I suppose it is rather bad news.’

  She started reading, but only got about halfway down the page before looking up with some alarm. ‘I don’t understand at all. Who’s Mary Weston-Burke?’

  ‘My goddaughter. Arthur Weston-Burke’s only child.’

  She laid the letter down, knitting her brow. ‘Your school friend? He died a few months ago, did he not?’

  ‘Yes, and she became my ward.’

  Henrietta raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘You didn’t tell me that.’

  He was already beginning to wish he hadn’t shown her the letter. He returned to the sofa, feeling defensive. ‘No, well, I didn’t think it would come to anything. She’s been at school the whole time—’

  ‘You didn’t assume she’d be at school for ever, did you?’

  He frowned. ‘I thought I’d worry about what to do with her next when the need arose. Frankly, I assumed she’d be at school for a few more years at least. She’s only twelve.’

  She shook her head disapprovingly. ‘Hasn’t she any other family? I cannot imagine why you’ve been selected for this task. I can’t think of anyone more unsuited. You know nothing about children.’