The Hidden Heart
Candace Camp
With his life in ruins, Richard, Duke of Cleybourne, returned to his country estate to deal with the tragic loss he had suffered four years earlier. His plans, however, were interrupted by the arrival of Miss Jessica Maitland. The feisty, flame-haired governess had come to present her charge, Gabriella, as his new ward.As if their unwelcome presence weren't bad enough, Jessica also revealed that Gabriella was in danger. Someone was after the girl's fortune– perhaps someone the duke knew only too well.Now fate and a raging snowstorm have brought together an odd assortment of guests at Cleybourne Castle. And when murder strikes, Richard and Jessica must catch a killer and unravel a dark mystery, even as they are plunged into the most passionate mystery of all–the secrets of the hidden heart.
The Duke of Cleybourne let out a low curse. “You don’t look like any governess I have ever seen.”
Jessica’s hands flew instinctively to her hair. Her thick, curly red hair had a mind of its own, and no matter how much she tried to subdue it into the sort of tight bun that was suitable for a governess, it often managed to work its way out. Now, she realized, after the long ride in the carriage a good bit of it had come loose and straggled around her face, flame-red and curling wildly. Embarrassed, she pulled off her bonnet and tried to smooth back her hair, searching for a hairpin to secure it, and the result was that even more of it tumbled down around her shoulders.
Cleybourne’s eyes went involuntarily to the bright fall of hair, glinting warmly in the light of the lamp, and something tightened in his abdomen. She had hair that made a man want to sink his hands into it, not the sort of thought he usually had about a governess—indeed, not the sort of thought that Richard allowed himself about any woman.
“Readers who enjoy historical regencies by Christina Dodd and Amanda Quick will find this book utterly irresistible.”
—Booklist on So Wild a Heart
The Hidden Heart
Candace Camp
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
The Hidden Heart
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Prologue
The Duke of Cleybourne was going home to die.
He had decided it the night before, as he was standing in his study, gazing up at the portrait of Caroline that Devin had painted for him as a wedding present. Richard had looked at the picture, and at the smaller, less satisfactory one of their daughter, and he had thought about the fact that it was December, and the anniversary of their deaths would be coming up soon.
Their carriage had overturned and skidded over the slick, icy road and grass into the pond, breaking through the skin of ice on top of the water. It had been only a few days before Christmas when it happened.
He could still smell the heavy scent of fir boughs that decorated the house for the holiday. It had hung in his nostrils all through his illness and convalescence, like the cloying odor of death, long after the boughs had been taken down and burned.
It had been four years since it happened. Most people, he knew, thought he should have gotten over the tragedy by now. One mourned for a reasonable period of time, then gathered oneself together and went on. But he had not been able to. Frankly, he had not had the desire to.
He had left his country estate, taking up residence in the ducal town house in London, and he had not returned to Castle Cleybourne in all that time.
But last night, as he looked at the portrait, he thought of how tired he was of plowing through one day after another, and it had come to him, almost like a golden ray of hope, that he did not have to continue this way. There was no need to walk through the days allotted him until God in his mercy saw fit to take him. The Cleybournes were a long-lived group, often lingering until well into their eighties and even nineties. And Richard had little faith in God’s mercy.
He did have faith in his own pistols and steady hand. He would be the bringer of his own surcease, and the dark angel of retribution, as well.
So he rang for his butler and told him to pack for the trip. They would be returning to the castle, he said, and felt faintly guilty when the old man beamed at him. The servants, who worried about him, were pleased, thinking he’d thrown off his mantle of sorrow at last, and they packed both cheerfully and quickly.
And it was true, he told himself. He would end his sorrow. In the most fitting way and place: where his wife and child had died, and he had not saved them.
1
Lady Leona Vesey was beautiful when she cried. She was doing so now…copiously. Great tears pooled in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks as she took the gnarled hand of the old man lying in the bed. “Oh, Uncle, please don’t die,” she said in a piteous voice, her lips trembling slightly.
Jessica Maitland, who stood on the other side of General Streathern’s bed, next to the General’s great-niece Gabriela, regarded Lady Vesey with cool contempt. Her performance, she thought, was worthy of the best who trod the stage. Jessica had to admit that Leona looked lovely when she cried, a talent that Jessica suspected she had spent some years perfecting. Tears, she had heard, worked enormously well with men. Jessica herself hated tears, and when she could not keep them at bay, she gave in to them in the quiet and solitude of her own room.
Of course, Jessica, a supremely fair woman, had to admit that Lady Leona Vesey was beautiful when she was not crying, as well. She had been one of the reigning beauties of London for some years now—though she was considered far too scandalous to be admitted into the best houses—and if she was reaching the last few years of that reign, the golden glow of candlelight in the darkened room hid whatever ravages time and dissipation had worked upon her.
Lady Vesey was all rounded, succulent flesh, soft shoulders and bosom rising from the scooped neckline of her dress, more suitable for evening wear than for visiting the sickroom of an aging relative. Her skin was smooth and honey toned, complementing the gold of the ringlets piled atop her head and the tawny color of her large, rounded eyes. She reminded Jessica of a sleek, pampered cat—although she was apt to change into something more resembling a lioness when she was angered, as yesterday, when Leona had slapped a clumsy maid who had spilled a bit of tea upon Leona’s dress.
Jessica had itched to slap Leona herself at that moment, but, being only the governess of the General’s ward, she had kept her lips clamped firmly together. Though in normal times Jessica kept the General’s household running efficiently, Leona was not only above her in rank but, being the wife of General Streathern’s great-nephew, also had a claim of kinship. From the moment she and Lord Vesey had swept into the house, Leona had taken over, treating Jessica as if she were a servant.
“Oh, Uncle,” Leona said now, dabbing at her tears with a lacy handkerchief. “Please speak to me. It lays me low to see you this way.”
Jessica felt Gabriela stiffen beside her, and she knew what the girl was thinking—that the General was no real relation to Lady Vesey, being the great-uncle of her husband, and that Lady Vesey’s spirits were anything but lowered at seeing the General lying in his bed at death’s door.
In the six years that Jessica had been at the General’s house, the Veseys had visited but rarely, and usually those visits had been accompanied by a request for money. She had little doubt that it was money that had brought them flying to the old man’s bedside now. Less than a week earlier, General Streathern had received a letter telling him of the death of an old and dear friend. He had jumped to his feet with a loud cry. Then his hand had flown to his head, and he had crumpled onto the carpet. Servants had carried him to his bed, where he had lain ever since, inert and seemingly insensible to everything and everyone around him. Apoplexy, the doctor had termed it, with a sad shake of his head, and held out little hope of recovery, given the General’s advanced years. The Veseys, Jessica was sure, had dashed to his bedside because they hoped to be named in the General’s will.
Jessica had tried her best to put aside her antipathy to Lord and Lady Vesey. They were, after all, Gabriela’s only living relatives besides the General, and, as such, she knew with a cold queasiness, in all likelihood Lord Vesey would become Gabriela’s guardian if the General did indeed die, which seemed more likely with each passing day.
She told herself that some of her dislike of Lady Vesey stemmed from that woman’s voluptuous beauty. Jessica had grown up stick-thin, with a wild mop of carrot-colored hair, her eyes and mouth too big in her starkly thin face. As an adolescent, she had towered over all the other girls—and most of the boys, as well—gangly and awkward and feeling hopelessly unfeminine next to the soft, small, rounded females all about her. And even though her figure had eventually ripened into womanhood and her face had filled out and softened, and her hair had deepened into a rich, vibrant red, so that she had become a statuesque and striking-looking woman, Jessica still felt twinges of envy and awkwardness around women like Leona Vesey, who used their lush femininity as a form of weapon.
Also, she admitted that she had prejudged the woman because of letters from Viola Lamprey, the lone friend who had stuck by Jessica through all the scandal concerning Jessica’s father. Viola had married rather late but startlingly well, becoming Lady Eskew three years ago and living at the height of London society. She and Viola had continued to correspond all through the years after the scandal, and Viola loved to keep Jessica amused with her witty, entertaining tales of the scandals and excesses of the Ton.
Lord and Lady Vesey were often the topic of gossip. He, it was said, was much too fond of very young females, and she had been carrying on a very well-known “secret” affair with Devin Aincourt for over a decade. A few months ago Viola’s letters had been full of the stories circulating through London concerning Aincourt’s sudden marriage to an American heiress and the subsequent termination—by Aincourt, not Lady Vesey—of the long-standing affair. The ladies of London were gleeful. Leona Vesey had few friends among them, having often made it a point to demonstrate how easily she could take away any of their husbands or suitors.
Jessica knew she should not have judged Lady Vesey on the basis of gossip. After all, she had certainly been at the center of a great deal of unfair gossip herself ten years earlier. When the Veseys had arrived here, she had made an effort to look at Lady Vesey afresh, untainted by preconceptions and prejudices. But it was soon clear to her that gossip had, if anything, not painted the lady black enough. Leona Vesey was selfish, vain and mean-tempered. She was contemptuous of all those of lower station than she, and she was pleasant only to those whom she thought could help her, usually men. The Veseys had been here for only three days, and already Jessica could barely stand to be in the same room with either of them.
She felt Gabriela tense beside her, and she suspected that the girl was about to unleash her anger on Leona, so Jessica quickly linked her arm with Gabriela’s, casting her a warning look. She was worried for Gabriela’s future. If the General should die and she was given to Lord and Lady Vesey as their ward, her life would be hard enough without her already having earned the enmity of Lady Vesey.
“Oh, please, Uncle,” Leona said, her voice breaking as she bent over the still form of the old man, waxen in the dim light. “Please say some parting word to me.”
Suddenly the old man’s eyes flew open. Leona let out a small shriek and jumped back. The General stared at her with piercing hawk eyes.
“What the devil are you doing here?” he asked, his voice scratchy and fainter than his usual bark, but his annoyance clear.
“Why, Uncle,” Leona said, recovering some composure, though her voice was still a trifle breathless. “Vesey and I came because we heard you were ill. We wanted to be with you.”
The old man glared at her for a long moment. “Afraid you might lose your share of my estate is more like it. Ha! Well, I have news for you. I ain’t dying. And even if I was, I wouldn’t be leaving anything to you and that roué of a husband of yours.”
“Uncle…” Lord Vesey, standing behind and to the side of his wife, tried an indulgent laugh. “You will give everyone the wrong idea. Others are not aware of your little fondness for jokes….”
“I wasn’t talking to you,” the General pointed out sharply, sounding stronger with each passing moment. “Damme! Nobody invited you here. You’re a damned nuisance.”
“Oh, Gramps!” Gabriela burst out, unable to restrain herself any longer. “You’re all right! We thought you were dying.”
The General turned his head and saw Gabriela standing on the other side of the bed, Jessica behind her, and he smiled.
“Now, would I do a thing like that?” he asked, extending his hand to the girl.
Tears spilled out of Gabriela’s eyes, and she leaned forward to take her great-uncle’s hand. “I am so glad you are all right. We were horribly scared.”
“I’m sure you were, Gaby.” The old man squeezed her hand with only a remnant of his former strength. “But no need. I’m still breathing.”
He looked toward the foot of the bed, where his doctor and the village vicar stood, staring at him in astonishment. “No thanks to you, I’m sure,” General Streathern went on, talking to the doctor. “Go away. You look like a couple of damned crows standing there. I’m not dying.”
“General, you must not excite yourself,” the doctor said in a calming voice. “You have been unconscious for almost a week now.”
“No, I haven’t. Woke up last night. Just went back to sleep.”
“It must have been the sound of Lady Vesey’s voice that got through to you,” the vicar said, with an admiring smile in that woman’s direction.
“Humph!” the General responded. “Well, you were a fool when you were young, Babcock, so no use expecting you to be any better when you’re old. Hearing that baggage’s voice is more likely to send me over than bring me back.”
“What!” Leona exclaimed, setting her hands on her hips indignantly. “Well, I like that. We left London and drove all the way up to this godforsaken place just because we heard you were ill. And this is the thanks we get?”
“I didn’t ask you to come here,” the General said reasonably. “Nobody did. You came because you hoped there was money in it for you. It’s the only reason the two of you ever set foot in this house, and I told you last time not to return. You’re damned nervy, that’s all I can say, to come strutting back in here. You are a conniving bit o’ muslin, Leona, and I thank God you’re not my blood relative. I wish I could say the same about that piece of trash you’re married to.” He broke off his harangue long enough to shoot Lord Vesey a malevolent glare. “Now get out, both of you. I don’t want to see your faces again.”
“Perhaps we had best go back to our rooms,” Lord Vesey suggested to his wife, looking a shade paler than he had a few moments before.
“Your rooms? You’re staying here?” The General’s face reddened alarmingly.
“Why, yes, of course,” Leona replied. “Where else would we stay?”
“I told you you were not welcome in this house,” the General snapped, struggling weakly to sit up.
“Please, General, calm yourself,” the doctor said, hurrying around the bed to put his hands on the old man’s shoulders and push him back down flat on the bed. “You will bring on another apopolexy if you don’t watch out.”
“The devil take it!” General Streathern glared at the doctor, but he didn’t have the strength to defy him. “I want them out of my house, do you understand?”
“But, General,” the vicar protested. “Lord Vesey is your nephew. And Lady Vesey—”
He broke off abruptly as the General fixed him with a glare.
“This is my house,” General Streathern said coldly, “and I am in charge of who does and does not stay here. Don’t tell me who I can have in my house, Babcock.”
“No, of course not, General,” the vicar said, forcing a smile. “I did not mean to be presumptuous. It is just—they traveled so far, and where are they to stay?”
“Let ’em stay with you, if you like them so much.”
Reverend Babcock chuckled indulgently, a sound that seemed to irritate the irascible old man even more.
“There’s an inn in Lapham,” he said, naming the local village. “Let them stay there if they’re so bloody-minded they have to remain. But I refuse to let them torture me with their whinings and cryings and making my servants unhappy. Nothing worse than having the maids weeping all over the place because he’s backing them into corners and taking liberties or she’s screeching at them like a harpy and slapping them. If a man cannot have peace when he’s been at death’s door for a week, then I don’t know what the world’s coming to.”
“Of course you can have peace,” the doctor told him soothingly, sending an expressive look in the direction of Lord and Lady Vesey. “My lord…”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Lord Vesey gave a smile that looked more like the death rictus of a corpse. “Anything to make the General feel better. Lady Vesey and I will take our leave right away.”
He took his wife’s hand, and they started from the room. The General turned his head toward Jessica. “Jessica. Make sure they leave.”
“Of course, General,” Jessica told him with a smile. “I shall be happy to.” She faced the others remaining in the room. “Gabriela, Vicar, why don’t we let the General talk to the doctor now?”
The clergyman was obviously eager to leave the sickroom—whether because he feared the General or was hoping to find Lady Vesey, Jessica wasn’t sure. Gabriela fairly skipped down the hall, keeping up a constant stream of chatter directed at Jessica.
“Oh, Miss Jessie, isn’t it wonderful? I was so sure that Gramps was going to die! I should have known that he was tougher than some old apoplexy.”
Jessica smiled at the young girl. At fourteen, Gabriela was already promising to turn into a beauty. Though her figure was still as slender and flat as a boy’s, there was a litheness to her walk that promised a future grace, and her skin was fresh and creamy, her face lively and well put together, with large, dancing gray eyes and a tip-tilted nose.
Jessica was glad to see her charge so happy, but deep inside she could not keep from having a few doubts herself. The General might have awakened and seemed his old self. He might regain his full strength. But Jessica had noticed, even if Gabriela had not, that the left side of the old man’s face had not moved much when he talked, and his left hand had not curled around Gabriela’s in response to her taking it in hers. He had been unconscious for some time, and if nothing else, he was bound to be far weaker than normal. He was an old man, and the old were always susceptible to fevers and coughs, especially when they were weakened by illness.
She worried about the General, not only because she was fond of the him, but also because his sudden illness had brought home to her how vulnerable Gabriela was. Underage, orphaned, she might very well be left to the mercies of such people as the Veseys. Jessica had taken care of Gabriela, been her companion, teacher and confidante since the girl was eight, and she loved her as if she were her own sister. But in the eyes of the world, hers was only a paid position, and if the General died, whoever became Gabriela’s guardian could terminate Jessica’s employment, and she would have no recourse. She had worried over the matter ever since the General fell ill.
Gabriela went upstairs with the promise that she would work on the studies she had neglected during her great-uncle’s illness, and Jessica turned into the kitchen to find the butler, Pierson, and inform him of the General’s miraculous recovery and his subsequent banishment of the Veseys. Nothing, she knew, could make the servants happier than those two events.
As she expected, the butler beamed when she told him what had taken place in the General’s bedchamber upstairs and assured her that he would assign two maids, not one, to packing up the Veseys’ baggage and would personally escort them to their carriage.
Jessica returned to the nursery upstairs, where her and Gabriela’s bedrooms lay, separated by the schoolroom. As she passed the Veseys’ room, she heard the sound of something breaking, followed by Leona’s high-pitched, angry voice and Lord Vesey’s lower-pitched but no less furious one. Jessica smiled to herself and continued on her way.
The doctor left, and not long after that, Lord and Lady Vesey also quit the house. Humphrey, the General’s valet, stayed by the old man’s side throughout the rest of the day and that night, relieved—after great resistance—for a few hours at a stretch when Jessica or the butler or the housekeeper took over his role of nursemaid.
The General slept much of that time, waking up now and then to complain of feeling hungry and devouring first a bowl of consommé, then gruel and, finally, demanding soup with some substance to it. With each irascible command or gripe, the spirits of the household lightened. The General was becoming more and more normal.
Jessica visited the old man with her charge every morning and evening, and she could see visible improvement in him each time. She was very happy, not only for Gabriela’s sake, but because she was fond of the General. When the scandal broke and her father was cashiered out of the army, most of their acquaintances and friends, even the man she had thought loved her, had turned away from her, but General Streathern had not. He had come to pay his condolences after her father’s death, a courtesy few other of his military friends had seen fit to exercise.
Her father’s death had left Jessica penniless. She had refused to seek the help of her father’s family, who had scorned him after the scandal. For a time she had stayed with her dead mother’s brother, but it had been an untenable situation. He had five daughters of his own, all coming up to marriageable age and making their debuts. The last thing they needed was another young female about the place, and Jessica, whose father had raised her to be strong-minded and independent, was accustomed to running a household, not living meekly in one. She and her aunt did not get along, and she had soon seen that she could not live with them, either. There had followed a series of positions as governess or companion, but she was generally considered too young or too attractive or too tainted by scandal to be hired, and when she was, she often found herself leaving because of the unwelcome advances of a male of the house.
It had struck Jessica as grimly ironic that she, who had struggled through her younger years as a gawky, clumsy ugly duckling of a girl, had now somehow become the unwelcome object of male lust. She knew that the development of her late-blooming figure had had something to do with it, but she had difficulty recognizing that her despised riot of flame-colored hair was a lure to men, or that her features, once too large for her face, had matured into striking beauty. So, rather cynically, she laid the bulk of the blame for her attraction for men on the fact that they were drawn to her because she was no longer under her father’s protection. They wanted her, in short, she decided, because they thought she was an easy target now, a woman who was at their mercy because she had to work for a living.
Dismayed and embittered, she had stopped applying for positions as a governess and had managed to scrape out a living taking in fancy sewing. She had a good eye and hand for needlework, and when she swallowed her pride and went humbly asking for work, a number of women of wealth and position had paid for beautiful embroidery. Still it was a difficult and minimal living, and there were times when she despaired. Winters were the worst, for it cost more to live, as she had to heat her small room. She tried to save on coal, but she could not do the fine threadwork with fingers that were freezing. One winter, about six years earlier, the amount of sewing that she had been given had fallen off, and then she fell ill and had to turn away work for a week. She found herself suddenly on the brink of disaster, and she was forced to consider going back to live with her uncle or even asking her father’s stiff-necked family for help.
It was then that the General had appeared on her doorstep, a gruff, unlikely angel of mercy, and had offered her a position as companion and governess to his great-niece, Gabriela, whose parents had died a month earlier, leaving the General her guardian. The General had immediately thought of Jessica, with whom he had retained contact throughout the years. In fact, she had long suspected that he was behind some of the bonuses and gifts that she had received from her customers over the years. Jessica had seized on the offer of a position with joyful relief, and she had never regretted her decision.
Her time here had been happy. She soon grew to love her charge, and as she stayed, she took on more and more of the running of the household. The servants relied on her for advice and orders, quick to realize her competence, and the General was happy to turn such “women’s things” over to her. She enjoyed her life here, and it seemed almost as if General Streathern and Gabriela were her family. She did not think she could have been more concerned for the old man or happier that he was coming out of his illness if he had been her own grandfather.
After another day of convalescence, the General informed his valet that he did not need a “damned nursemaid sitting up and staring at me all night,” and ordered him to go to bed and end his nightly watch. The following morning he sent Humphrey to Jessica with the request that she come to his room. She left Gabriela with a paper to write and went to see the General, wondering what he wanted. Knowing the General, it could be anything from an accounting of the household budget to a game of chess to alleviate his boredom.
In this instance it was neither. General Streathern was sitting up in his bed, looking much stronger than he had the day before. He smiled when he saw Jessica, and she noted that the expression still did not reach the left side of his face. His left arm, too, was held across his lap and did not move much as he talked. But his color was much better and his gaze was alert, and when he spoke he sounded much like his old self.
“Well, girl, had you given me up for dead, too?” he barked.
“I was very worried,” Jessica admitted.
“Doubter.”
“You had been unconscious for a week, General,” Jessica pointed out. She had grown up speaking her mind, for it was the way her father had trained her, and she had been greatly relieved to find that the General was the same sort of man.
The old man chuckled. “I can always count on you to tell me the truth, Jess.” He patted his bed. “Come, sit down where I can see you without having to break my neck.”
Jessica went forward and sat down on the edge of his bed, facing him. “I am very glad to see that I was mistaken.”
“I am, too, my girl.” General Streathern let out a sigh. “I have to tell you, I gave myself a scare. I wouldn’t let on to that old sawbones, of course, but I know I had a close brush with death. I can feel it.” He patted his left arm. “Haven’t got full movement here, you know.” He shook his head. “It’s a frightening thing, your brain attacking you.”
“I imagine it is. But you are better now. And perhaps your arm will grow stronger.”
“I hope so. It’s damned irritating. Not as irritating as waking up and finding that scoundrel Vesey in my room, though. Don’t know how my sister could have produced a grandchild like that. Nothing wrong with her daughter—course, the Vesey line has always had bad blood. I told Gertie that no good would come of it, but it was out of her hands. Her son-in-law always did have batting for brains.”
“I am sorry they were here.”
“Not your fault. But I told Pierson not to let them back in. Now that he has my orders, he’ll keep them out. And if he does go all weak, you remind him of what I said.”
“I will.”
“Gave me a turn, seeing Vesey.” The General fell silent for a moment, looking down at his hands. He was not one to speak of personal feelings, a military man to the bone. “It made me think. I could die. I am seventy-two years old. I’ve had more than my time on earth. I guess I always thought I could somehow fight it off. But it was sheer luck this time. When I read that letter, saw that Millicent had died…”
“I am sure it was a shock to learn of your friend’s death.”
“It was indeed.” Sadness fell over the old man’s features. “I loved her, you see.”
“Of course.”
“No. I mean, really loved her. Loved her for almost fifty years.”
Jessica, startled, looked keenly at the General. There was a softness in his eyes that she had rarely seen there.
“She was married to another man. Not a bad fellow. I knew him. I met her at a party Lady Abernethy gave. I was thirty-four at the time. I hadn’t married. I had been too busy with my career for things like that. After I saw Millicent, I knew I never would. Terrible thing to live with, knowing that you would be ecstatic if a good man died. Course, he did, many years later. But by that time, we had gotten old. Grown into the way of being friends, settled in our own lives and neither of us too eager to give that up. It was enough for us the last few years just to see each other now and then, and to maintain our correspondence. I would have done anything for her, though.”
He sat lost in reverie. Jessica remained silent, too, trying to absorb this new picture of the crusty old military man as a devoted swain, loving a woman he could not have.
“Ah, well.” The General seemed to shake off his thoughts. “That’s not what I called you here about. Not directly, anyway. The thing is, when I read those lines, there was a terrific pain in my head, and then the next thing I knew I was waking up here with that silly cow Leona blubbering all over me. Now I realize how presumptuous I was all these years, thinking I could fight off death, as if it were an enemy soldier. I couldn’t do a thing. I was just lucky to come back. Next time, I might not be so fortunate.”
Jessica did not know what to say. The General was right, and it was hard to say something optimistic in response.
“Seventy-two. Some would say it’s about time I figured out I wasn’t invincible.” The General let out a little chuckle. “Thing is, what about Gaby? Oh, I’ve provided for her in my will, no worry about that. And her father left her a nice trust. She will have plenty of money. But she needs more than that. She needs someone who loves her.”
“I will stay with her, General. I promise. You know how much I care for her.”
The General smiled at her, and it touched Jessica’s heart with sorrow to see how one side of his mouth did not curl up with the other. “I knew I could count on you. But I wanted to make sure you understood what to do if anything should happen to me. I have provided for a guardian in my will. It’s the same man that her father named as successor should anything happen to me. I don’t know him well, but he was a friend of her father’s and reputed to be an honorable sort. He will look after her money and her welfare. I just wrote him a letter. There…”
He gestured toward the small table beside his bed, on which lay a letter, closed by a blob of red wax bearing the General’s seal. “Take it. I want you to escort Gaby to his home if anything further should happen to me. Give him this letter, as well as the will. In it, I’ve asked him to keep you on. I told him that Gaby relies on you and trusts you.”
“I will. Don’t worry. But let us hope that there will be no need for it. You will recover and live long past Gaby’s marriage, I’m sure.”
“I hope so. But I haven’t said all I want to say. Once Gaby is with her new guardian, I won’t worry. He is a powerful, influential man—the Duke of Cleybourne. Vesey would be able to do nothing to him. But until then…I fear Vesey.”
“Lord Vesey? But surely, if you name someone else her guardian, that will put a stop to any danger from him.”
“I would count on nothing when it comes to that man.” General Streathern’s lip curled. “He is vile, and his wife is no better. I would not trust him not to seize Gaby if he has the opportunity. I left the man nothing, and he would love to get his hands on Gaby’s money. And that witch of a wife of his is able to twist honest men around her finger. I don’t trust the pair of them.” He frowned, then went on slowly. “I would not otherwise sully your ears with such a tale, but you must know the full extent of his wickedness. The man is a lecher, and I have heard that he has a…a preference for young girls. Girls of Gaby’s age.”
Jessica sucked in her breath sharply. “General! Do you mean—you think he would—”
“I do not know how low the man would sink, but I would not be surprised at the depth of his depravity, either. Let us just say that it would be safer if she were never under his control, even for a day.” He looked at her sharply from beneath his thick white eyebrows. “Your father was one of the best soldiers I ever commanded.”
“Thank you, General.” Jessica felt emotion swell unexpectedly in her throat.
“I am counting on you to have his same spirit.”
“I hope and pray that I do,” Jessica replied, adding firmly, “You can rely on me to keep her away from Lord Vesey.”
“Good.” He relaxed, easing back against the pillows. “Thank you, Jessica. If I should die, either now or later, he will come like a vulture. Get her away from here as soon as the will is read. Be packed and ready to go. You understand me, don’t you?”
“Yes, I will waste no time. I swear it to you. She and I will leave immediately after the will is read, even if it means leaving the luggage for later.”
He nodded. “You’re a sharp, sensible girl. I know I can trust in you. Take her to the Duke of Cleybourne. His estate is in Yorkshire, near the town of Hedby, no more than a hard two days’ ride by carriage.”
“I will.” Jessica reached over and took the old man’s hand. “But, please God, that time will not come for many years, and Gaby will be a married woman by then.”
“God willing.”
It was late at night and the house was dark, everyone tucked up in their beds, when a side door opened quietly and a dark figure slipped inside. The man stood for a moment, still and watching, then moved with equal silence down the hallway and up the servants’ stairs to the second floor. Once again he waited, poised at the top of the stairs for the slightest sound before he went on to the door he sought. He opened it and peeked inside. There was no sign of the General’s valet or a nurse keeping watch over the old man.
He slid through the door and closed it softly after him, then glided across the floor until he stood beside the bed. He stood for a moment, gazing down at the old man. The General looked so frail that for a moment he wondered if this was really necessary. The man had just, after all, almost died. There was always the possibility that he would not regain his health, and then General Streathern would be of no danger to him.
As he watched, the old man’s eyes opened, as if he had sensed the watcher’s presence. His eyes narrowed. “You!” he rasped. “What the devil are you doing here? Didn’t I tell you—”
“Yes, yes, I know,” the younger man said lightly. “I am never to taint you with my presence. But, I thought it best to talk to you. You see things have changed.”
“Yes, they have.” The General pulled himself up into a sitting position against his pillows. His uninvited guest noted that it was something of a struggle for him.
“I wanted to make sure that you were not thinking of doing anything foolish.”
“You mean revealing what really happened? What makes you think I wouldn’t?” the General shot back, rather injudiciously. “I have no reason to keep silent anymore.”
“There is the slight problem of your not having brought the matter up years ago, when it mattered. It would not reflect well on you. Your name would be ruined.”
“Perhaps that is as it should be,” the old man remarked heavily.
“Easy for you to say, when you are facing the grave, anyway. I, on the other hand, have many years to live, and I have no desire to do so under the taint of scandal.”
“It would be worse than that.”
“Indeed? I think not. Only your word against mine, and you are an old fool who has just suffered an apoplexy. Everyone would assume that your brain simply was not working properly any longer.”
“Oh, they would believe me,” General Streathern said, contempt and hatred lighting his eyes. “I have proof, you see.”
The other man’s eyes were as cold as the General’s were heated. He surveyed the old man for a moment, then said, “Well, I am sorry to hear that.”
Swiftly he picked up a pillow from the bed and put it over the old man’s face. The General struggled, but he was weak from his illness, and it was not long before his struggles ceased. The visitor waited another long moment after that, then lifted the pillow and set it back with the others. He pulled the old man back down in the bed so that he was no longer sitting up but would look as if he had died peacefully in his sleep.
He cast a quick glance around the room, and it was only then that it struck him: if the General truly had proof against him, he could still be in danger. His jaw clenched, and he glanced at the still man in the bed, anger surging up in him. The old fool had made him so angry, he had acted in haste. He should have made him reveal where and what the proof was before he killed him.
He went over to the chest across the room and began to search through it, realizing even as he did so how difficult it would be to find what he needed. To begin with, there was the possibility that there was no actual proof, that the General might have been merely bluffing, hoping to scare him. And if the old goat had been telling the truth, he still had no idea even what the proof consisted of. Was it an object? A piece of paper? Whatever it was, he was certain that the General would have secreted it away somewhere. A safe was the most likely choice, so he searched the room but found none, knowing even as he did so that the safe was just as likely to be downstairs in the old man’s study or smoking room, or even where they locked up the precious silver. Finding it would be a daunting task in the best of circumstances. At night, with a houseful of people around who might wake up and discover him, it was almost impossible.
Even as he thought it, he heard the sound of the doorknob turning. He darted into the shadowy spot between the wardrobe and the corner of the room and waited, holding his breath. He heard the shuffle of an old man’s feet across the room and saw the flickering low light of a candle. Fortunately the light did not come close to where he hid. He, however, could see the features of a man close to the General’s age, dressed in nightclothes and dressing gown. The General’s valet, he thought.
The servant stopped at the foot of the bed and stood for a moment. Then he began to frown and edged around the bed to stand beside the old man. He sucked in his breath and let out a low wail. “Oh, no, oh, my lord, no!”
He moaned again, then turned and left the room at a pace close to a run.
The intruder did not hang far behind. He raced to the door after the servant and saw him shuffling down the hallway, moaning and crying out, “He’s gone! The General’s dead!”
He did not pause, but slipped along the hall in the opposite direction, running lightly down the main stairs and out of the house.
2
The carriage rolled to a stop, and Jessica pushed back the curtain to peer out into the dark, a question on her lips. As soon as she saw what lay before them, the question died unanswered. The coachman had stopped, no doubt, just as she would have, because of the looming dark bulk that lay ahead of them. It was a massive structure of dark gray stone, obviously built centuries before in a time of frequent strife, and added onto throughout the years until it was a sprawling hulk of sheer stone walls, battlements and Norman towers. Lights burned on either side of its open gateway, doing little to alleviate the darkness. It was gloomy and foreboding, dominating the countryside from its seat on a slight rise. Castle Cleybourne.
Jessica had little trouble believing that it was the country seat of an old and powerful family. Nor was it difficult to imagine the place being besieged, war engines hammering away at its massive walls, soldiers on the battlements shooting down arrows on the troops below. What was harder was to picture it as a welcoming place to bring an adolescent girl who had just lost her last loving relative. She could not hold back a sigh.
Perhaps it had been a mistake, after all, to act this precipitously upon the General’s orders. It had shaken her so when the old man’s valet had run through the halls, wailing out the news of his death, that she had immediately set about readying Gabriela and herself for the journey to Gabriela’s new guardian. General Streathern’s death, following as it did hard on the heels of his seemingly prophetic words to her, jolted and frightened her, lending an eerie importance to what he had said. Had he foreseen that his death would come that swiftly? And had he foreseen other things, as well—things that had made him urge her to take Gabriela safe out of Lord Vesey’s hands?
She had sat up with Gabriela the rest of the night, holding the girl while she cried out her grief until Gaby fell, finally, into a restless slumber. Jessica had remained by the girl’s side, dozing by fits and starts in the padded rocker beside the bed, thinking about the General and letting her own tears flow for the man who had been so kind to her, standing by her when the rest of the polite world had scorned her. She had not cried like this for anyone since her father’s death ten years ago.
The next morning, she had told Pierson, the butler, about the General’s last instructions to her, and he had immediately set two of the maids to packing up her and Gabriela’s clothes and other necessities for the journey. He would not have ignored the General’s orders in any case, nor would any of the other servants, but Jessica could see in his eyes that he agreed with the General about the wisdom of removing Gabriela from Lord Vesey’s vicinity.
Jessica had gone about her business, seeing to the funeral arrangements and notifying all who needed to be notified of the old man’s death, including Lord Vesey at the inn in the village—even though it was like a stab wound to her chest to think of that loathsome man’s probable pleasure at the news. She had penned letters to the General’s friends, telling them of his demise, and another to the Duke of Cleybourne explaining the situation, while the servants went about the necessary arrangements to the house—draping crepe above doors and turning mirrors to the wall, muffling the door-knockers. Every spare moment, Jessica had spent with Gabriela, trying to ease the pain of this new death and separation.
The girl was white and hollow eyed but calm, not giving way to tears again until the last moments of the funeral. Jessica’s heart was heavy for her. Gabriela had had to suffer more sorrow than a fourteen-year-old should bear—losing both her parents when she was eight, and now losing the man who had been a grandfather to her, her only real remaining relative, for one could scarcely count Lord Vesey. Now all she had left were Jessica and the stranger who would be her guardian.
Despite the girl’s sorrow, Jessica knew that she had to explain to her why they must leave as soon as possible. She did not, of course, explain Lord Vesey’s depravity to her, deeming it unsuitable for a young girl’s ears, as well as exceedingly frightening for her. However, as it turned out, she did not need to justify leaving. As soon as Gabriela learned that they were going away in order to avoid Lord Vesey, she was eager to leave.
“I hate him,” she told Jessica vehemently. “I know it’s wrong. He is old and deserves respect…but he gives me the shivers. The way he looks at me…it’s as if a snake had crossed my path.”
“I understand. It is an apt analogy,” Jessica agreed. “He is a wicked man. Your great-uncle thought so, too. You must never be alone with him. If he comes into a room, you leave.”
“I will.”
At the funeral, Leona wept in her lovely way. Jessica wondered why the woman bothered, since the General was dead. Did she hope to influence the attorney who would read the will? Or was she simply unable to pass up an opportunity to focus everyone’s eyes on herself?
Jessica herself struggled not to cry, sitting beside Gabriela and holding her hand. She knew that she needed to be strong, for Gabriela’s sake, but she could not help remembering the many kindnesses that General Streathern had shown her, until finally she could not hold back the tears any longer, and she, too, had cried, silent tears rolling down her cheeks.
Afterward, in the formal drawing room of the General’s house, his attorney, Mr. Cumpston, read the General’s last will and testament to them. It came as no surprise to Jessica that the old man left his house and his entire fortune to Gabriela and nothing to the Veseys. It was what he had told her the other night. It did come as a shock, however, when she learned that General Streathern had left Jessica his favorite inlaid wood box, containing several of his mementos, as well as a sum of money. She stared at the attorney, amazed, oblivious to the venomous looks the Veseys shot at her. It was not a large sum, she knew, compared to Gabriela’s fortune. Leona, she felt sure, would consider it mere pin money. But it was enough, if invested wisely, to provide Jessica with a livelihood for the rest of her life. She would not have to scrimp and save, and she would never again be at the mercy of others. It was freedom from the painful, frequently humiliating existence into which her father’s scandal had plunged her, and it made her heart swell with gratitude and affection for the General.
Lord and Lady Vesey, as she had expected, had protested the contents of the will long and vigorously.
“I am his nephew!” Lord Vesey had cried. “There has to be a mistake. He would not have left money to his butler and valet and…and her—” he pointed contemptuously at Jessica “—and left nothing to a relative!”
“It’s because of you!” Leona added, her eyes shooting into Jessica like daggers. “I think we all know why he left you money, don’t we? The sort of services you performed for the old—”
“Lady Vesey!” Mr. Cumpston exclaimed, shocked. “How can you say such a thing about the General? Or Miss Maitland?”
“Quite easily,” Leona retorted scornfully. “I am not a country innocent like you.”
“I was friend to General Streathern for many years,” Mr. Cumpston replied. “I knew him well, and I know that there was no taint of scandal attached to him or Miss Maitland. He explained all his wishes to me.”
“He was influenced by her!” Leona cried, her lovely face contorted into something far less fetching. “Her and that chit!” She waved her hand toward Gabriela. “They worked on him. Convinced him to exclude us.”
“That’s right,” Lord Vesey agreed. “Undue influence, that’s what it was. He was an old man, and feeble. He probably didn’t know what he was doing. I shall take this to court.”
“Very well, Lord Vesey,” the attorney said with a sigh. “Certainly you may do so. But I think you would simply be throwing away money on such a suit. The General was in full possession of his faculties until he was felled by apoplexy that day, and there are a large number of respected people in this community who will testify to that. The witnesses to the will were Sir Roland Winfrey and the Honorable Mr. Ashton Cranfield, who were visiting the General at the time. They, too, can testify as to the General’s ability to know what he was doing, and I think you will find few who would dispute the word of either of those gentlemen.”
Lord Vesey sneered but fell silent. Jessica had no very great opinion of his intelligence, but she suspected that even Lord Vesey would realize he had little hope with two such respected men as witnesses against him. He and Leona left the house soon afterward, and Jessica sincerely hoped that was the last she and Gabriela would ever have to see of them.
Mindful of her promise to the General, she and Gabriela had also left that afternoon, after packing up the last of their things, putting the lovely wooden box the General had given her into one of her trunks, then bidding the servants of the household a tearful farewell and promising to send them word from the home of Gabriela’s new guardian and trustee.
They had traveled throughout the night, stopping only to change the horses at post houses along the way. She and Gabriela slept as best they could in the rumbling carriage, woken often by jolts and jars. Though the carriage was well-appointed and as comfortable as such conveyances could be, it was a hard drive, and it was a relief whenever they stopped at an inn to change horses and could get out a bit and stretch their legs, free from the constant motion of the coach.
Now, having arrived at the duke’s stronghold the next evening, Jessica was swept by a new dismay. The castle did not look like a welcoming place.
“Are we there?” Gaby asked, pushing aside the curtain beside her and looking out. She sucked in a breath as she saw the looming structure. “Oh, my…it looks like something out of a book—you know, the romances Gramps disapproved of my reading. Doesn’t it look as if it holds ghosts and villains?”
“And at least one mad monk,” Jessica added dryly, pleased when the younger girl let out a little chuckle. “Well, shall we venture forward?”
“Oh, yes. It looks most interesting.”
Jessica smiled at the girl. Gabriela was handling everything so well it was amazing. Jessica felt sure that many another young lady would have fallen into a fit of the vapors by now, given the events of the past few days.
She ordered the driver to proceed and settled back in her seat. She hoped that the Duke of Cleybourne would not be too offended by their arrival after dark. It was not the best time to impose on someone, but she hoped that he would understand the exigencies of the situation. It was too bad, she thought, that Gabriela’s father and then the General had chosen someone so lofty in lineage and rank to be the girl’s guardian. She was afraid that he would be so high in the instep that it would be difficult to talk to him. Jessica had been raised in good circles: her father’s brother was a baron, and her mother’s father was a baronet. But that was a far cry from a duke, the very highest title one could have below royalty. Some dukes were even royal themselves. She feared that he might dismiss her, thinking Gabriela’s schooling and training in the polite arts was not good enough for the ward of a duke. She kept such thoughts to herself, however, not wanting to upset Gabriela.
The carriage rolled up to the gates, stopped for a moment, then rolled on into the courtyard beyond. The entrance had once been the outer wall of the castle, Jessica supposed, with huge gates that were closed at night, but in these modern times, the gates no longer stood, only the entrance. Inside the wall lay a small courtyard paved with stones. The coachman pulled up to the front steps of the house, then climbed down to help Gabriela and Jessica out.
The house was imposing, the timeworn stone steps leading up to a large and beautifully carved wooden door. Concealing her nerves, Jessica went up the steps, Gabriela on her heels, and knocked firmly on the front door. It was opened almost immediately by a surprised-looking footman.
“Yes?”
“I am sorry to intrude so late at night. I am Jessica Maitland, and this is Gabriela Carstairs. We are here to see the Duke of Cleybourne.”
The young man continued to stare at them blankly. “The duke?” he asked finally.
“Yes.” Jessica wonderd if the man was not quite right in the head. “The duke. Miss Carstairs is the grandniece of General Streathern. Her father was a friend of the duke’s.”
“Oh. I see.” The footman frowned some more but stepped back, permitting them inside. “If you will, ah, just sit down, I will tell His Grace that you are here.”
It was not, Jessica noted, the pleasantest of greetings. Her unease grew. What if the letter had been delayed and the duke had not gotten it yet? They had traveled very quickly, and it was possible they could have outstripped the mail.
The footman was gone for some time, and when he did return, it was with another, older man, who came forward to Jessica.
“I am very sorry, Miss…Maitland, is it? My name is Baxter. I am the butler here. I’m afraid that this is not a good time to see His Grace. It is, after all, nine o’clock, rather late for visiting.”
“I sent him a letter,” Jessica said. “Did he not receive it? I explained the circumstances of our arrival.”
“I, ah, I’m not sure. I, there has been mail, of course, but I do not know whether he has read it. His Grace did not seem to expect you.”
“I am very sorry if he has not received the letter. But if he has it and has not read it, it would be a good idea for him to do so now. It will explain everything. I am sure it must appear odd to him, but I really must meet with him. Pray go back and tell him that it is imperative that we speak. Miss Carstairs and I have traveled quite a distance. She is the duke’s ward.”
The old man eyed Gabriela somewhat skeptically. “Ward?”
“Yes.” Jessica instilled her voice with all the iron she could muster.
The butler bowed and left, but a few minutes later, he returned, looking apologetic. “I am sorry, ma’am, but His Grace is adamant. He is, um, not one who engages in much social intercourse. He suggested that you contact his estate manager, Mr. Williams, tomorrow.”
“His estate manager!” Anger flared up in Jessica. She was tired, thirsty and hungry, as well as grimy from the dust of the road. She wanted nothing so much as a chance to wash off, then tumble into bed for a long sleep. It was galling that the obnoxiously proud duke did not even have the courtesy to meet her. During the years since her father’s death, she had grown used to slights and snubs, to the small, painful pinpricks of humiliation that the rich and powerful all too frequently gave out. But they never failed to raise her ire, and this one was far worse, because it was a snub and insult to Gabriela, as well.
She glanced over at her charge and saw that Gaby’s pretty young face was pale and apprehensive. She would no doubt worry now that her guardian had no liking for her, that he might refuse to be her guardian or, even worse, be a harsh one. The sight of Gabriela’s small hands twisting together in her lap touched flame to the fuel of Jessica’s anger.
“I am so very sorry that it is inconvenient for your master to come downstairs and meet an orphan who has been placed in his care,” Jessica snapped. “But I am afraid that he has no choice in the matter. He is Gabriela’s guardian, not his estate manager, and I intend to talk to him. We have traveled for a day and a half to see him, and I have no intention of going back to the village at this hour to get a room at the inn.”
The butler shifted nervously under Jessica’s flashing eyes. “I am most awfully sorry, miss….”
“Oh, stop saying that! Just tell me where he is, and I will give him the message myself.”
The old man’s eyes widened in horror. “Miss! No, you cannot—”
But his words fell on empty space, for Jessica walked past him, saying to Gabriela, “Wait here for me, Gaby. I’ll be back in a trice.”
The butler hurried after her, his hands fluttering nervously. “But, miss, you cannot…His Grace is not receiving. It is very late.”
“I am quite aware of the hour. And I frankly do not care whether His Grace is receiving or not. I intend to talk to the man, and I am not leaving this house until I do,” Jessica said as she strode into the huge central room beyond the stairs. “Your only choice is whether you will tell me where he is or let me yell for him,” she informed him over her shoulder.
“Yell?” The man looked as if he might faint from the horror of the idea. “Miss Maitland, please…”
“Hello?” Jessica called loudly, cupping her hands around her mouth. “I am looking for the Duke of Cleybourne!”
The butler gasped behind her. “No! Miss, you must not, it isn’t seemly.”
“And is it seemly for a man to ignore his duties to a dead friend, to tell a fourteen-year-old girl who has just lost everyone dear to her that she should go back to an inn to spend the night and then talk to his estate manager? I may be unseemly, but I am not wicked.”
She walked toward the main corridor leading off from the Great Hall, shouting again, “Cleybourne!”
Down the corridor a door was flung open, and a man stepped into the corridor. He was tall, with an unruly mop of thick black hair and eyes of nearly as dark a color. His cheekbones were wide and sharp, his jaw firm and his cheeks hollowed. He was dressed in breeches and a shirt, his jacket and cravat discarded, and his shirt unbuttoned at the top. He glowered down the hallway at Jessica.
“What the devil is going on out here? Who is making that racket?”
“I am,” Jessica replied, walking purposefully toward him.
“And who the devil are you?”
“Jessica Maitland. The one whose message you just flung back in her face.”
“I am sorry, Your Grace.” The butler hurried toward him, puffing.
“Never mind, Baxter. I shall take care of this myself.” The man swayed a little, putting a hand up to the doorjamb to steady himself.
“You’re bosky!” Jessica exclaimed.
“I am not,” he disputed. “Anyway, the amount of my inebriation is scarcely any business of yours, Miss Maitland. I am still not at home to every hopeful debutante who passes through with her harpy of a mother and hopes to put up at my home. Ever since that fool Vindefors married the chit who put up at his house after an accident, every grasping mama in the Ton has tried to emulate her.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Jessica said impatiently. “But it has nothing to do with me or my purpose here, as you would know if you had listened to what your butler said.”
The man’s brows soared upward. Jessica was sure he was unused to hearing anything he said or did disputed, given his rank. “I beg your pardon,” he said icily.
“As well you should,” Jessica retorted, purposely taking his words in the wrong way. “Miss Carstairs and I have had a long and difficult journey, and it is entirely too much to be told to take ourselves off to an inn at this hour of the night.”
“Some might say that it is entirely too much to expect a stranger to take one in at this hour of the night.” The duke crossed his arms, glaring back at her. “And who in the bloody hell is Miss Carstairs?”
“She is the daughter of a man who thought you were his friend,” Jessica replied. “So good a friend that he named you her guardian.”
His arms fell to his sides, and Cleybourne stared at her. “Roddy? Roddy Carstairs? Are you saying that Roddy Carstairs’ daughter is here?”
“That is precisely what I am saying. Did you not get my letter? Or have you simply not troubled yourself to read it?”
He blinked at her for a moment, then said, “The devil!”
He turned around and strode back into the room from which he had emerged. Jessica followed him. It was a study, masculinely decorated in browns and tans, with leather chairs and a massive desk and dark wood paneling on the walls. A fire burned low in the fireplace, the only light in the room besides the oil lamp on the desk. A decanter and glass stood on the desk, mute testimony to what the duke had been doing in the dimly lit room. On the corner of the desk was a small pile of letters.
Cleybourne pawed through them and pulled one out. Jessica’s copperplate writing adorned the front, and it remained sealed. He broke the seal now and opened it, bringing the sheet of paper closer to the lamp to read it.
“I will tell you what it says. I am Miss Carstairs’ governess, Jessica Maitland, and her great-uncle, General Streathern, passed away a few days ago, leaving her entirely orphaned and still underage. As you were named in her father’s will as her guardian if her uncle could not serve, he thought that you were the proper man to become her guardian upon his death.”
The duke let out a low curse and dropped Jessica’s letter back onto the table. He looked at her again, still frowning.
“You don’t look like any governess I have ever seen.”
Jessica’s hand flew instinctively to her hair. Her thick, curly red hair had a mind of its own, and no matter how much she tried to subdue it into the sort of tight bun that was suitable for a governess, it often managed to work its way out. Now, she realized, after the long ride in the carriage, a good bit of it had come loose from the bun and straggled around her face, flame-red and curling wildly. Her hat, as well, had been knocked askew. No doubt she looked a fright. Embarrassed, she pulled off her bonnet and tried to smooth back her hair, searching for a hairpin to secure it, and the result was that even more of it tumbled down around her shoulders.
Cleybourne’s eyes went involuntarily to the bright fall of hair, glinting warmly in the light of the lamp, and something tightened in his abdomen. She had hair that made a man want to sink his hands into it, not the sort of thought he usually had about a governess—indeed, not the sort of thought Richard normally had about any woman.
Since Caroline’s death, he had locked himself away from the world, eschewing especially the company of women. The musical sound of their laughter, the golden touch of candlelight on bare feminine shoulders, the whiff of perfume—all were reminders of what he had lost, and he found himself filled with anger whenever he looked at them. The only woman he regularly saw besides the maids and housekeeper was his wife’s sister, Rachel. She was, perhaps, the most painful of all women to see, as she looked more like Caroline than anyone, tall and black haired, with eyes as green as grass, but he was too fond of her to cut her off, and she, out of all the world, was the only one who truly shared in his grief.
But never, in the four years since Caroline had died, had he looked at a woman and felt a stab of pure lust. Oh, there had been times when he had felt a man’s natural needs, but that had been simply a matter of instinct and the amount of time that had passed since he had known the pleasure of a woman’s body. It had not flamed up in him because of the look of a particular woman’s hair or the curve of her shoulder or the sound of her voice.
It seemed absurd that he should feel it now, with this harridan of a governess. God knows, she was beautiful—vivid and unusual, with startlingly blue eyes and pale, creamy skin and that wild fall of hair—and her tall, statuesque figure could not be completely toned down by the plain dark dress she wore. But she was also loud, strident and completely without manners. He did not know if he had ever met a less feminine-acting woman.
He did not want her in the house—neither her nor the young girl whose guardian she claimed he was. He had come here to end his days in this place where his life had stopped four years ago, even though his heart had continued vulgarly to beat. How could he do it with this virago and some silly girl in the house with him?
“How do I know that any of this is real?” he asked her abruptly. “What proof do you have of it?”
Jessica had tried unsuccessfully to wind her hair back into a knot, but finally she had simply let it go. She bridled at his words. “I would hate to be as suspicious as you,” she said bitingly. “First you assume we are some sort of rapacious husband-hunters, and now you doubt whether a poor orphaned girl is actually your ward.”
“One learns to be suspicious through hard experience,” Cleybourne said flatly. “Well? If your story is true, there must be some proof.”
“Of course there is proof.” Jessica had stuck the folded will and the General’s letter into her pocket when she emerged from the carriage, and now she reached in and pullled them out, handing them over to the duke. “Here is the General’s will, as well as a letter that he wrote to you, explaining the circumstances. I do not have a copy of his death certificate with me, however, if you doubt whether he has actually died.”
Cleybourne’s mouth tightened, and he snatched the papers from her. His eyes ran down the will until they reached the clause naming him guardian of General Streathern’s great-niece, Gabriela Carstairs, the daughter of Roderick and Mary Carstairs. He sighed, folding the will back up. Poor Roddy. He remembered well when his friend and his wife had died, both felled by a vicious fever that had swept through the south of England that year. Their young daughter had survived only because the doctor had insisted that she and her nurse be quarantined in her nursery, never visiting her parents.
He opened the letter and read it, squinting to make out the scratchings of an ill old man. At one point, he exclaimed, “Vesey is her only living relative! Good God!”
“Precisely.” Jessica was relieved at his reaction to Vesey’s name. From the way the man had been acting, she had been afraid that he might decide to hand Gabriela over to Lord Vesey rather than trouble with her himself. “The General was afraid that Lord Vesey might try to wrest the guardianship away from you—I’m not sure how, exactly. That is why he insisted that we leave immediately after the reading of the will and drive straight here. It has been a long and exhausting journey. Gabriela is very tired.”
“Yes, of course.” His eyes flickered to her, and he noticed for the first time the pale blue half circles of weariness and worry beneath her eyes. “You, too, I should imagine.” He sighed and laid the documents on his desk. “Well, there is nothing for it but for you to stay here, of course.” He paused, then added stiffly, “My apologies for your reception when you arrived. I had no idea who you were. I—everyone will tell you that I am not a sociable man.”
Jessica felt like retorting that this was scarcely news to her, but she held her tongue. The man might be a snob and a boor, but she did not want to offend him so much that he took Gabriela out of her care. She swallowed her pride and said, “Thank you, Your Grace. We are in your debt.”
“I will direct Baxter to set you up for the night.”
“Thank you.” Jessica started for the door, then paused and swung back to him. “I—I suppose that you would like to meet your ward. Shall I bring her here?”
“No!” His answer was swift and adamant, and his face, which had relaxed its lines somewhat, was suddenly as set as stone. He apparently realized the rudeness of his response, for he added, “That is, I think it would be better not at this time. I am sure that Miss Carstairs is quite done in by her journey. Meeting me would only be an unnecessary burden to her.”
Jessica met his eyes unflinchingly for a long moment. “Very well,” she said quietly. “Until tomorrow, then.”
“Yes.”
She turned and went out the door, passing Baxter, who was worriedly hanging about in the hall. She heard the duke call to his butler as she marched back to the entryway, seething as she went. One would think the man could have had the courtesy at least to meet his new ward! Simple politeness would have compelled most people to greet her, even if they had not expected or wanted to have such a burden placed upon them.
She saw Gabriela waiting for her, sitting alone on a marble bench near the front door. The footman stood a few feet away from her, almost as if he were standing guard. Gabriela was swinging her feet, scuffing them against the marble in a way that under normal circumstances Jessica would have reprimanded her for. But as it was, all she could think was how thin and young and lost Gabriela looked, and her chest tightened with sympathy.
“Gabriela.”
The girl whirled around, rising to her feet apprehensively. Jessica smiled at her.
“It is straightened out now,” she told her with all the cheerfulness and confidence she could muster. “The duke had not read my letter yet, so he did not understand why we were here. It was, you know, so hastily done….”
“Yes, of course. But now it is all right?” Gabriela’s face brightened. “He wants us to remain?”
“Of course.” Jessica omitted the man’s reluctant agreement that they must stay. No matter how much she might dislike him, she did not want to influence his ward’s feeling for him. “He remembered your father with affection and sorrow. I think he was merely caught by surprise, not expecting anything to have happened to the General.”
“Am I to meet him now?” Gabriela shook out her skirts a little and began to brush at a spot.
“No, I think it is best that we wait for that. He was quite considerate and pointed out that you must be very tired and not up to meeting anyone yet. Tomorrow will be much better.”
“Oh.” Gabriela’s face fell. “Well, yes, I suppose it would be better to meet him when I am looking more the thing.” She paused, then went on curiously, “What manner of man is he? What does he look like? Is he tall, short, kind—”
“In looks he is quite handsome,” Jessica admitted, pushing back her other, less positive, thoughts of him. “He is tall and dark.” She thought of him, the brown throat that showed where his shirt was unbuttoned, the breadth of his chest and shoulders beneath that shirt, owing nothing to a padded jacket as some men did, the piercing dark eyes, the sharp outcropping of cheekbones. “He is, well, the sort of man to command attention.”
“Then he looks as a duke should look?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Good. I was so afraid he would be short and pudgy. You know, the kind whose fingers are like white sausages with rings on them.”
Jessica had to laugh. “That is most unlike the Duke of Cleybourne.”
“I’m glad. Is he nice, though? I mean, he’s not high in the instep, is he?”
“He did not seem to stand on ceremony,” Jessica told her carefully. She did not want to describe the man’s cold reception or his reluctant acceptance of Gabriela, but neither did she did want to paint too rosy a picture of him or Gabriela would be severely disappointed when she met him. “As to what sort of man he is, I think we must wait and get to know him better. It is difficult to determine on such a brief meeting, after all.”
“Yes. Of course.” Gabriela nodded. “I will be able to tell much better when I meet him tomorrow.”
“Yes.” Surely, Jessica thought, the duke would be in a better mood tomorrow. He would think about the General’s letter and his old friend Carstairs, and by tomorrow morning he would have accepted the situation—perhaps even be pleased at the idea of raising Carstairs’ daughter. He would not be so rude as not to invite Gabriela to his study for an introductory chat.
They did not have to wait much longer before the butler came to them. Jessica was pleased to see that the old man bowed with not only politeness but a certain eagerness, as well, as though he was pleased to welcome the girl to the household.
“Miss Carstairs. My name is Baxter. I am His Grace’s butler. I am so pleased to meet you. I remember your father quite well. He was a good man.”
Gabriela’s face lit up with a smile. “Thank you.”
“The maids have made up your rooms now, in the nursery. I am sorry we were so ill prepared for your visit. But hopefully you will find everything to your satisfaction.”
“I am sure it will be,” Gabriela replied with another dazzling smile, and the old man’s face softened even more.
He led them up the stairs to the nursery, tucked away, as nurseries often were, far from the other bedrooms, in the rear of the house on the third floor. It was a large, cheerful suite of rooms, with a sizable central schoolroom and playroom, and three smaller bedrooms opening off it.
Gabriela’s bedroom was very pretty, if a trifle young for her, with a yellow embroidered coverlet and a lace canopy over the bed, and wallpaper of cheerful yellow roses climbing a trellis. There was a rocker beside the bed, as well as a white chest and a small white table and chairs.
Jessica’s room, beside Gabriela’s, was much starker, with only a small oak chest for her clothes and a narrow oak bed, but Jessica did not expect anything more. Governess’s rooms, in general, were neither large nor particularly accommodating. At least this one boasted a small fireplace, which had not been the case in every house where Jessica had stayed.
She was overwhelmed with weariness as soon as her eyes fell upon the bed, and it was all she could do to take the time to wash her face and change into her bedclothes. At last, with a grateful sigh, she stretched out between the sheets and closed her eyes.
Tomorrow would be better, she told herself again, and she fell asleep, thinking about the troublesome duke.
3
Lady Leona Vesey crossed her arms and looked over at her husband as if he were a rat that had just run into the room. They were sitting in the single private dining chamber in the Grey Horse Inn in the early afternoon, waiting for their luncheon to be brought. Leona had had more than enough of the uncertain service and unsophisticated amenities of a village inn. As if those things were not irritation enough, Lord Vesey had just told her that they were going back to the General’s manor house.
“Have you gone mad?” she asked in a scathing voice, her tone implying that she had already answered her own question. “Why in the world would we want to go back to the General’s house—I’m sorry, I should say, to that misbegotten brat’s house? I, for one, have no liking for having the door slammed in my face.”
Her husband scowled back at her. He had spent the evening after the reading of the General’s will comforting himself with a large bottle of port, and, as a consequence, this afternoon his tongue felt coated with fur and his head seemed to have acquired an army of tiny gnomes hammering away.
Lord Vesey did not like his wife at the best of times. Right now he was entertaining cheerful visions of putting his hands around her throat and squeezing until her eyes bulged. “The door won’t be slammed in our face.”
“Your brain is obviously soaked in port. Don’t you remember? The General kicked us out.”
“Yes, you bollixed that one up, all right,” Lord Vesey agreed.
“I?” Leona exclaimed, her eyes widening. “I bollixed it up? You were the man’s great-nephew. It was you who made him despise you.”
“Ah, but you were supposed to be able to wrap an old man around your finger. Remember?” Vesey grinned evilly as he reminded his wife of her earlier, confident words when they had first heard that General Streathern was on his deathbed.
Personally, Lord Vesey had never admired his wife’s looks. He had married her because she was the only woman he had found in the Ton who was utterly indifferent to his little peccadilloes and quite happy to let him go his own way…as long as she was allowed to go hers. Other men fell all over themselves to get at those swelling breasts of Leona’s, but he found such lushness rather grotesque. He much preferred a lither, slimmer silhouette…such as the one on that Gabriela chit. Unconsciously he licked his lips as he thought of her. Leona was far too old, as well. It was the sweet bloom of youth that he preferred, and there was nothing quite like the joy of being the first to pick the fruit.
He relished Leona’s look of chagrin so much that he went on. “That is the second one, you know. First you bungled that affair with Devin last summer, and now you couldn’t even rouse the interest of an old man. I fear you are losing your touch, my dear. Or is it your age showing, do you think?”
Flame leaped in Leona’s eyes, and her face screwed up in an unattractive snarl. She wanted to leap on him, claws out, and damage him. But she knew that Vesey was such a coward, he would probably start wailing and shrieking, and then someone would come running. It would be thoroughly embarrassing to have everyone in a common inn see what a pitiful, mewling creature her husband was. So she contented herself with saying, “As if you would know what a real man wanted! You are nothing but a degenerate!”
“My, my, and to think you know such big words.” Vesey widened his eyes in mocking amazement. “Have you been bedding down with a man of letters?”
Leona sneered at him. Vesey was hardly a man. He had come to her bed a few times when they were first married, making a feeble attempt to get her with an heir—as if either one of them cared about that! She had soon set him straight in that regard. She had no intention of growing fat with anyone’s child, and she took pains to prevent that occurring. His lovemaking she regarded as pathetic, nothing like the passion that Devin had been able to give her. Her eyes glowed a little even now as she thought about his skillful caresses. No other man had been able to make her shudder and moan as Dev had, and she had missed him sorely during the past few months. No matter how many men, from lord to common laborer, she had tried to replace him with, none had proved to have his stamina or skill…or inventive mind.
What rankled the most was the fact that Vesey was right. She had indeed bungled the whole thing with Devin. She had overestimated her power over him. She had been the one to suggest that he marry the American heiress. But how was she to have known that the whey-faced, social disaster of a woman whom she had envisioned would turn out to be a cunning beauty? Instead of Devin’s taking the woman’s money and spending it on Leona and their pursuit of pleasure, he had settled down with the doxy at that stupid estate of his in Derbyshire, and Leona had been left both penniless and sexually frustrated. The whole thing had made her permanently cross.
“It doesn’t matter now, anyway,” she said in disgruntlement. “We got nothing in the General’s will, and the best thing we can do is go home. I can’t wait to get away from here. I cannot conceive how anyone can stand to live in the country.”
“Ah, but we still have a chance to gain something, my dear—quite a lot, in fact, if we only have the courage to seize the moment.”
“Seize what moment? What nonsense are you babbling?”
Vesey sighed exaggeratedly. “Are you really so short on wit? We may have been cheated out of our inheritance, but Gabriela is only fourteen. Her fortune will be handled by her guardian. If I was her guardian, we would have a tidy sum at our disposal. And I would be quite willing to take it upon myself to, um, look after the girl’s proper education.”
Leona rolled her eyes. “You are a pig, Vesey. Not only that, you’re stupid. She already has a guardian. And the Duke of Cleybourne is not a man you want to cross.”
Vesey shrugged. “You are thinking of the duke as he used to be. The truth is, for the past four years he has been a shell of a man. You know what a recluse he turned into when his wife died. You think someone like that will welcome an adolescent girl into his household? He doesn’t need her money—he’s as rich as Croesus. Besides, he’s far too noble to think of using her money for his own benefit. No, she will be nothing but a bother to him, and I am willing to bet that he will be happy to lay the burden off on someone else.”
“Not if that someone is you.”
“I’m not saying I would be Cleybourne’s first choice. He and I have never been friends—he is far too dull. But if I am already in the house, if I am in possession of the girl, so to speak, and he sees it will be a battle in court to regain her, well, it will be a far easier matter to hand the guardianship over to me.”
“What makes you think you will be in possession of her? They won’t even let us in the door.”
“Really, Leona, who will stop us? The servants won’t have the nerve to deny me admittance. The old man is dead now, after all. They no longer have his authority behind them. They won’t dare say no to a lord, especially since they know that if the girl does not reach her majority, I would inherit the place as her only relative. Believe me, they will not risk offending me.”
“The girl can tell them not to let you in.”
“A fourteen-year-old female? She wouldn’t have the courage or the wit.”
“Her governess is a dragon.”
“She may be, but she is merely a governess. She won’t stand up to a lord, either. When I show up at the door, they won’t know what to do except stand back and let me enter. Once we are in the house and have actual control of the girl, we will be in the catbird seat. I will sue to be named her guardian. As her only living relative, I have a good case for it, and, besides, I don’t think Cleybourne will contest it. What will he care? He doesn’t even know the chit.”
Leona looked at her husband doubtfully. The whole thing seemed far less sure than Vesey made it out to be. On the other hand, they were teetering on the edge of financial ruin. Indeed, they had been slipping down the side of it for quite some time. Their creditors were becoming increasingly insistent, and the last time Leona had been to the dressmaker, the blasted woman had flatly refused to make another garment for her until Leona paid her bill. Any possibility that would alleviate their situation would be worth a try.
“Oh, all right,” she agreed testily. “Let’s go over to the bloody house. At least if they slam the door on your nose, it will be somewhat amusing.”
There was a knock on the door, and without waiting for permission to enter, the innkeeper opened the door and backed into the room, carrying a large tray. “Good afternoon, my lord. My lady. Here’s your luncheon.”
His wife bustled in behind him, carrying another tray, and together they unloaded a vast array of food on the table. Leona cast an eye over the fare, plentiful but, she felt sure, as bland and plain as every other dish the inn had given them in the past few days. Never, she thought, had she appreciated her cook in London so much.
“Ah, Sims, tell them to have my carriage brought ’round after we eat. Lady Vesey and I are going to transfer to the General’s house.”
“Of course, my lord. Goin’ over there to see to things, are ye? I warrant they’ll be glad to see ye after that theft last night.”
“Theft?” Vesey looked blankly at the portly innkeeper. “What are you talking about?”
“Why, at the manor house, my lord. I thought ye knew. I supposed that was why ye was goin’ over there, to make sure the house is safe and all.”
“What happened?” Leona asked. “What did they steal?”
Sims shook his massive head. “That’s just it. They didn’t take much. The safe was broken into, and things inside it were all scattered about, but Pierson didn’t know exactly what the General had in there. Some jewelry’s gone, they think. All the drawers in the old man’s desk were opened, and papers all over—the General’s will, ye know, and all kinds of business papers. Couple of things broken. The place is a right mess, is what me nevvy told me. He were makin’ a delivery there, ye see, and the cook told him about it. He says the butler near had a fit, ye know, seein’ that. What with the General barely cold in his grave.”
He sighed lugubriously. “’Tis a sad, sad thing. No respect for the dead anymore. Ah, well, at least the girl was safe away. Reckon it would have scared her somethin’ awful.”
“Safe away?” Lord Vesey repeated in hollow tones.
“Why, yes.” The man looked at Vesey closely. “Didn’t ye know? The young lady and her governess left yesterday afternoon, after the funeral and all. Gone to her guardian’s, Will says, some duke in Yorkshire. I woulda thought ye’d know all about that.”
“Yes, of course. I was merely distracted by your tale. I do know that. She has gone to Castle Cleybourne.”
“Aye, that’s the place.” The innkeeper nodded. He stepped back from the table, giving Lord Vesey a cheerful grin. “Well, there ye are, my lord. Enjoy your meal.”
“What? Oh, yes, of course.”
“And I’ll tell them to bring up yer carriage.”
“Oh. Uh, yes, do that.”
The innkeeper followed his wife out of the room, closing the door behind him, and Vesey sank with a sigh into his chair. Leona regarded him with a malicious little grin.
“I would say that knocks your plans all cock-a-hoop,” she said with no discernible sympathy.
“Bloody hell! Whatever possessed that girl to go running off to Cleybourne like that?”
“Mmm. Perhaps she suspected what you were planning?”
“Don’t be absurd.” Vesey, who counted himself quite clever, sent his wife a nasty glance. “I didn’t even know it until a few minutes ago. How could she?”
Leona shrugged. “Well, whatever caused it, you certainly won’t be able to lay hold of her now. At least we shall be able to return to London.”
She walked over to the table and looked down at the array of food. Vesey remained in his chair, thoughtfully tugging at his upper lip.
“Perhaps not…” he said after a moment, rising and sauntering over to the table, looking pleased with himself.
“What are you talking about?” Leona asked crossly. “Not return to London? I trust you are not thinking of going to the manor house still.”
“No. Especially not with people popping in and out, taking things. I was thinking more of going to Yorkshire.”
Leona stared. “You can’t be serious. Yorkshire? Cleybourne? You think you can wrest the girl away from the duke?”
“Wrest? Of course not. Don’t be nonsensical. But it would do no harm to ask. I told you—what use does Cleybourne have for the girl? He’d probably love to get rid of her. If we were to go by there on our way to London…”
“A little out of the way, don’t you think?”
Vesey waved this objection aside. “I could offer to take the chit off his hands. Blood relative and all. He might be swayed by the argument.”
“I sincerely doubt it.” Leona had little faith in her husband’s ability to sway anyone. “Cleybourne’s always been an honorable sort—not a prig like Westhampton, of course. He did like to have a little fun back before he married Dev’s sister, but marriage ruined him.”
She paused, looking thoughtful. “But he has been living like a monk ever since Caroline died.”
Vesey looked over at her. “What are you saying?”
“Well…he might not be immune to a little feminine persuasion. What has it been since Caroline’s death—three, four years? That’s a long time. I’ve heard no rumor of his having an affair with anyone, even a light-o’-love, in that time.”
Lord Vesey smiled. “You think he might be ripe for the plucking?”
Leona’s golden eyes were alight with anticipation. “A lonely widower…winter evenings around a cozy fire…that’s almost too easy a target for one with my talents.”
The more she thought about it, the more Leona liked the idea. Cleybourne was a handsome man, tall and broad shouldered, and wealthy. Seducing him into her bed would be no hardship on her, and it would be pleasant to have a new, indulgent lover. She didn’t know whether he would turn the girl over to Vesey, but that was entirely secondary to Leona. Of first importance was the prospect of acquiring an infatuated lover eager—and able—to ply her with expensive gifts.
“I don’t know, Leona,” Vesey warned. “He is quite friendly with the Aincourts, and you know in what esteem they hold you.”
Leona’s eyes flashed. “I don’t care if he is as thick as thieves with the loathesome Lady Westhampton. She is Dev’s own sister, and her opinion of me never kept Devin out of my bed. Trust me, a few hours with Cleybourne and he’ll be panting after me. A few days and he will be willing to give me whatever I want.”
Lord Vesey smiled. “Well, then…eat up, and we’re off to Yorkshire.”
Jessica awoke the next morning in a much improved mood. A good night’s rest was often the best antidote to one’s fears and doubts. Looking out the nursery window at the rolling Yorkshire countryside, washed with the pale light of a wintry sun, she believed the reassuring things she had said last night to Gabriela. This morning, she was sure, the Duke of Cleybourne would follow the honorable course and accept his guardianship of the girl and welcome her into his house. He had simply been caught by surprise last night.
She breakfasted with Gabriela, talking about how they would explore the house today, and later in the morning, when a servant came to the nursery with a summons from the duke, she followed him downstairs with a light step.
The footman ushered her into the same study where she had spoken to Cleybourne the night before, then bowed out of the room, closing the door behind him. The Duke of Cleybourne was seated behind his massive desk, more formally attired in a jacket and snowy cravat than he had been last night. He rose at her entrance and with a gesture indicated a chair in front of his desk.
“Miss Maitland.”
“Your Grace.”
“Please, be seated.”
Looking at his face, some of Jessica’s good mood evaporated. He was by daylight as handsome as he had appeared last night in the dimmer candlelight, but his expression was, if anything, even grimmer. She wondered, briefly, if this man knew how to smile.
“I have given a great deal of thought to this situation,” Cleybourne began in a heavy tone. “And I have come to the conclusion that it would not be in Miss Carstairs’ best interests to be my ward.”
Jessica stiffened, and her hands curled around the arms of her chair, as if to keep herself from vaulting out of it. “I’m sorry. Perhaps I misunderstood you. Are you saying that you are sending us away? Are you going to turn Gabriela over to Vesey?”
Her mind was racing even as she spoke, thinking how she could flee with Gabriela before he could give the girl up to Vesey. Where could she go? How could she protect her?
Cleybourne flushed faintly, and his mouth tightened. “Good God, no, I don’t intend to turn her over to that roué! How can you even ask that?”
“How can I not?” Jessica retorted heatedly. “I know nothing of you except that you refuse to be her guardian.”
“It is not that, exactly. It is just…well, when her father wrote his will, my circumstances were different. My wife was still alive, and my—” He stopped abruptly and rose to his feet, pushing back his chair. “But mine is a bachelor’s household now, Miss Maitland,” he went on, pacing away from her. “Scarcely a good place for a young girl. She needs a woman’s guiding hand, someone who can plan her debut and introduce her to society, teach her all the things a girl on the edge of womanhood needs to know. I would be at a complete loss at any of those things.”
“She has me, sir,” Jessica said, rising to her feet as well. “I may be only a governess, but I did make my coming-out in London. I was brought up as Gabriela should be brought up. And when the time arrives for her to come out, surely you have some female relative, a sister or mother or aunt, who would be willing to guide her through the waters of London society.”
“Makeshift remedies, Miss Maitland,” he said in a clipped tone, facing her from across the room. “No doubt you are an excellent teacher. However, she needs more than that. She should have the close guidance and company of an older woman, one experienced in the ways of society. I cannot provide that, and neither can you.”
“She needs comfort and strength right now, and that is more important than what she will need four years from now. She needs a home, a place where she belongs, where she is wanted. She lost both her parents six years ago, and now has lost the man who was a grandfather to her. She has no family because I will not consider Lord Vesey her family.”
“Of course not. But I am not her family, either.”
“No, but you were her father’s friend. You are the man her father would have wanted to be her guardian. Because of that, she places her trust in you. And you are the man the General wanted to be her guardian. He placed his trust in you. Did you not read his letter? He feared that Vesey might try to—”
“I will not let Vesey have her. I already told you that. It isn’t as if I am turning the two of you out into the street.” Cleybourne scowled at her blackly. “Damn it! You are the most infuriating woman. I told you, I will find a suitable place for her. My sister-in-law, perhaps. I will write Rachel and see if she and her husband would raise her. Of course you will stay here until I find the proper place, and I assure you that if Vesey should pursue the matter, I will take care of him.”
Jessica started to argue again, but she stopped and pressed her lips tightly together, controlling her anger. She had to stay with Gabriela; that was the most important thing, especially if this man was going to shuffle the girl about. She had already pushed him as much as she dared. She must not offend him so much that he let her go. “Very well, Your Grace.”
The duke’s eyebrows rose in faint surprise at her capitulation. “Yes. Well, that’s settled, then.”
“Shall I bring Miss Gabriela to meet you now?”
“What?” An odd look, one almost of fear, crossed his face, and he shook his head quickly. “No. I—it would be best if we did not meet, I think.”
“What?” Jessica was too astounded not to stare at him. “You will not even meet her?”
“It would be better for her.”
“How is it better for her?” Jessica demanded, anger boiling up too fast and hard for her to be prudent. “To know that you will not even see her? That you cannot be bothered?”
“That is enough, Miss Maitland!” His dark eyes flashed. “I am her guardian, if you remember, and that is my decision. She should not become attached here. This will not be her home. It will be easier for her to leave this way.”
“Easier for you, you mean!” Jessica retorted hotly.
Richard’s eyes widened in astonishment, and Jessica realized then how far she had overstepped. But, in the next moment, to her surprise, the duke let out a short bark of laughter. “I cannot imagine how you managed to be a governess, Miss Maitland, given that razor of a tongue of yours.”
Jessica lifted her chin a little. “General Streathern approved of straight speech.”
“I would not think he brooked insubordination.”
Looking Cleybourne straight in the eye, Jessica said evenly, “The General was not a man to use his power unwisely.”
Cleybourne looked at her for a long moment. Finally he said, “Thank you. That is all.”
Jessica, resisting the impulse to give him a sarcastic curtsy, merely nodded and left the room.
Inside she was seething. The man was unfeeling! She stalked down the hall, scarcely noticing where she was going, and scowling so blackly that a maid, dusting a table, quickly stepped out of her way.
She knew that she could not return to Gabriela in this mood. She must come up with some way to present Cleybourne’s decision to the girl without hurting her, and right now all that would come spurting out of her would be the furious, unvarnished truth. She decided a walk would be the only way to burn off her ire, so she went down the back stairs and out a door into the pale winter sunshine.
Immediately she realized her mistake; it was far too cold to be outside without a wrap. But she could not go back upstairs for her coat without running into Gabriela. She decided one quick turn around the garden would have to do.
She had walked halfway down the center aisle of the garden when footsteps on the stone behind her made her pause and turn. A small woman, bundled up in a cloak, was walking toward her, and over one arm was draped another cloak. She smiled as she neared Jessica.
“Miss Maitland, I thought you might find it a wee bit cold out here, so I brought you a cloak.”
Jessica took the wrap from her gratefully. “Thank you, Miss…”
“Brown. Mercy Brown. I am the housekeeper here.” Her eyes twinkled merrily, matching her smile. “And I must confess it was curiosity more than kindness that sent me out here. I have been wanting to meet you ever since Baxter told me about your arrival with the wee one.”
Jessica smiled back at the woman. “It is a pleasure, Miss Brown, whatever the reason. But Miss Gabriela is scarcely a wee one.”
“Ah, well, she was but a baby the last time I saw her. She was a pretty thing then, and Baxter tells me she still is.”
“Yes. She is very pretty. And good-natured, as well.”
The housekeeper’s smile grew even broader. “I’m glad to hear that. It will be so good to have a young person about the place again. It will be good for the master, too.”
“The duke? Not much. He plans to ship her off somewhere as soon as he can,” Jessica told her sourly.
“No!” Miss Brown looked dismayed. “He never said that.”
“Close enough. He says it’s not the ‘proper place’ for a child, him being a bachelor. He is the most arrogant, irritating man—I cannot imagine why the General thought he would take care of Gaby. He was obviously deluded about the duke’s sense of honor and duty.”
“Oh, no, he is an honorable man!” the older woman protested. “And he would not shirk his duty.”
“Mmm,” Jessica replied on a note of disbelief. “So long as it did not put him out, I suppose.”
“You must not judge him so harshly,” the housekeeper told her earnestly. “The duke is a good man. He really is. You have to understand—he has had a sad history. Things have happened to him that have made him, well, a bit of a recluse, but there isn’t a wicked bone in his body.”
“What else would you call it when he rejects an orphaned girl whose last relative has just died, who has been entrusted to him by a man who was his friend? Her father and General Streathern trusted him to take care of Gabriela, but he cannot be bothered. So he plans to ship her off to whoever will take care of her for him.”
Jessica glanced at the housekeeper and saw a look of great sadness on her face. The woman shook her head, saying, “Ah, poor man. It must be because of Alana. No doubt he cannot bear to be around a child again.” She looked at Jessica. “Why don’t you come back to my sitting room and warm up with a cup of tea? I will tell you about His Grace and why, well, why he is as he is.”
Jessica agreed readily, curiosity as much as the cold impelling her inside. The two women turned and retraced their steps to the house, where the housekeeper hung up their cloaks and led Jessica along a back hall and through the kitchen into a cozy little sitting room beyond that was the housekeeper’s domain. A word to a maid as they passed brought her to the room a few moments later with a pot of tea and cups, and a dish of scones, on a tray.
The scones were delicious, and a few sips of the strong sweet tea warmed Jessica up almost immediately. She settled back into the comfortable chair to listen to Miss Brown.
“I have known His Grace since he was a little boy. So have Baxter and most of us older servants,” she began, her brown eyes alight with fondness. “He was always a wonderful boy. And as he grew into manhood, well, you could not ask for a kinder or better employer. Almost ten years ago he married Caroline Aincourt, the daughter of the Earl of Ravenscar. An excellent marriage—old family, good name—but far more than that, His Grace was madly in love.”
Miss Brown let out a little sigh, her eyes taking on a faraway look. “Oh, but she was a beauty. Every inch a duchess, she was. Tall and striking, with black hair and green eyes. Good-looking lot, the Aincourts, whatever else they might be. There’s a portrait of her in the Great Hall. They were very happy. And, oh, the times we had at the castle then! There were often guests—for weeks at a time, sometimes. Balls and dinners and all sorts of entertainment. His Grace was a sociable man.”
“The duke?” Jessica asked in disbelief.
The other woman nodded. “Oh, yes. I am sure you would not credit it, to see him now. But he enjoyed company. He wasn’t one of those who was irresponsible or wild, you understand. He always did his duty and took an interest in his affairs, but he liked a party as well as the next man. And the duchess! Well, she fairly glowed at a ball. She was always the center of attention. They had a daughter, Alana.”
“A daughter? He said nothing about her. He said that his wife had died, but…”
Miss Brown nodded, her eye darkening a little. “Oh, yes, he had a daughter.” She smiled to herself. “Ah, she was a corker, that one. Lively as could be, always into everything, but no one could get mad at her, because she had the sunniest disposition. All she had to do was smile at you and say she was sorry, and you would forgive her anything. After she was born, they spent even more time here, only going to London for the height of the season. The duke felt it was better to raise a child here in the country, you see. Miss Alana didn’t even sleep in the nursery. His Grace thought it was too far away: they could not hear if she cried out. She stayed right down the hall from her parents, and her nurse slept on a bed in her room.”
“What happened? I mean, what changed everything?”
“They were in a carriage accident. The duchess and the little one were killed.”
“Oh, how awful.”
The housekeeper nodded, her eyes filling with tears as she remembered. “His Grace was riding outside the carriage. It was winter, before Christmas, right about this time of year, in fact.” She sighed. “They were probably driving too fast. Anyway, the carriage overturned as they took a corner. It rolled down an embankment, and the duchess was thrown out. Her neck was broken, and she died instantly. But the carriage, with the wee one inside, rolled on down into the pond.”
Jessica drew in her breath sharply in horror. “Oh, no! How awful!”
“There was a thin layer of ice on the top of the pond, but of course the coach broke right through. His Grace went in after her. The coachman said it was a pitiful sight, how he dived again and again into the cold dark water. Finally, he brought her up and carried her onto land, but it was too late. The poor sweet child was dead.”
Sympathetic tears welled in Jessica’s eyes as she thought about the horrific scene—the frantic parent, the frozen pond, the dark, icy night. She could imagine the overturned carriage, the frightened horses, the beautiful woman dead on the ground, and the duke throwing himself into the icy water in a desperate search for his child, emerging at last with her still form.
“He carried that child in his arms all the way home, and when he walked through the door, holding her—I’ll never forget his face that night. I’ve never seen anything as bleak. We could hardly pry the child out of his arms and bundle him off to bed himself. He came down with a terrible fever—it was no wonder, him being in that icy water and then in freezing weather all the way home—and he nearly died himself. His valet, Noonan, and Baxter and I took care of him. For days we thought we were going to lose him, too, and then it was still more weeks before he was well. He was so gaunt you would hardly recognize him, and that’s a fact. He aged years in those weeks.”
“Poor man.” However much he had angered Jessica, her heart was wrung with pity for him. He had suffered terribly—the loss of a beloved spouse was sad enough, but to have had his adored daughter taken at the same time seemed almost too much to bear.
“Yes.” The housekeeper heaved a sigh and leaned forward to replenish their cups with tea. After a moment, she went on. “After that he changed. Not just the way he looked. The way he was. At first he just sat in his chair and stared out the window. Didn’t seem to care whether he lived or died. He would hardly see anyone—wouldn’t let the vicar anywhere near him, and he barely tolerated the doctor. The only one who had much luck with him was Lady Westhampton, his wife’s sister. He would see the duchess’s brother, as well, Lord Ravenscar. The only place he would go was to the graveyard. It was terrible…terrible…. We were all so worried about him. Finally, one day, he told us he was going back to London. We were happy, thinking he had decided to get on with his life.” She paused, and tears glinted in her lively brown eyes.
“But he had not?” Jessica prompted gently after a moment.
The housekeeper shook her head. “Later he told his valet that it was just that he could not bear to live in this house any longer. It’s his ancestral home—it has been the seat of the Dukes of Cleybourne since 1246. And he lived in it his whole life. But he hasn’t been home for almost four years.”
“But surely he has gotten out more, living in London. He has lived a fuller life, even if he could not face this house.”
“No. I only wish he had. Baxter writes to me every month with news about His Grace and the household. You see, only a skeleton staff and I stayed here. Most of the staff went with him, so we are always eager for news of the rest.” She smiled. “We are close, a kind of family, you see. So I write to Baxter and he to me, and we share the news with the others. The sad truth is that for all that time His Grace has been a recluse in London as much as he ever was here. He sees his relatives and friends every once in a while—if they come to visit him. He never calls on others, and he does not attend parties. Baxter says he never even visits his club. He has shut himself off from the world. And Lady Westhampton, the Duchess’s sister, is worried about him. She has told Baxter that lately he has seemed even more melancholy. Of course, this time of year is the worst for him.”
“But he came back here,” Jessica pointed out. “Surely that is a good sign.”
“We hoped so. I was very cheered. But he—well, he is as polite and nice as ever, but there is a a sadness to him that just hurts my heart to see. Sometimes I worry about why he came home now.”
“What do you mean?”
The other woman frowned. “I’m not entirely sure, miss. But it being this time of year and all…I can’t help but think, maybe he’s come home to die.”
“To die!” Jessica raised her eyebrows in surprise. “But he is still a young man. He can’t be forty yet.”
“No, miss. He’s thirty-five is all. But…”
“Surely you don’t mean—” Jessica looked shocked. “Do you actually think he might intend to…to harm himself?”
Her companion looked even more troubled. “I don’t know. I don’t want to think so. He’s a strong man, but sometimes I fear that he has given in to despair. I think perhaps he hoped that one day, being in London, away from here, he would begin to heal his sorrow. Maybe he has become so heartsore that he fears he never will. I think Lady Westhampton feared it. She cautioned Baxter to look after His Grace carefully. Not, of course, that he would ever have done any less than that, and her ladyship knows it. It was a sign of her worry about him.”
She sighed, then shook her head firmly. “No, I will not think that. But, you see, that is why I was so happy to hear this morning that you and the young miss had arrived. I thought, a child in the house is just what he needs. She will bring life to the place again, and laughter. But when you told me that he would not keep her, would not even see her…” Again she sighed. “Ah, me, it’s a sad, sad thing. I think he must feel that he cannot bear to see a child here. Miss Gabriela is older than his own little one would have been, but still, it would be a reminder to him of all that he has lost.”
“Then that is why he wants to find someone else to take her guardianship from him. I am sorry. I misjudged him.” Jessica frowned. “Poor man. I thought him simply grim and unsociable. I had no idea such loss lay at the base of his actions.”
She thought back to the duke’s sharply carved face—the jutting lines of cheekbone and jaw, almost gaunt in their severity, the dark, brooding eyes, the taut lines of his body—and she could see now the sorrow that lay behind those things.
“It is too bad that he has decided to turn Gaby away,” Jessica went on. “I think you are right. She might be just the thing he needs in his life.” She sighed. “Ah, well, I shall just have to explain it to Gaby as best I can.”
After Jessica left the housekeeper’s room, she walked into the Great Hall, the large area that ran back through the middle of the house from the front door, centered by the staircase. It was two stories high and had been the main room of the castle back in its early days. It was here that the housekeeper had said the late duchess’s portrait hung.
Obviously the first few pictures were not of her, for they were of men in the attire of Tudor and Stuart times. She came upon a painting of a woman in a high white-powdered wig, and then, just beyond that, was a portrait of a young woman in modern dress. Jessica stopped, sure that this must be the duke’s Caroline. She was beautiful, even allowing for the flattering nature of most portraits. Tall and slender, she smiled invitingly out at the viewer. There was a dimple in one cheek, and her green eyes twinkled. She stood beside a chair, one slender hand resting upon its back, and at her feet sat a toy spaniel, its black-and-white coloring reflecting the coal-black of the woman’s hair. She was dressed in green velvet that emphasized her large eyes, and a magnificent emerald ring glowed on her finger.
It was easy to see why Cleybourne had been so in love with her. She looked like the sort of woman who had men falling at her feet, declaring love. Jessica gazed at her with a certain fascination. She had never possessed the sort of charm that it was clear this woman had had. A gawky adolescent, Jessica had grown awkwardly into womanhood, and her blunt tongue and forthright manner had put off many a would-be suitor. She had never had the gift that women like the duchess seemed to possess naturally—the ability to flirt and beguile, to beckon men with a look or a smile. Her aunt, who had introduced her into society when she was eighteen, had often despaired of her, declaring that she would never catch a husband if she persisted in talking to men about the war in Europe instead of smiling and simpering like the other girls. Aunt Lilith, she remembered, had been both ecstatic and amazed when Darius offered for her. Jessica gave a small, wry smile as she thought that she, too, had been rather surprised.
Shrugging off her memories, she turned away and started up the stairs. It was useless to think of the past. She would not know the sort of married happiness she had dreamed of as a girl, but thanks to the General’s generosity, she would be well able to live without having to scrimp and save, or depend on others. She had her independence, and she had Gabriela, and she would have a very pleasant life.
Jessica turned over in her bed, sighing. It was late, and Gabriela had gone to sleep at least an hour earlier. Sleep, however, had eluded Jessica.
It was not for lack of physical weariness. Baxter had offered to show them around the house, and she and Gabriela had spent the majority of the day tramping all over with him. Surprisingly tireless for a man his age, the butler had shown them the entire castle, even poking into the unused wings and the cavernous cellars that had once held the castle’s dungeons and storerooms. Gabriela had especially enjoyed the latter visit, shivering with obvious delight at Baxter’s ghoulish stories of the dungeons. Afterward, he had turned them over to the head gardener, who had given them an equally detailed tour of the gardens and outlying areas. By the end of the day, even Gabriela was thoroughly worn-out. Jessica had been grateful for the exercise for both of them, after almost two days spent in a carriage, and she had thought she would sleep easily.
Instead, as soon as her head touched her pillow, she had started to think of all the problems and pitfalls that lay before them. She had tossed and turned for almost an hour.
Finally, she admitted to herself that she was not going to fall asleep any time soon. Jessica got out of bed and pulled her dressing gown on over her nightgown. She decided that she would read for a while in the hopes that that would encourage her to sleep. She thought that she remembered the way to the library, which Baxter had showed them earlier.
She checked on her charge, who was sleeping soundly, then slipped out of the nursery and down the stairs to the library. As she approached it, she saw that light spilled out from the duke’s study, which lay a few doors before the library. She hesitated for a moment, not wanting to see Cleybourne again. She thought about going back upstairs without a book, but instead, she tiptoed, hopeful that he would not even notice her passing.
He would not have, she realized as she glanced inside the room, for he was not looking out the door, but what she saw pulled her to a stop. She stared into the study.
Cleybourne was seated at his desk, leaning his head on his hands, elbows propped on the desk. To one side sat a decanter of liquor and a half-empty glass. In front of him lay an open case of dueling pistols. As Jessica watched, he reached into the case and took out one of the pistols. A chill ran through her. The housekeeper had been right. The duke was going to kill himself!
4
Jessica was so shocked that for a moment she did not know what to do. Her first instinct was to rush in, crying out to him not to do it. But something held her back, told her that was not the way to snap the Duke of Cleybourne from his black mood. She hesitated, remembering her two conversations with the man. Then she went forward, crossing her fingers that her second impulse was correct.
“Well,” she said coolly as she stepped into the study. Behind the desk, the duke’s head snapped up in surprise. “So this is why you are rejecting Gabriela. She would interfere with your plans to do yourself in.”
Richard scowled, his eyes narrowing. “I wasn’t…bloody hell.”
He had spent the evening in his study, drinking more than he should. The arrival of this damnably irritating woman had ruined all his plans. Obviously he could not do what he had come home to do until he had arranged for Rachel or someone to take over the care of the girl who had been suddenly placed in his charge. He had already written to Rachel, but it could be days, even weeks, before he heard from her. After that, it would be still more time before she could arrive and take the girl in hand—and what if she and Michael did not want to take responsibility for her? Then he would have to search for someone else. It was clear that he might have to stay in this damnable place for months, surrounded by reminders—hearing Alana’s laugh, seeing her face, sleeping in the same bed where Caroline had once lain with him….
He had started drinking, hoping to ease some of the pain. He had not been about to kill himself. He was not that irresponsible. He had taken out the case of dueling pistols simply to look at them. He had thought he ought to clean them, but before he could move to do so, this wretched woman had come into the room. She, of course, would put the worst possible interpretation on his actions. Richard could not think when he had met anyone as irritating.
From the first moment that Richard had seen her, when she had come striding down the hall, shouting his name imperiously, as if he were a recalcitrant servant, he had disliked her intensely. She was rude and abrupt, and she looked at him with a cool contempt, even dislike, that he was unaccustomed to, especially in a woman. He had never been one to stand on ceremony, to demand the respect that was due his station. He knew that he was an easygoing sort. His mother had often complained of his laxness with the servants and his general lack of the self-importance that was proper in a duke. But with Jessica Maitland, he found himself wanting to remind her of his rank, to wipe the look of contempt from her face.
“What the devil are you doing here?” he growled. “Every time I turn around, there you are, sticking your nose into my study.”
“Hardly that, since this is but the third time I’ve seen you. To answer your question, I could not sleep and was on my way to the library when I saw you in here, contemplating your guns.”
Jessica came up to his desk and looked down at the pistols, keeping her face cool and her voice light. “Beautiful workmanship.”
“Yes. They were a gift from my father.”
“Ah. I am sure he would be pleased to know what you intend to do with them.”
“I was intending to clean them,” Richard responded. “Not that it is any of your business.”
“It is my business, I’m afraid. The fact that you are Gabriela’s guardian makes it so. Otherwise, I frankly would not care whether you put a period to your existence. Some people simply do not have the courage to face life. That is the way they are made; I suppose there is little they can do about it.”
Anger shot through Richard with such force that he jumped up, shoving his chair back. “How dare you imply that I am a coward!”
The woman was an absolute harpy—poison tongued and hard as nails. The fact that she was beautiful, with skin as white as cream and that wild tumble of hot red curls falling loose around her shoulders, somehow made her sharp nature even worse, he thought. Seeing her there, her curves softly encased in a dark blue dressing gown that turned her eyes a deep, pure blue, her hair loose and wild, she looked the sort of woman who made a man think of only taking her to bed—and then she opened her mouth, and all he wanted to do was shake her.
It increased his bad temper to realize that she made him think of sex. He had not wanted another woman since Caroline’s death—not in a specific way. It was both annoying and ironic that this acidic woman should cause a stirring of his loins.
Jessica, watching the anger that lit up the man’s face, felt pleased with her plan of attack. Pleading and reasoning would not deter him, she had thought, knowing that his loving servants and no doubt his family and friends had done plenty of that. Angering him, however, worked like a charm—jolting him right out of his melancholy.
She shrugged. “Well, it is scarcely the act of a brave man—to take the easy way out, leaving all his loved ones to mourn him.”
“The easy way? You know nothing about it! You don’t know me or what my life has been like.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Yes, I am certain it must have been a burden to you—being handsome and wealthy and possessing one of the highest titles in the land. I can see why you should go spinning into despair.”
His dark eyes flared with a red light, and Richard had to curl his hands into fists to keep from grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You know nothing about me.”
“Perhaps I do not. But I do know about my life. I know that until I was eighteen, I lived a happy and privileged existence. I came from a good family. I had a loving father. I had that coming-out that you spoke of for Gabriela. I was even engaged to a dashing young lieutenant. Then suddenly that life was cut off when my father was cashiered out of the army. Perhaps you don’t recall the scandal, as we did not move in the exalted circles of a duke. My father was Major Thomas Maitland, and he was an upstanding and honorable soldier all his life. Then he was thrown out, stripped of his title, his honor, his very livelihood. We were no longer received by anyone. My fiancé broke off our engagement. His family, you see, could not ally itself to one so tainted by scandal. My father, the best of men, changed before my eyes. He took to drinking and bad company. He was killed three months later in a fight in a common tavern, and, as my mother had died, I was left alone—without money, without prospects, without even my good name anymore. I lost everything. I became a governess, and as you have pointed out, I am not highly successful at bending my knee to others, so as a consequence, I was close to starvation. Only the General’s kindness saved me.”
“Good Lord. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“And I know Gabriela’s life,” Jessica went on. “She has seen a great deal more sorrow than anyone her age should have to see. She was orphaned when she was but eight, and now her only real relative, the man whom she loved as a grandfather, has been taken from her. She has been turned over to a stranger, but even he does not want her and cannot wait to give her away to some other stranger, because she is too much trouble.”
“Damnation!” Cleybourne roared, and his face, which had softened with sympathy during Jessica’s recital of the events of her life, turned hard and angry once again. “That is not the case at all! I am not rejecting the girl. It is not because she is too much trouble.”
“Oh, no, that’s right. I forgot. It is because she would put a crimp in your plans to do away with yourself. And no one must be allowed to do that, must they?”
“You overstep yourself, Miss Maitland.”
“Do I? I am so sorry. I know that you are used to dealing with servants, loving servants, who would gladly do anything for you, who worry themselves silly about you—until they almost had me convinced that you must be a better man than I thought for them to care so much for you. Well, I am not your servant. General Streathern hired me, and when he died, he entrusted me with Gabriela’s welfare. However little you may want responsibility for her, I accept it gladly, and I don’t intend to let you damage her life still further by killing yourself while she is in your house. If you haven’t the courage to accept life and its troubles, if you care so little for your servants that you will let them stumble upon your bleeding and lifeless body some morning, that is all right with me. But pray do not do so until Gabriela is gone.”
“Enough!” Cleybourne’s face was white and stark, his eyes glittering with fury.
There were many who would have quailed at the sight of his rage, but Jessica stood calmly, facing him, her hands linked in front of her. He was a little frightening, but she had provoked him deliberately, seeking such a reaction. She was not about to back away from it now.
“You are a poisonous, razor-tongued witch, and I want you out of my study this minute,” Cleybourne went on, his voice low and furious. “Indeed, Miss Maitland, were it not for the impropriety of a girl of Miss Carstairs’ age residing here without a governess, I would turn you out of the house immediately.”
“No doubt you would, but as I said, my charge to take care of Gabriela came directly from the General, and I will not shirk that duty, no matter how little you like it.”
“Leave my study now. And pray let me see as little of you as possible in the time that you and Miss Carstairs are here.”
“My pleasure, Your Grace.” Jessica inclined her head slightly, then turned and swept out of the room, head high, back straight. Behind her, she heard the crash of something heavy on the Duke’s desk, followed by a series of curses, cut off by the slamming of his door.
There would be no further thoughts of killing himself tonight, Jessica knew. Cleybourne would be far too busy thinking of delightful ways to do her in. Smiling to herself, she started back toward her room, all thoughts of reading forgotten.
The book Richard slammed down on his desk after Miss Maitland left his study did little to relieve his bad temper, nor did the crash of his study door as he closed it. In fact, it left him feeling a trifle childish. He strode aimlessly around his study for a while, but that did not bring him much peace, either, and finally he gave up and went upstairs to his bed. There Noonan managed to annoy him further by clucking over the bit of port that he had spilled on his coat sleeve, but of course he could not take out his bad temper on the man. Noonan had been with him since he was barely out of short pants, and his look of wounded dignity made Richard feel like the worst sort of monster.
Baxter, of course, was almost as bad. Caroline had laughed and told him he was the only man she had ever met who was hag-ridden by his servants. But he could not be severe with either of the old men—or Miss Brown, either. The three of them had practically raised him, far more so than either of his parents had. And Nurse, of course. He had set her up in her own little cottage with a niece to care for her; she was so far gone in her mind now that she scarcely recognized anyone, but she still knew him.
It took him over an hour to fall asleep. He kept thinking of the things he should have told the venomous Miss Maitland. He wondered what her first name was, then told himself that by all rights it should be Medusa, to fit her nature. He thought with great glee of firing her. He would find another woman to look after the girl, and then he would tell Miss Maitland, quite calmly and coolly, that he would not need her services anymore. He smiled to think of the look upon her face then.
But he knew, even as he thought it, that he would not do so. Miss Maitland had been with the girl for some time, and the poor child had had enough to bear without losing her companion of the past few years. He felt guilty enough as it was to be sending the child to someone else. He could not stop thinking about the fact that Carstairs had entrusted the child to him, and he knew that he was, in effect, letting his friend down. At the time Roddy had died, he would have taken the child gladly and raised her with Alana, but her great-uncle had been the proper choice, of course. And now…well, it didn’t bear thinking of to have a child in the house again. True, she was older than Alana, but he knew that she would be a constant reminder of what he had lost.
She would, anyway, be better off with Rachel and Michael. They had no children of their own, and he suspected that Rachel felt the absence of them keenly. Rachel would welcome Gabriela. They were good people and would be much better at raising the girl than a widower sunk in sorrow. He was doing the right thing, he knew—no matter what that harpy of a governess might say.
Thinking of her made him grind his teeth again. It occurred to him once again that a governess should not look as Miss Maitland did, either. Governesses did not have manes of curling red hair that invited a man’s touch, nor wide eyes as blue as a summer sky—nor sweet curves beneath soft velvet dressing gowns. A proper governess, in fact, would never have intruded upon a man in her dressing gown, anyway!
She was, in short, a most improper person to be a governess, and he wondered if he ought to look into her suitability further. She had spoken of her father’s scandal; he faintly remembered it, though he had been recently married then and far too wrapped up in his new bride to pay attention to military scandals. But Major Maitland had come from a good family; his brother was a baron, if Richard remembered correctly, and the family had never been stained with scandal before. He thought perhaps there had been whispers of treasonous matters, and then, when the man had died, there had been a consensus that it was not surprising, the sort of end one might expect for a man who had been cashiered out of the army a few months before. No doubt the brother had done his best to cover it up.
Of course, Richard thought, he would not hold a father’s misdeed against his child, though many would have. No doubt her life had been very hard after the scandal. He knew the poisonous tongues of society matrons, and he had little doubt that she had been ostracized. To have had her fiancé jilt her would have been an added blow. It was no wonder that she had become hardened and embittered. It was a difficult life for a woman with no means of support. She would have had to depend on the generosity of her relatives, and that could be a cruel existence. The only way a woman could respectably make her living was by becoming a governess, but it would have been a bitter come-down for one who had once moved in high circles. Nor, he imagined, had it been easy for one who looked as she did to get or keep a job. Not many women were willing to introduce a flame-haired beauty into their house.
But even as he felt pity for her stirring in him, he recalled the look of contempt she had visited on him this evening, the scornful way in which she had accused him of rejecting Gabriela. She had as much as said he was a coward! Pity quickly vanished before another spurt of anger.
And so it had gone, his thoughts circling round and round, until, finally, he had fallen into a restless sleep.
Then he dreamed of her.
In the dream, he was walking down a long hallway. He did not recognize the place, but in his dream he knew that it was part of the Castle. A woman stood in front of a tall window at the end of the hallway, light streaming in through the glass. She was tall, silhouetted against the window, and her white dress, with the sun pouring through it, plainly revealed the soft curves of her body. His pace quickened.
She turned as he approached, and as he drew nearer, he saw that it was the girl’s governess. Her red hair tumbled down past her shoulders in a fiery fall. Her blue eyes were lambent, and her face was soft and beckoning in an expression that he had not seen on it before. She smiled, slowly, and he felt it in his gut.
Then, somehow, they were no longer in the hall, but on a bed, and she was beneath him, naked and yielding. Her breast filled his hand, supremely soft, her nipple in hard contrast pushing against his palm. She moved beneath him, her voice a low moan. He knew that she wanted him, and that knowledge spurred his own desire. He was hot and hard, aching for her.
She spread her legs, and he moved between them, groaning as he thrust himself home inside her.
The sound of his own groan awakened him. His eyes flew open and for an instant he stared in confusion at the tester above his bed. His body was damp with sweat, his lungs laboring, and he was stiff with desire and painfully unsatisfied.
Sweet Jesus! What a rude jest—could he actually desire that redheaded witch?
Richard sat up, plunging his fingers back through his hair. The governess! He could scarcely believe he had actually dreamed about her—and such a hot, lascivious dream, at that. His veins were pulsing, his loins aching—and all for a woman the very sight of whom raised his ire.
She was irritating, infuriating. He scarcely knew her—he did not even know her given name—but what he did know he disliked. She was overbearing, opinionated, unwomanly. Richard paused. He had to change that thought: she was unwomanly in manner. In appearance she was deliciously curved, even in the plain, dark sort of dresses she wore. In appearance she was…beautiful.
He sighed, flopping back on the bed and staring sightlessly above him. For a moment he gave himself up to thinking of the way she looked—the springing flame-colored curls, the vivid blue eyes, the pale skin as lustrous as satin. He thought of her as she had appeared in the dream, the warmth in her eyes that he had never seen, the softening of her mouth in desire. He remembered the feel of her beneath him, the trembling excitement of touching her….
Cursing, he sat back up. What the devil was he doing? How could he think of her? Dream of her?
It had been years since he had had that sort of dream about any woman but his wife. From the moment he met Caroline, he had been faithful to her. It had not taken a tremendous effort; quite frankly, he had not wanted any woman but Caroline. And after her death, he had no longer cared about anything or anyone. No woman had stirred him, and the few times he had felt desire, it had been merely an animal instinct, directionless lust, or, sometimes, like now, a dream. But in those dreams, it had been Caroline to whom he made love, and he had awakened, not only sweating, but crying, too.
Guilt twisted through him. He loved only Caroline, desired only Caroline. Even putting aside the bizarre fact that it was the governess who was the subject of his imagination, it shocked him that he had dreamed about another woman. But he knew that if he were honest, he would have to admit that he had had lustful thoughts about Miss Maitland even when he was awake and rational. He knew that others would tell him his wife had been dead for four years, that it was only natural for him to find another woman attractive, even to think of the pleasure of bedding her. Less than a year ago, he remembered, his brother-in-law Devin had pointed out to him that it had been Caroline who had died, not Richard, and that no one expected him to never look at another woman.
But, as he had told Dev at the time, he felt as if he had died, too, that night four years ago. Without his wife and daughter, his life was ashes, and every day held the same empty, lifeless round of activities, worth nothing except to say that he had made it through another day.
How, then, could he now feel desire for another woman? Caroline was the only woman he had loved, could ever love.
The dream had been an aberration, he told himself. It was bizarre and unreal and clearly the opposite of what he really felt. After all, he disliked the woman intensely. The desire, he thought, must have been spawned in some strange way by the intense anger he felt for Miss Maitland. He did not understand it, but that had to be the reason. It was the same sort of thing as the way one laughed sometimes when what one really wanted to do was cry or scream. It had to be. Anything else was impossible.
With a sigh, he lay back down, turning onto his side, and set his mind to thinking of something, anything, besides Miss Maitland. Sleep, he found, was a long time coming.
Richard sat in lonely splendor at the dining table the next evening. He looked down the length of the gleaming mahogany table and thought, not for the first time, how foolish it was to sit here by himself to eat at a table and in a room meant to accommodate a small army of people. A huge silver epergne graced the center of the table, filled with fruit, and silver candelabras, each as ornate as the epergne, were spaced down the length of the table, candles ablaze. Two footmen stood at the ready, should Richard require something not on the table.
It would make more sense, Richard knew, to put a table in one of the small rooms downstairs and eat there, but Baxter, of course, would be horrified at the idea of his not dining formally. There were, after all, certain standards to maintain when one worked for a duke.
Richard began to spoon up his soup. He wondered idly where Miss Maitland took her meals—in the nursery with her charge, he supposed. It must be difficult for her, he thought, living in that odd limbo occupied by governesses, where one was neither a servant nor a member of the family, especially for someone like her, who came from a good family and had even had her season in London. Surely she must miss the life she had once had—doubtless that was one reason she had turned so sour!
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