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A Family For The Widowed Governess
Ann Lethbridge


A governess with a secret… …meets this ready-made family! Part of The Widows of Westram: Lady Marguerite Saxby is being blackmailed! Desperate for money, she accepts Jack Vincent, Earl Compton’s offer to become temporary governess to his three motherless daughters. There’s so much she can’t tell her new employer. Only she’s not expecting the all-consuming attraction that makes living under Jack’s roof a constant battle between her head and her heart!







A governess with a secret

...meets this ready-made family!

Part of The Widows of Westram: Lady Marguerite Saxby is being blackmailed! Desperate for money, she accepts Jack Vincent, Earl Compton’s offer to become the temporary governess to his three motherless daughters. There’s so much she can’t tell her new employer. Only, she’s not expecting the all-consuming attraction that makes living under Jack’s roof a constant battle between her head and her heart!


In her youth, award-winning author ANN LETHBRIDGE reimagined the Regency romances she read—and now she loves writing her own. Now living in Canada, Ann visits Britain every year, where family members understand—or so they say—her need to poke around every antiquity within a hundred miles. Learn more about Ann or contact her at annlethbridge.com (http://www.annlethbridge.com). She loves hearing from readers.


Also by Ann Lethbridge (#uf1ce8270-9636-5f97-ad77-42d82b180843)

Secrets of the Marriage Bed

An Innocent Maid for the Duke

Rescued by the Earl’s Vows

The Widows of Westram miniseries

A Lord for the Wallflower Widow

An Earl for the Shy Widow

A Family for the Widowed Governess

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).


A Family for the Widowed Governess

Ann Lethbridge






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-08932-6

A FAMILY FOR THE WIDOWED GOVERNESS

© 2019 Michéle Ann Young

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Note to Readers (#uf1ce8270-9636-5f97-ad77-42d82b180843)


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This story is about three women who became friends

and supported each other through thick and thin.

I would like to dedicate this book

to great friends everywhere.

These are people who make each day

feel a little brighter and who are there for you

in times of need as well as times of celebration.

Friends are like treasure.

Hoard every one of them.


Contents

Cover (#u509452ff-a733-56c5-83c0-75be75e3c04a)

Back Cover Text (#ub6301943-ae27-5a37-afab-fc0218add022)

About the Author (#u0ae8bb60-86bf-5611-8788-cc22a98b08c4)

Booklist (#uc4798f4f-5638-5b80-ad56-70c2a7607c95)

Title Page (#u1fc0609f-a7ad-5479-856f-1365b3b42a74)

Copyright (#u7996d50e-5f9c-5843-a2cd-bbc7209e5a71)

Note to Readers

Dedication (#u45bdcfb3-be96-53ed-8137-84b806daf39e)

Chapter One (#ua530ba08-f934-5551-a605-0865c5330d0c)

Chapter Two (#uf7146e1a-22f9-5d2f-b763-ab14f406420a)

Chapter Three (#u18d92a6b-4ac6-5ed9-a5dd-bd68580a3f99)

Chapter Four (#ub4c7fe58-ed27-5663-ba08-269090578292)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter One (#uf1ce8270-9636-5f97-ad77-42d82b180843)


Lady Marguerite hated the way the ground sank and the water oozed up. A smell of wet mud filled her nostrils. It had taken her all morning to find the right ground conditions for the specimen she needed and she wasn’t going to give up now, even if it did mean getting wet feet.

She slogged on across the meadow, stepping on the highest tussocks. At least, for the first time in a week, it wasn’t raining. Indeed, it was a lovely spring day. Or it would be if she hadn’t had to go specimen hunting in the boggy ground of a water meadow.

There! Finally. The yellow flower she was seeking. Caltha palustris. Or marsh marigold, as she had known it as a child. She picked her way over to the tall plant, aware that the water level here was higher than ever. Now each step created deep puddles that threatened her jean half-boots.

Ugh. She hated this part of her work. Gathering plants in the wild. Petra would have adored it, but Petra was married and gone. The gentleman paying Marguerite to draw plants for his book was supposed to provide her with the specimens, but he’d said they were more prolific in Kent than where he lived and asked her to find one for herself.

She had thought it would be easy. She had seen them everywhere last spring. Unfortunately, she needed one in flower and very few were in bloom yet.

She tugged on the stalk. After a slight resistance, it pulled free of the muddy earth. She inspected it from root to tip. There were more plants, closer to the stream. Should she try for one with more flowers? This one had only two blossoms and one bud.

‘Ouch!’ A high-pitched scream rang out across the field.

Marguerite glanced wildly around. More screams. A child, she thought. At the edge of the field. She picked up her skirts and headed in the direction of the sound.

‘Ooh! Ooh! It hurts. Ouch. Ouch.’

Was someone striking a little girl?

She flung her sample aside and ran, ignoring the water soaking through her boots. Then she saw two little girls, the bigger of them dancing around flapping her hands and making the sounds Marguerite had heard. There was no sign of any menacing presence. Marguerite rushed up to the one who was clearly in pain.

‘What is it?’

‘Ouch. Ouch.’ Tears were running down the child’s face. ‘I was picking flowers and something bit me.’

The younger child came over to stand beside her...sister? They looked alike. Brown hair. Big brown eyes and dressed exactly the same. Where on earth had they come from?

Marguerite grabbed one of the flapping hands and inspected it. Raised bumps with scarlet edges. She knew exactly what had happened. She cast her gaze around until she found what she wanted. Dock leaves. She scrunched up a couple to free their juices, then began rubbing them all over the little girl’s hands.

After a few moments, the little girl’s cries subsided to a whimper and she gazed up at Marguerite, her face sad. ‘Why did the flower bite me?’ She pointed to a little blue cornflower.

Marguerite winced. ‘It didn’t. It is hiding in a bed of stinging nettles. Those tall green plants. That is what hurt you.’

‘Stinging nettles?’ She kicked out at the plant.

Marguerite pulled her back. ‘Careful. They can easily sting through your stockings.’ Hadn’t every child in England learned that the hard way?

The younger child crouched down and peered at the nearest nettle. ‘Nasty flower,’ she said.

Marguerite inspected the older child’s hand. It was still swollen and sore looking. She rubbed some more. ‘You put your hand right into the middle of them.’

The child gazed at her sadly, tears staining her little face. ‘Why do they sting?’

‘To stop you from picking them. Or rather, to stop grazing animals from eating them. It is the way the plant protects itself.’

The little girl pulled her hand from Marguerite’s and inspected the damage. ‘It still hurts. And I wasn’t going to pick it. I was picking the blue one.’

‘It will hurt for a while, I am afraid. And itch.’ She picked more dock leaves. ‘Keep rubbing the sore places with this until it goes away.’

She glanced around. They were a good mile from Ightham village and even further from her home in Westram. ‘Where do you live?’

The smaller child pointed away from Ightham. ‘Over there. In a big house.’ She spread her arms to aid in her description.

Marguerite knew of only one big house in this particular area, though she had never visited it. Good lord. Marguerite had assumed they were children of villagers, or tenants, but now that she had time to look more closely, she could see that their dresses and pinafores were of far too good a quality to be worn by children of common folk. ‘You mean Bedwell Hall. You are Lord Compton’s daughters?’

The older girl left off sucking the back of her hand and nodded.

Marguerite recalled her abandoned specimen with a sigh. She’d have to pick one another day, because these children should not be wandering around in the fields alone. What on earth could Lord Compton be thinking?

‘Come along, ladies. It is time you went home.’

The younger one giggled. ‘Ladies.’

‘You are ladies, are you not?’ Marguerite said.

The older one left off her rubbing. ‘I am Lady Elizabeth and she is Lady Jane. Everyone calls me Lizzie.’

‘I’m Janey,’ the younger one added.

Marguerite took their hands. How tiny they were. And grubby. It made her think of her childhood. When she had been young and innocent. She could scarcely remember it. Mama had died when she was very young and then it seemed as if she had become mother to her siblings, especially to her sister, Petra.

And now Petra had remarried, leaving Marguerite entirely alone. She liked it that way. She really did. Not having to care for anyone else, being able to do exactly as she pleased, when she pleased, was heaven. And if she needed company, she could always call on Petra and her new husband, Ethan, or go for a visit to Carrie and Avery at their home in the north of England.

Right now, Petra and her husband were off visiting Ethan’s elderly relative in Bath. Ethan had thought Petra was looking a little peaky and had thought a change of air would do her good. Bless the man. He really was good to her younger sister.

They climbed a stile and crossed a narrow laneway bounded by a high wall.

‘The gate is that way,’ Lizzie said.

They really were quite a distance from the house. It did not seem right at all. ‘How old are you, Lizzie?’

‘I am eight,’ Lizzie said, ‘and Janey is six.’

Marguerite frowned. ‘Are you supposed to be wandering around the fields on your own?’

‘No,’ Lizzie said. ‘But we ran away.’

A cold chill travelled down Marguerite’s spine. ‘Why?’

‘Because Papa is mean to us,’ Janey said. ‘So we runned away.’

‘Ran,’ Marguerite said. She did not like the sound of this. Not at all. How many times had she, too, had the urge to run away?

In the end, it had been Neville who left her. She never had understood why he, of all people, had gone off to war with her brother and brother-in-law, but of the three of the women left behind to become widows, she must have been the only one who celebrated her husband’s departure with a toast to whatever impulse had sent him off.

She hadn’t wanted his death. But she had been glad to see him go. Unfortunately, she wasn’t yet free of the misery he had imposed on her life from the moment they wed. But she would be. Very soon.

Not far down the lane, a side gate into the Bedwell estate stood ajar.

She frowned at it. This lord did not care very much for the welfare of his children, that much was certain. She ushered the children through and closed it behind them, making sure it was firmly latched. With growing anger for this careless papa, she marched the two girls up the path to the back of a beautiful Palladian mansion. Once, this house had belonged to the Westrams. Back before Oliver Cromwell had turned England upside down.

It would not have looked like this then. It had been vastly improved since its Tudor days.

Not a soul hustled out to meet them. Had no one realised these girls were missing?

* * *

‘My lord?’

Jack Vincent, Earl Compton, glanced up from reviewing his bailiff’s weekly report on several matters relating to the estate. He frowned. Johnson was staring out of the estate office window with a puzzled expression.

‘What is it?’

‘A young woman, my lord. With Lady Elizabeth and Lady Jane in tow.’

Jack shot out of his chair and around the desk to see what Johnson was talking about. Indeed. It was as his bailiff had said. A willowy woman was striding across the stable yard with his daughters dragging their feet as she urged them along.

‘Wait here,’ he commanded. He strode for the kitchen door.

Cook looked up, flustered at his entry. ‘Is there...?’

He opened the door to the courtyard and emerged into the spring sunshine. He blinked against the glare.

‘Lord Compton?’ an imperious, slightly out-of-breath voice asked.

He bowed slightly to the dishevelled woman whose hems were damp and muddy and who had locks of auburn hair dangling from beneath her cap as if she had been pulled through a hedge backwards. ‘Who the devil are you? And what are you doing with my daughters?’

She recoiled and drew herself up straight. ‘We have not met, but I am Lady Marguerite Saxby. I live in Westram.’ Her mouth tightened. ‘As for your other question, I found these ladies wandering in the field outside your walls. Lady Elizabeth has had an unfortunate encounter with a stinging nettle.’

He froze, looked at the tears staining his eldest child’s face and felt anger rising inside him. How had this happened? ‘Why were you outside?’

Lizzie flinched.

Damn it. He hated when she did that. He reached for a modicum of calm.

‘We runned away,’ Janey announced.

‘Ran.’ He and this woman, this Lady Marguerite, spoke at the same time.

He glanced at her. She glared back. As if he was somehow in the wrong.

‘You know you are not allowed to go outside without a maid.’ He sounded gruffer than he intended.

Lizzie lifted her shoulders. ‘Nanny said everyone was busy.’

‘Then you wait.’ He ran his hands through his hair. ‘Look, if you can’t do as you are told, Lizzie, then I’m sorry, but you know the consequences.’

Lizzie burst into tears. ‘Nooooo!’

The woman thrust herself between Lizzie and himself. ‘Leave the poor child alone. She has been punished enough, I should think. Look.’ She gently pulled Lizzie forward and held out her hand for his inspection.

It was covered in white bumps with red edges. His stomach churned. His brain went numb at the sight of the painful swelling. ‘Go,’ he yelled. ‘Upstairs. Get Nanny to put something on it.’

‘I gave her dock leaves,’ Lady Marguerite said. Her voice was beautifully modulated, if a little deeper than most women’s. For some reason it calmed him.

She crouched down. ‘Take the leaves to your nanny, she will know what to do.’ Lizzie nodded and ran off with Janey scurrying behind.

Jack hated to see his children hurt. Could not abide it. Why the devil would they not do as he had instructed and stay indoors with Nanny James?

The young woman rose to her feet. She was almost tall enough to look him in the eye. And delightfully feminine, despite her drab clothing. ‘What on earth are you about, Lord Compton?’

He stared blankly ‘About?’

‘Those children should not be wandering the countryside alone. Anything could happen.’

‘Do you think I don’t know that?’

She blinked.

Damn and blast, he had raised his voice. Again. He lowered his tone. ‘They know better. I have told them time and time again.’

Her finely arched eyebrows, a darker auburn than her hair, lowered. Her pretty green eyes narrowed. ‘The gate to the lane was open. They were a long way from home and you had no idea of it. Children of their age need proper adult supervision.’

Good lord, who was she to come here laying down the law? He was the magistrate. ‘Nonsense. They have proper supervision. Indoors.’

‘I see.’ She looked completely unconvinced.

‘There is a nanny, three footmen and a cook, all there to see that they have whatever their little hearts desire. Is that enough supervision for you, madam?’ Devil take it, why was he explaining himself to this woman? He took a deep breath.

Somehow, she managed to look down her nose at him. ‘Not enough of the right sort of supervision, apparently, and while a punishment is likely in order, I beg that it be denial of some privilege, a story at bedtime, a visit to the village, something that will not cause physical pain.’

Stunned, he stared at her. Pain?

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Good day, Lord Compton.’ She spun around and marched back the way she had come.

How dare she come here and accuse him of not looking after his children? And...and did she think he was going to beat them? Damn her, for judging him so poorly. ‘Johnson, get a chain and a lock and secure the damned gate. And find out who left it open.’

He strode for the nursery. As he expected, his daughters, his little girls, were gathered around Nanny’s chair. They looked so innocent. So sweet. They were the bane of his life.

No. No. That was not true. But somewhere along the line he had lost control. And that would not do. A man needed to be in control of his family or bad things happened. A shudder ran down his spine. The memory of what had happened to his wife when she took it in her head to go visit her scallywag of a brother without his knowledge leapt to the forefront of his mind. If he had been stricter, more in control of his wife, she would be alive today.

‘Elizabeth, what on earth were you thinking?’ He fixed his gaze on his oldest daughter. ‘I have warned you about this sort of thing. This was your last chance, I am afraid. As I said, you must face the consequences.’

‘Now, now, Master Jack,’ Nanny said. ‘What has you in a pelter?’

‘In a pelter?’ He stared at the woman who had been his wife’s nanny. ‘I can assure you I am not in a pelter. I would simply like to be informed why my daughters ignored my orders and went roaming the countryside. That is not too much to ask, is it?’

Elizabeth stared at the carpet and the toe of her shoe traced the pattern on the carpet. ‘No, Papa,’ she whispered.

Now he felt like an ogre. He steeled his resolve. He could not give in. Would not.

‘We wanted to find a frog,’ Janey announced as if that was a perfectly good explanation. ‘Bert told Sam there are frogs in that field over there. He put one in his sister’s bed and made her scream.’

She was talking about two of his grooms. Which meant they had been hanging about the stables. Another thing they were not supposed to do. Horses were dangerous.

Janey’s eyes filled with tears. ‘But we couldn’t catch one. Then I wanted to pick a bouquet for you, but I couldn’t reach the flower and then the weeds bit Lizzie and she screamed. I was frightened.’

He winced. ‘Were you?’

She nodded. ‘Then the nice lady came along.’ She beamed up at him. ‘And here we are.’ Her expression changed. ‘We didn’t mean to be bad, Papa. It won’t happen again.’ Her lower lip trembled. He reached out and she stepped into the circle of his arm.

‘No crying,’ he said. He couldn’t bear it if they cried. He picked her up and held her close to his chest. Unfortunately, they knew their tears troubled him and he was never sure if they were real or if they were simply using them to get their way.

He also did not fancy carrying out his threat. But how could he run his estate if he was always worrying about his girls getting into some sort of scrape? His only option was to send for his spinster aunt Ermintrude. She would keep the girls in order.

He’d been terrified of her as a lad. ‘I am sorry, but I cannot have the rules disregarded in this way. I will write to your great-aunt today.’

Nanny paled. ‘They won’t do it again, dearie.’

Netty climbed on to Nanny’s lap and stuck her thumb in her mouth. Almost three already. He could scarcely believe it was nearly two years since Amanda had been brutally murdered. And still Netty wasn’t talking. Nanny kept telling him there was nothing wrong. That she would talk when she was ready, but Jack was starting to worry.

‘Please, Papa,’ Elizabeth said, clasping her little hands to her chest. ‘We promise we won’t do it again.’

No tears from Elizabeth.

‘You promise?’ he said, suddenly weary. ‘On your word of honour?’

‘Yes. I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die.’

He put Janey down. ‘This really is your very last chance.’

‘Yes, Papa,’ the girls chorused.

Exhaustion rose in him. ‘Very well. But I am holding you to your promise. A Vincent always keep his or her word.’

They hung their heads. ‘Yes, Papa.’

Nanny cocked her head on one side. ‘You did thank the lady, my lord? For bringing the girls home?’

Had he? All he recalled was trying to defend himself from her unwarranted attacks on his character. Damn, no doubt he’d been rude. He usually was these days. He didn’t have time for niceties and walking around on eggshells. ‘I will thank her next time I see her. And I will see you both at bedtime.’

He left before they convinced him to do something else that was against his better judgement. Frogs indeed. Apologies to rude young women. Yet another chance. Was he losing his grip on things?

He pitied the men who married his daughters. They wouldn’t stand a chance.

Not that he had any intention of letting any man within a hundred miles of them before they were at least twenty-five.

Perhaps he should try another governess. The girls had chased two off already. He needed one with a strong character.

* * *

Two days later, and after another foray into a bog closer to home, Marguerite could not get the sight of those dejected little girls out of her mind. Nor the way their father loomed over them. He’d been terrifying. Dark haired, broad shouldered, tall and ruggedly handsome. Handsome? Well and so he might be, but looks meant nothing. It was actions. He was clearly a brute.

She had wanted to say more on the matter of punishment, but she also knew that sometimes arguing with angry males only made them worse. She could only hope that he had calmed down before he decided on a punishment. He had seemed to listen to her words, even if he had seemed shocked by her temerity at speaking up.

She had quickly learned not to argue with Neville or he would find some way to hurt her: a pinch on her arm, a slap to the back of her head, places where no one would see the marks. But Neville was gone and she was dashed if she would remain silent while another man did things she did not like.

Marguerite stared at the dissected flower on the table. She needed to stop thinking about the broodingly handsome Lord Compton and his children and concentrate on drawing this plant. She only had this one to complete and she would have completed her contract and she could send them away. If all was approved, she should get her payment within two weeks.

Lord knew she needed it.

Instead of worrying about those two little girls she should be worrying about what was in the pantry for dinner. But that would have to come later, when she had finished this sketch. She picked up her ruler and measured each yellow petal.

* * *

When next she raised her gaze, she realised what had been troubling her for the past half-hour. She rubbed her eyes. It was almost too dark to see. With the light rapidly fading, she would have to finish the work tomorrow. She got up, stretched and lit two candles. Not enough to work by, but enough that she would not fall over the furniture.

She went down to the kitchen. Bread and cheese would have to do for this evening.

A scrap of paper sticking out from beneath her door caught her eye. Her stomach fell away. It could not be... He had given her a month to get the money together. She snatched up the paper and took it over to the table, where the light was better.

Five pounds. A week hence. To be deducted from the final payment.

She dropped her head in her hands. How on earth could she get five pounds in a week? She would have to meet him and explain.

Oh, what an idiot she had been to draw that picture. A thirteen-year-old idiot who had had the mad idea she would become famous and admired for her talent. Famous artist? What a joke. Yes, she was good at copying things exactly, but it had come as a rude awakening when she had discovered she did not have the skill required to bring her paintings to life. Technically good, the drawing master had said, but no flair. Peeved by the comments, she had launched herself into a furious caricature of her teacher. Her brothers and sister roared with laughter at her depiction. Encouraged, she had drawn their neighbours and friends, highlighting their foibles with what she thought was wit. Her siblings’ laughter and admiration had been heady, but, as they say, pride went before a fall. Drawing a very unflattering and lewd picture of the Prince of Wales with his mistress was the worst mistake she had ever made. What an idiot she had been to sign that dreadful sketch.

But hers wasn’t the only blame. Even she’d had the sense not to show anyone that particular sketch. She should have burned it. Of course, Neville, when he found it, had to show his horrid friends. Embarrassment rose in her in a hot, horrible tide. They had all seen it and laughed about it like nasty little boys. But once the novelty wore off, she’d been sure he’d destroyed it. He’d said so. She swallowed bile. Trusting anything he said had been the height of stupidity.

If it did get published with her name on it, her family would be so ashamed. And if they tried to support her, they would likely also be ostracised from society. She could not let that happen. She had to get it back and destroy it. And since she didn’t know the identity of the man who had approached her at Petra’s wedding and had no way to contact him, she would just have to find a way to get the money. She had begged him to wait until she could gather enough money to pay him what he was asking. Twenty-five pounds was a fortune, but with her next payment from the publisher, and using the money she had saved for next quarter’s rent, she could do it.

She bit her lip. Perhaps she should ask her brother Red, the Earl of Westram, for money, but knowing Red he would insist on knowing why she needed it and likely insist she live with him. Unfortunately, he was about to marry a woman who she really did not like. She had no trouble imagining how miserable she would be under that woman’s thumb. It would be nearly as bad as being married to Neville. Red’s future wife did not approve of independent women. Or artists. Or life in general. How on earth could Red—?

She cut the thought off. He had offered for Miss Featherstone and she had accepted and that was all there was to it. But one thing was certain: Marguerite was not going to move into their home.

If only Petra and Ethan were not away at the moment. She might have gone to them for a loan. Petra would give her whatever she needed. But then again, if Marguerite started to borrow money, where would it end? No. She had insisted on her independence and she was determined to make her own way. It just seemed so unfair that Neville had come back from the grave to ruin everything.

Her head started to ache.

She winced. That was all she needed. A headache. She put the kettle on to boil. A tisane would help and a little willow bark. And then she would figure out a way to earn some extra money.




Chapter Two (#uf1ce8270-9636-5f97-ad77-42d82b180843)


Jack had indeed been rude to Lady Marguerite Saxby. Marguerite. What a pretty name. Every time he spotted daisies in his lawn or on the roadside, which was all the time, he was reminded that he owed her an apology. Which was why, two days after she had brought his girls home, he was here in Westram village, wondering how to visit her in a way that would not get tongues wagging. It would be ideal if he came across her shopping in the village, or even picking flowers in her garden. A chance meeting would allow him to offer his gratitude and move on.

The post office seemed the best place to start his search. Once he’d had a chance to think about things clearly, he’d recalled who she was. He’d come across her name when he’d been called upon to help sort out the local vicar’s wife. For some reason, she had taken to stealing from the villagers and blaming it on a band of gypsies camped nearby. While he had not met Lord Westram’s widowed sisters during the course of his investigation, he’d certainly heard about them.

All three of them had been widowed on the same day. Their husbands had died on the Iberian Peninsula, having gone off together to join the army because of some sort of wager. It had been quite the on dit among the ton. So much so, the story had made its way to his little corner of Kent.

No doubt Lady Marguerite would have learned about his wife’s murder two years before. There had even been some who thought he might have done it, despite he had witnesses to account for his whereabouts. Perhaps that accounted for her hostility towards him.

‘Good day, Lord Compton,’ Mr Barker said. ‘We don’t often see you here in Westram.’ His beady eyes were alight with curiosity. Devil take the man.

‘I was passing through and recalled I was in need of...’ his gaze fell on a stone jar behind the counter ‘...snuff.’

Barker looked shocked. ‘My lord, I do not think that what I have is in any way up to your refined taste.’

In other words, why on earth would a man of his stature want to buy cheap snuff? ‘Oh, ’tis not for me, but for my children’s nanny.’

Barker instantly cheered. He took down the jar and began weighing. ‘An ounce is enough, my lord?’

‘Perfect,’ Jack said. The noticeboard caught his eyes, or rather a very artfully drawn poster. Drawing teacher willing to provide lessons, it proclaimed.

‘Notice went up yesterday,’ Barker said. ‘Lady Marguerite, looking for students.’ He shook his head in a ‘what is the world coming to’ sort of way.

How very...fortuitous. ‘I see.’ He tipped his head as if considering the matter. ‘My daughters could benefit from some drawing lessons. The older one has some talent, I think.’

‘Lady Marguerite would be the right sort of person for your daughters, my lord. Very nice in her taste, she is. You’ll find her at Westram Cottage, should you wish to enquire.’

He could not have found a better excuse to visit the widowed Lady Marguerite. He nodded. ‘Thank you, Barker. How much do I owe you for the snuff?’ He paid with the coin he had in his pocket and left the shop with a more purposeful step than when he had entered.

* * *

Westram Cottage lay at the far end of the village. A pretty little place, with yellow roses growing in the garden and over a trellis around the front door.

Did he really want to give in to this unusual impulse to hire a drawing teacher?

What he really needed was a governess for his daughters. She would teach them drawing. So, was this about his daughters, or about his interest in the lady? Because he could not seem to get her out of his head.

Nonsense. Nanny was right. He owed her an apology. The fact that she was looking for paid employment was also a puzzle. A widow living alone was usually of independent means. Now, puzzles interested him. He liked solving mysteries. Therefore, it was not the lady herself that had him intrigued, but her circumstances. For example, what had she been doing tramping around the countryside by herself? And looking delightfully dishevelled to boot?

He pushed that thought away. Nanny James was right, he really did owe her a thank-you.

He knocked on the door. Silence. No footsteps coming to the door. No sounds of occupation coming from inside. He stepped back and looked up. No smoke coming from any of the chimneys either. Clearly the lady was not home. Nor were any of her servants.

He pulled his card from his pocket, intending to write a promise to call on her the next day, when he heard a scraping sound from the rear of the house. Likely a groom working in the stables. Someone he could ask about the lady’s whereabouts and expected hour of return. He followed the path around the side of the house to a small stable at the end of a well-cared-for garden.

He entered the stable and gaped at the sight of Lady Marguerite, mucking out in a pair of men’s breeches and boots. He should leave.

Too late! As if sensing his presence, the woman looked up, pushed a lock of hair behind her ear and gaped back at him. ‘Lord Compton,’ she said. She glanced down at herself and winced.

She straightened, holding her shovel before her like a shield. It did nothing to hide her lovely figure. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

Devil take it. The woman must be one of those freethinking sorts. No wonder she had seemed so odd the day before. Was she really the sort of person he wanted teaching his girls?

‘I...er...’ He still held his calling card in his hand. He held it out.

She made no move to take it.

He cast around wildly for something to say and decided, as usual, that the truth was best. ‘I apologise for my interruption. Having received no answer at the front door and hearing sounds of activity, I came to enquire when you might be expected home.’

She frowned. ‘I see.’

‘I came to apologise for my rudeness. I should have thanked you for bringing my daughters safely home. My concern overrode my good manners, I am sorry to say. So...thank you.’

She leaned her shovel against the stable wall and folded her arms. ‘Apology accepted.’

He did not feel as if it was accepted. It seemed to be more a question of it being tolerated as being due, but not particularly welcome.

‘I saw your notice in the post office,’ he said.

‘Oh?’ Again, she swept back that unruly curl. The rest of her hair was severely restrained beneath her plain widow’s cap. ‘Were you interested in drawing lessons for your daughters?’

Hah. Finally, he had caught her interest. Why he might have wanted to see the sharpening of her gaze, and the curiosity in her expression, he could not imagine. And now what was he to say? No? ‘I was interested in discussing the matter, certainly.’

‘I see.’

Good lord, the woman was positively enigmatic with her answers. In his experience, most women were garrulous in the extreme and said little of import. This one seemed to put a world of meaning into every syllable.

‘When might you be available to discuss the matter?’ he said firmly, determined to take charge of this one-sided conversation. ‘Shall I call on you tomorrow?’ When he returned he would tell her he had changed his mind. She was not the sort of influence he wanted for his children.

She waved an arm. ‘Now is as good a time as any.’

Blast.

She upturned a bucket and perched on it. He leaned against one of the posts supporting the rails of the nearest stall. There was only one equine occupant. A small grey mare with a dark circle around one eye. The animal looked well fed and well cared for.

‘Where is your groom?’ he asked, unable to contain his question any longer.

She started. ‘Um... He is not here at the moment. He has gone to visit his sick mother.’

Jack narrowed his eyes on her face. Her gaze did not meet his. He knew a lie when he heard one. He’d become an expert, both at home and with his work for the Parish. ‘It would have saved us both embarrassment if someone had answered the front door,’ he said, sounding more irritated that he intended.

She raised her chin. ‘The servants have the day off.’

Another lie. He hated lies and deceit, and this lady was not very good at either. He was sincerely doubting the wisdom of this visit. He was going to have to extricate himself from the situation as best he could.

‘Are your daughters interested in learning to draw?’ Lady Marguerite asked, clearly anxious to change the topic from the issue of her servants. For some reason, despite he didn’t trust her to speak the truth, her worry troubled him.

With the exercise of a good deal of self-control, he avoided staring at the shapely legs encased in buckskin and neatly crossed at the ankle. ‘I honestly do not know,’ he said. ‘I saw your advertisement quite by chance. I have not given it proper consideration.’

She sighed. There was something resigned about that sigh. It only added to his disquiet. Nevertheless, she straightened her spine and now looked him in the eye. ‘My fee is one guinea per hour for both girls. I would suggest two hours of lessons two afternoons a week. At least, until they have mastered the rudiments. I require payment by the week in advance.’

Well, that was frank speaking. He narrowed his eyes. ‘May I enquire as to your qualification for such instruction?’

She looked startled, then blushed, a beautiful wash of colour that rose from her neck to her forehead. He relaxed. The woman was nowhere near as controlled and detached as she made out.

* * *

Marguerite felt herself go hot all over and knew that her face would now be scarlet. She hated the way she blushed at the slightest thing. And it wasn’t just because he was handsome and looking at her with an intensity that for some reason made her stomach flutter. This time it was justified. Blast it, she had been so taken with her idea about giving lessons, she hadn’t given a thought to qualifications.

Or at least... ‘I can show you some of my work,’ she said. ‘But I must be honest. While I took lessons as a girl in the schoolroom, I have never taught anyone.’

He pursed his lips. Such a stern, serious man. A tall man with broad shoulders. In the old days, when her brothers ran riot on their estate, they might have described him as a bruiser of a man. But he was more than that. He was a nobleman and he was a gentleman in his prime. A very attractive gentleman, for all that he seemed to view the world with suspicion.

He clearly hadn’t liked apologising to her, or expressing his gratitude. And why on earth had he come around to the back of her house? Any rational gentleman would have simply written a note on his card, stuck it beneath the knocker and left. On the other hand, he was the local magistrate. Perhaps he made a habit of prowling around other people’s property.

In the dim light of the stable, the way he stood looming over her, he looked almost menacing. As if he would arrest her and lock her up in a heartbeat, given the opportunity.

Dash it all. She had had enough of being intimidated by a man. She glared back.

And besides, now she had admitted she had no qualifications to teach his children, he would politely refuse to employ her and go, leaving her to her embarrassment at being found mucking out the stables in a pair of old buskin breeches she had found while she was looking in the attic for rags with which to clean the windows.

The next job on her list.

Dash it, she should be drawing, not undertaking menial tasks. But until she could pay for the return of her sketch, she could not afford to hire anyone to help with the chores.

‘Very well,’ he said.

She looked at him blankly.

‘I will look at your work.’

Relief filled her. ‘If you would give me a moment, I will bring some out.’

He gave her a considering look. ‘Why don’t we go inside? I will make us a cup of tea while you fetch down your portfolio.’

‘Make tea?’ she said, scarcely believing her ears.

‘I used to do so all the time when I was at university. I am sure I have not forgotten the way of it.’ He tipped his head on one side. ‘By the time the kettle boils you will have had a chance to...er...freshen up.’

Her mouth dried. He meant her to change her clothes. Heat scorched her face. The man probably thought her completely harum-scarum. Not at all the right sort of teacher for his children. But if she could convince him to hire her, it would make her life so much easier.

‘I will meet you in the kitchen in ten minutes,’ she said. She left the barn, back straight and head held high, and tried not to imagine him watching her as she marched into the house.

* * *

She was almost finished dressing when she heard the kitchen door open and close. Was he leaving? Had she taken too long? The sound of china rattling set her mind to rest. He must have lingered in the stable to give her time to prepare herself. She had not expected such courtesy from such a dour man.

She glanced in the mirror and pinned a stray lock under her cap. There. That would have to do. She ran down the stairs and into the kitchen.

His Lordship was nowhere to be seen.

‘Lord Compton?’

He emerged from the pantry. ‘I found some biscuits,’ he said and grinned. He looked so startlingly handsome, she stared at him open-mouthed. She’d been saving those biscuits for the next time the vicar came to call. The new vicar was a very pleasant young man. And single. Not that Marguerite had any interest in single gentlemen. But he always looked as if he needed a good meal and always wolfed down her biscuits.

His smile faded. ‘I am sorry, I should not have gone poking around in your pantry.’

She let go a breath. ‘No. It is perfectly all right. I am glad you found them. I like biscuits. They are shortbread, I believe. My favourite.’ Stop. He’d think her a fool for gabbling on like this. Indeed, there was a very odd look on his face. Disapproval, she thought.

She gestured to the table, where cups and saucers and the steaming teapot awaited. ‘Won’t you sit down?’ She set her portfolio away from the teacups and took her seat. He took a chair opposite. She poured the tea and they sipped at it and nibbled on shortbread. This batch had turned out even better than the last, but if she didn’t make some money soon, she would not be able to afford the butter to make more.

‘Let me see your drawings,’ he said after a few moments. She appreciated his getting down to business right away. She was beginning to feel uncomfortable about inviting a gentleman to take tea in her kitchen. It felt far too intimate to be alone with such a very handsome gentleman. One whom she found more attractive that she would have believed possible. As a rule, she preferred to give handsome, charming gentlemen a wide berth. She certainly didn’t want to start tongues wagging in the village. Fortunately, the kitchen was at the back of the house, so passing neighbours were unlikely to know of his presence. Except...

‘Oh, my goodness. What did you do with your carriage?’ Was it parked outside in the lane?

‘I left my horse at the inn,’ he said.

She let go a sigh of relief.

His mouth tightened. ‘The pictures?’

She pulled the portfolio closer, undid the worn blue ribbon and spread out samples of her still-life drawings before him.

After a moment of perusal, he lifted his gaze to meet hers. ‘These are excellent,’ he said.

Not a connoisseur, then. ‘They are accurate depictions of the countryside hereabouts.’

He looked puzzled.

‘I am a technician, my lord. I replicate what I see. I do not bring any great flair to the work.’

He shook his head. ‘If either of my daughters could be taught to draw nearly as well, I would be satisfied indeed.’

Relief flooded through her. ‘I believe I have the skill to pass my knowledge along. I have not forgotten my own lessons.’

‘I have to warn you that my daughters are not the easiest children to teach. They have driven off two governesses in the past year alone.’

She hesitated and saw disappointment enter his gaze. She steeled her spine. ‘I will do the best I can, my lord.’

‘That is all I can ask. I agree to your terms. I will expect you on Wednesday afternoon, if that is convenient, and again on Friday.’

‘That is convenient, my lord.’ Heat travelled through her body. ‘My fee is payable in advance, you will recall.’

‘When you arrive on Wednesday, your fee will await you.’

She would have liked some of it today, but beggars could not be choosers. She nodded her acceptance.

He picked up his hat and left.

Two governesses driven off. What had she let herself in for?

* * *

The following Wednesday, Jack paced his study. At any moment Lady Marguerite was supposed to arrive.

Why the hell had he hired the woman? She had lied to him. A few discreet enquiries and he had the truth of the matter. Initially, there had been three widows living at the cottage. Two of them had wed, leaving Lady Marguerite alone. There were no servants. The maid and manservant who had been employed at the cottage had married and gone elsewhere. The lady had not hired anyone to take their places.

So why lie?

Because he would have disapproved of her lack of servants? Why would she care what he thought?

Because she needed the money from the drawing lessons. What lady would advertise for employment if she wasn’t desperate? Clearly, Lord Westram should take better care of his sister.

Hah. The wry amusement that thought engendered gave him pause. Of course she wouldn’t go to her brother, since the woman obviously valued her independence. Not the sort of influence he wanted for his daughters. But there was no going back since he had already offered her the position, or at least he had offered to give her the opportunity to prove she could do the job. He had also sent over one of his stable lads to take care of her horse and keep an eye on her. It wasn’t right that a lady should live completely alone, mucking out her own stables and carrying her own coal.

If indeed she had any coal.

There had been a good pile of logs at the back door, though. Hopefully, his lad would have the sense to split them when he ran out of work in the stables. Jack went to his desk, looked at the pile of paperwork and then went to the window. It was nearly two in the afternoon. She should be here at any moment. Unless she intended to be fashionably late.

But no. He smiled at the sight of the trap advancing up his drive at a steady clip. He went outside to greet her.

A groom ran out from the stables to take her horse and held it steady while he helped her down. She was dressed in the same dun-brown coat she had worn the day she brought his daughters home. And as on that occasion, her hair was neatly pinned beneath a plain cap and covered by a serviceable bonnet with the sprig of daisies on the brim a startling little nod to femininity.

‘Good afternoon, Lord Compton,’ she said coolly.

‘Good afternoon, Lady Marguerite.’

She gave him a tight little smile. ‘Where might I find my charges?’

‘In the nursery. Come. I will show you the way.’

He had spent his own childhood in this nursery with his own nanny. She’d been a little livelier than Nanny James was now. Certainly spryer. But there was no one else he would trust as much as he trusted her to care for his children.

Sounds of excited talking and giggling grew louder as they walked along the corridor. He made his step extra heavy, the sound echoing off the walls. The sounds ceased. He threw open the door and the three children were lined up in a row opposite, just as he had requested the previous evening. As was her wont, Nanny James was sitting beside the hearth, rocking back and forth and smiling at the little row of children. He smiled at them. His children were a credit to him.

‘Good afternoon, daughters,’ he said.

‘Good afternoon, Papa,’ the older two chorused, showing off their best curtsies. Netty removed her thumb from her mouth with a little pop and wobbled when she bent her knees. He really should try to have Nanny break her of the habit of thumb-sucking. He just didn’t have the heart. She was still barely more than a baby. And besides, as Nanny always said when he discussed the matter with her, how many adults did he know who walked around sucking their thumbs?

‘Ladies, this is Lady Marguerite, whom you know already. She has kindly agreed to give you drawing lessons. You will behave and do exactly as she says.’

‘Yes, Papa,’ they said in unison.

He handed Lady Marguerite the paper he had prepared that morning. ‘This is a list of rules with regard to the children’s activities. Please ensure they are followed.’

Lady Marguerite took the list with raised eyebrows. ‘I will let you know if I think they are suitable.’

He gritted his teeth. ‘They are my rules.’

‘I see.’ She glanced around the nursery. ‘We cannot work in here, I am afraid. The girls need tables, easels and drawing implements.’

He’d thought of that. ‘Let me show you the schoolroom. I am sure you will find it meets your needs.’

He led her to the very end of the hallway and opened the door. ‘Will this do?’

It was a large airy space that he and his wife had prepared for the large brood they had expected. They had incorporated it into this wing of the house with a good deal of joyful anticipation. Now it only made him feel sad.

Lady Marguerite nodded. ‘This will do very well, my lord.’

‘The cupboard contains supplies I obtained on the instructions of the last two governesses. I recall they included things like pens and ink and charcoal.’

She crossed to the cupboard and scanned its contents. He could not help but admire the way she strode across the room with a purposeful step. She was ladylike, but also confident as his wife had never been. Which was why he still did not understand why on earth she would have gone out when night was drawing in on foot and alone. A lie. To himself. He knew why. She had gone alone and without talking to him because she knew he would not approve.

‘This looks like a very good start,’ Lady Marguerite said and turned to face him.

‘Excellent. Let me know if anything else is required.’

She glanced around. ‘If we could have this table moved closer to the window, it would be better.’

‘I’ll send a man up to do it.’

She nodded and looked down at his note. She ran her eye down the list and frowned. ‘This is very restrictive, my lord.’

‘As you have seen already, the girls are not easy to manage. I believe these rules will ensure their safety.’

She took a little breath and he had the feeling she intended to argue with him about his instructions. Instead, she gave a little shake of her head. ‘And my fee?’

He handed over four guineas. ‘For this week. We will discuss the future on Friday.’

She slipped the money into her reticule. ‘About the groom you sent to my house—’

‘No need to thank me. I am simply ensuring you arrive on time to give your lessons.’

‘But—’

‘No buts. I do not want the smell of horses in my daughters’ schoolroom.’

She glared at him and muttered something under her breath. It sounded a bit like ‘Men. Impossible.’

He pretended not to hear. ‘Shall we fetch Elizabeth and Janey?’

She pressed her lips in a straight line and for one long moment he thought she was going to refuse to teach them. Then her shoulders drooped a fraction and she nodded.

Damnation. He should be pleased, not feeling like a bully. He was right about needing to establish proper rules and regulations. He was the girls’ papa. He could not risk anything happening to them. This was the best way to keep them safe.




Chapter Three (#uf1ce8270-9636-5f97-ad77-42d82b180843)


Marguerite showed the girls how to draw basic shapes—squares, circles, triangles and ovals—and set them to practising on slates. There was no sense in using up valuable paper for this exercise. Lizzie was reluctant, but eventually complied.

While the girls worked she stood behind them and, with one eye on what they were doing, she reread His Lordship’s list of rules.

The children were to remain in the schoolroom at all times. They were to be walked from the nursery and back again. Walked. No running allowed. They were to have a snack sent up after the first hour of lessons. They were not to go outside or downstairs. She was also to make sure they minded their manners and, if they were rude, she was to report them to Nanny or himself.

She frowned. Were their lives so completely regimented? The man seemed to want to control every aspect of what they did or did not do. A shiver ran down her spine. She had not grown up under such strict controls, but she had experienced it with her husband. It had been awful. Was Lord Compton like Neville? If so, could she actually be complicit in something she did not like or believe in?

‘Is this right, my lady?’ Janey asked.

She had drawn a lovely circle. One of the hardest things to master. The line wavered a bit here and there, but for a first try it was very good.

‘That is exactly what is needed,’ Marguerite said.

Janey put down her chalk and shook her hand. ‘That was hard.’

‘It is not easy,’ Marguerite admitted. ‘But it is worth the effort. Lizzie, how are you doing?’

The child sat back. She had copied all of the demonstrated shapes across her slate in a rather slapdash manner. The circle did not join up. The triangles lines overlapped. The square looked more like a diamond.

Marguerite smiled. ‘A very good first attempt.’ She drew a circle next to the one Lizzie had drawn. ‘See if you can get it looking a bit more even. The lines are supposed to touch.’

‘This is silly,’ Lizzie said, folding her hands across her chest. ‘I want to draw a picture. Not shapes.’

‘You cannot draw anything unless you know how to draw these shapes and several others I will show you,’ Marguerite said. ‘Everything is made up of shapes.’

Lizzie frowned. ‘I don’t understand. I want to draw a horse. It is horse shaped.’

Marguerite smiled. ‘Let us see, shall we?’ She moved to an empty space on the blackboard and started to draw. She showed them how circles and ovals and rectangles worked together to create the basic shape of a horse. ‘This is only the start,’ she said, turning to face them. ‘But this is why you need to know these shapes.’

Janey clapped her hands. ‘It looks just like a horse.’

Lizzie frowned. ‘That looks nothing like a real horse.’

‘But it will eventually,’ Marguerite said. She softened the lines, drew the mane and tail. ‘The better you get at controlling shapes, the easier it will become.’

Lizzie looked unconvinced, but rubbed her slate clean and started again.

A knock at the door. Their snack had arrived. Apples and cheese and milk, and tea for her. Well, at least the girls were properly fed. The two girls tore into the apples and gobbled up the cheese.

Marguerite laughed. ‘Slow down, ladies. Where are your manners?’

The girls stopped and stared at her. They continued to eat, but with much more decorum. Yet Marguerite had the feeling they were holding themselves back. As if they were starving. How could that be? Was it possible that they were deprived of food as some sort of punishment?

Once they had finished and cleaned up they went back to drawing on their slates.

* * *

By the end of the second hour, Marguerite had them connecting shapes.

‘Very soon, you will be ready to start putting your drawings on paper,’ she said as they cleared up the slates and chalks to put them away. ‘If you want to practise these shapes by yourself, you may.’

‘Oh, we are not allowed in here without a teacher,’ Lizzie announced. ‘And Papa is still looking for a governess for us.’

And when he found one, his need for her would be at an end. All governesses taught drawing along with the other necessary lessons a girl needed to prepare her for life. Indeed, drawing was the least important skill. Needlework, writing and reading were far more valuable.

‘Who is teaching you lessons at the moment?’

‘Nanny reads to us, when her eyes aren’t too tired,’ Janey said.

Marguerite frowned. This was not the way to bring up such spirited intelligent girls.

They walked back to the nursery. At the door, Lizzie turned and looked at her. ‘Are you coming back tomorrow.’

‘Not tomorrow, but the day after.’

Elizabeth gave her a narrow-eyed stare, as if she did not believe her.

Janey gave a little skip. ‘Goody. I like drawing.’ Lizzie ushered her into the nursery and then turned back. ‘You don’t have to come again if you don’t want to. I am teaching Janey to read.’ She went inside and shut the door.

What on earth did Lizzie mean? Since it had been a busy afternoon, with them learning lots of new things, Marguerite decided to ask her about it another time. She returned to the schoolroom for her outer raiment.

* * *

All afternoon, Jack had wanted to go up to the schoolroom to see how the girls were faring with their drawing teacher. He had personally overseen the snack to be taken up to them. What if the girls were misbehaving? What if Lady Marguerite was not following the rules? He had forced himself not to go and check. Until Lady Marguerite proved that she could not cope, he would leave her to it.

At precisely five minutes after four he went up to the schoolroom. The girls were not there and Lady Marguerite had her coat on and was putting on her bonnet.

‘They are back with Nanny,’ she said with a cool smile.

He frowned. ‘Oh, I see. How did they get on? Did they behave themselves?’

She nodded. ‘They did.’

That was a relief. He had threatened them with a fate worse than death if they did not behave like perfect little ladies with their new teacher. The odd thing was, the girls had never met Aunt Ermintrude. He had no idea why they had decided she was their worst nightmare. Perhaps it was his fault. He had threatened a visit from her often enough.

He stepped aside to allow Lady Marguerite to pass. ‘I asked one of the lads to bring the trap around,’ he said. ‘It is waiting at the front door. I will see you here on Friday.’

She hesitated. Devil take it, was she not telling him the truth when she said the girls had behaved themselves? He hadn’t seen any of the telltale signs that would indicate she was lying.

Lady Marguerite drew in a breath. ‘Yes. I will be here on Friday at two in the afternoon and not a minute later.’

He winced. She must be referring to his rules about timeliness. Well, he simply wanted to make things clear, that was all. It was better if everyone knew where they stood.

‘Allow me to escort you out.’

She shook her head. ‘No need. I know my way.’

And with that she whisked by him and down the stairs.

He was damned if he was going to chase after her, no matter how much he might want to.

* * *

Later that evening, Marguerite waited anxiously in the designated spot, hoping to discover the identity of this man who was causing her such distress. Unfortunately, the alley running beside the Green Man led to a row of labourers’ cottages behind it and it was hard to see anything at all since there was no moon this evening. This was not a good place to meet a man who offered nothing but threats.

Her heart thumped loudly in her chest. Her breathing sounded loud in her ears. She wanted to run.

The man who had sat in the pew behind her at Petra’s wedding in St George’s Church had been well-spoken and she had taken him for a gentleman. Now, she was beginning to doubt her judgement.

The sound of male laughter wafted from the inn as a door opened and spilled light into the alley. It closed, leaving the narrow lane seeming darker than ever. She swallowed.

The tap of footsteps on cobbles approached.

She held her breath.

‘You have the money?’ a cultured voice asked.

She could see only a silhouette in the gloom. ‘I do.’ She sounded a great deal calmer than she felt. A little spurt of pride gave her courage. She would not be intimidated or bullied by this man.

‘Hand it over.’

She held out a knitted purse containing the guineas Lord Compton had given her and the few other coins she had scraped together to make up the sum he demanded. ‘You have the sketch?’

The man plucked the purse from her hand. ‘Not until I have payment in full.’

Disappointed, but not surprised, she grimaced. ‘I could go to the authorities, you know.’

His chuckle sounded menacing. ‘And tell them what? That you have denigrated your future King and now do not want to pay a man you do not know for your disloyalty to remain unpublished? Even if they listen, your sketch will become public.’ His voice softened. ‘Pay me and it need never come to light.’

Embarrassment scoured her very soul at the recollection of what she had drawn.

‘Twenty-five pounds and you will be free of me for ever,’ he promised, his tone wheedling.

‘But I have just given you—’

‘A show of good faith, my dear. Next time you will bring me what I requested or bear the consequences.’

She shivered at the sneer in his voice and a strange sense of familiarity. Had she met this man before? Or was she simply recalling his voice from that first meeting?

‘How can I trust that you won’t ask for more then, too?’ She knew she sounded desperate.

‘I give you my word.’

As if she could trust the word of one such as he, even if he did sound like a gentleman. ‘No true gentleman would do something like this.’

His hand shot out and gripped her wrist. ‘Do not insult me or it will be the worse for you. One last payment of twenty-five pounds and the sketch is yours. Think of your family.’

She swallowed. ‘It will take more time to raise that amount. This was supposed to be part of it.’

‘You still have two weeks,’ he said.

It was a great deal of money to find in two weeks, even with the money from Lord Compton and the sale of what little jewellery she had left.

‘I can’t do it that soon,’ she said.

‘Two weeks or see it in every print shop in London.’

He sounded desperate. He needed the money as much as she needed this to be over and done.

She took a deep breath. ‘It is not possible. Three weeks.’ Surely she would have the payment from her publisher by then.

‘All right. Three. Not a day more. I will contact you to arrange our next meeting. Do not fail me.’ He turned and marched off.

Her knees felt weak. She put a hand to her heart. She felt as if she had won a major battle, even as she knew she had lost the war. She just wished she could be sure he had taken her seriously about it being her final payment. Because if he demanded more money next time, she would not pay another penny. And then she would have to face the world’s condemnation. She blanched, her courage failing.

No! She must stand her ground, no matter the consequences. Except those consequences were not only hers to bear. No, next time he would return the sketch. She had to believe him.

Despite the trouble her knees had supporting her weight, she made it to the end of the alley and out into the lane. The walk to Westram Cottage seemed impossibly far.

‘Lady Marguerite? Is that indeed you?’

She spun around, hand to heart. ‘Lord Compton?’

He had clearly just emerged from the Green Man. What a surprise to see him in Westram since he lived closer to Ightham.

‘What are you doing out here at this time of night?’ His voice contained suspicion.

‘I have been visiting a friend and am on my way home.’

‘Alone?’

Now he sounded shocked. Men. They always judged one, whether they had the right or not.

‘This is Westram,’ she said coolly. ‘Not the streets of London.’

‘Allow me to escort you to your front door, my lady.’ He bowed and held out his arm.

She would be an idiot to trust any man. He had come out of the inn. Men in their cups were inclined to be difficult. Neville had been at his most malicious when bosky.

‘I would not trouble you, my lord. It is only a few steps.’

‘It is no trouble at all.’

He was clearly going to insist. He did not sound drunk. He wasn’t swaying or slurring his words. Giving in to him might be better than refusing and arousing more curiosity.

Meekly, she took his arm, but she was ready to run if he showed any signs of aggression.

They walked together in silence. For such a big man, he stepped lightly and matched his stride to hers. The lane became dark as they moved away from the torchlight on the walls of the inn. She glanced around nervously.

‘Is everything all right?’ he asked.

She found herself listening carefully to his voice. It was nothing like the blackmailer’s light reedy tenor. Lord Compton’s voice was a pleasant rumbling bass.

‘Everything is fine, thank you,’ she said. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Your hand trembled when you laid it upon my sleeve.’

Her throat became dry. Was her fear so obvious?

‘You startled me, looming out of the dark that way.’

‘I must beg your pardon, then.’ He walked a few more steps. ‘At this risk of sounding like too anxious a parent, may I ask you how you found my daughters? Were they truly co-operative?’

Why would he ask yet again? Was he trying to find some fault with his girls? Some transgression that required punishment? They had been so very timid in his presence.

‘They did very well at their lessons.’

‘And they did not plague you at all?’

She frowned. ‘Not at all.’

‘Good. They must like you.’

‘They need more than drawing lessons if they are to be properly educated. They scarcely know how to write their names.’

Another long silence. ‘I must seek another governess, I suppose.’ He sounded unwilling.

An idea popped into her head. A way to get the girls out from under his repressive rule. ‘Why not send them to school? There are several excellent academies in and around London where they can make friends with other girls of their age.’

As a child she had always wanted to go away to school after hearing Red’s stories of fun and companionship. It had fallen to her to care for Petra, Jonathan and Papa after Mama died and she had been needed at home. Her drawing and painting had been the one activity that allowed her a bit of freedom from responsibility.

‘No.’ He spoke with such vehemence she drew away from him.

‘It was merely a suggestion.’

‘I went away to school. I know the sort of high jinks that occur out of the eye of the schoolmasters.’ He thrust his elbow towards her and she set her jaw and once more took his arm. She could not risk alienating him. Not when she needed his money.

‘I am sure you know what is best for your children,’ she said as calmly as she could manage. ‘I did wonder, though...’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, perhaps they might like to go outdoors once in a while. To draw from nature. We could set easels up outside at the edge of the lawn and—’

‘They are better off in the schoolroom. They can see all the nature they need from the windows.’

She bit her lip. The man was impossible. ‘Children need fresh air. They need to run and climb and experience the world. I am not surprised they ran away if you do not give them a bit of freedom.’

He stiffened. ‘I will thank you to leave the decisions regarding my children’s welfare to me.’

She bit back a sharp retort. It really was none of her business how he decided to raise his children.

They reached her gate. The porch lantern she had left burning lit their path to the front door.

She put her key in the lock.

He shook his head. ‘What is your family thinking, leaving you to manage alone?’

How was this his business? Did he think to control her life, too? ‘My lord, I am a grown woman. I manage perfectly well.’ Or she would, if it were not for the man threatening to ruin her life.

The light from the lantern softened his features, making him look younger, and handsome, rather than forbidding. Her insides gave a little flutter of feminine appreciation. She froze. This was not a reaction she either expected or wanted. The meeting with the blackmailer must be playing on her nerves.

‘No woman alone is entirely safe, Lady Marguerite. As a magistrate, I have reason to know this. Walking out alone at night is in itself a recipe for disaster. And, you know, I have a vested interest in your safety. My daughters would not like to lose their teacher.’

With a start she recalled hearing that his wife had been murdered while out one evening alone. And he was not wrong. Only moments ago, in that dark alley she had been terrified for her life. ‘Then I shall be more careful in future.’

He bowed. ‘Goodnight, Lady Marguerite.’

‘Lord Compton.’

She stepped inside, then closed and bolted the door. She leaned her back against it, listening for his retreating footsteps. She had the strangest feeling that he had lingered, waiting to hear the bolt slide home.

Imagination. He had no real reason to care if she was safe or not, even if he was a man who liked to control the lives of those around him. Besides, she would never be safe until she dealt with her persecutor.

Once that occurred, she would also be free of His Lordship’s unsettling presence. He was far too domineering, too strict in his notions with regard to his daughters, for her liking. She could not help but be sorry for the poor little motherless mites.

Perhaps that was what they needed. A mother.

A handsome and wealthy man like Lord Compton ought to have no trouble finding a wife. A little stab of something pierced her heart. What, was she jealous of this unknown female and future wife? Surely not?

As she knew to her cost, good looks and wealth did not guarantee happiness.




Chapter Four (#uf1ce8270-9636-5f97-ad77-42d82b180843)


When the following Friday rolled around, Jack found himself glancing at the clock repeatedly. The hands seemed to move so slowly, he had actually checked to see if it needed winding. It did not.

He glanced out of the window. The storm from the previous evening had passed through and, while the sky remained overcast, the rain had ceased and the clouds were slowly moving off to the west. The weather should not be an impediment to his daughters’ drawing teacher.

When the clock rang out the hour of two o’clock and then fifteen minutes past the hour and then the half-hour and Lady Marguerite had still not arrived, he began to worry. A cold dark place opened up in his chest. A sense of impending doom.

He fought it off. The woman was late, that was all. Ladies were often late. They made a point of it. And it wasn’t as if she was travelling alone.

The butler poked his head around the door. ‘My lord?’

‘What is it, Laughton?’

‘Nanny James, my lord. She asked if you would visit the nursery. It seems there is a bit of a contretemps.’

Nanny had promised to once more have Lizzie and Janey in their best bibs and tuckers to await the arrival of Lady Marguerite. They would be getting restless. And when they were restless, they got up to mischief. With a sigh, he headed upstairs.

His oldest child knelt on the window seat, looking out. Janey was crying with her face in Nanny’s lap. Nanny gave him a look of appeal.

‘Ladies,’ he said.

Lizzie jumped down. Her hair was a mess, flopping around her face, her expression held defiance and there were tear stains on her face. He frowned. ‘What happened to you, Lizzie?’

‘Janey said it was my fault Lady Marguerite isn’t coming today. I said it was her fault. She pulled my hair, so I slapped her.’

Janey looked up. ‘I punched her back.’ She buried her face.

‘This will not do,’ he said. ‘Ladies do not brawl, they, they—’

Lizzie folded her arms across her chest. ‘They turn the other cheek. That’s what Nanny said. Well, that is not fair. And it’s not my fault Lady Marguerite didn’t come today, just because I said I didn’t want to draw silly circles and squares...’

He frowned. ‘Is that what you said?’

Lizzie shrugged. ‘I wanted to draw a horse.’

‘Circles and squares make a horsey,’ Janey said, though her voice was muffled by Nanny’s ample skirts. ‘Lady Marguerite showed us.’

‘Lizzie, if you were rude to Lady Marguerite, you will apologise,’ Jack said in his fiercest Father voice.

Lizzie’s shoulders drooped. ‘I want to draw a real horse.’

Perhaps this drawing-teacher notion of his was not such a good idea after all. Indeed, it had thoroughly disrupted his household.

‘She said she would come today,’ Lizzie said. ‘So, it cannot be my fault she is not here.’

Jack recalled the rather stiff words he had had with Lady Marguerite last evening. Was it possible that was what had made her decide not to come? If so, it was rather unfair on the children.

‘Did you say something rude to her, Papa?’ Lizzie asked.

Jack winced. The child was far too observant. ‘I don’t believe so.’

‘You did,’ Lizzie said. She poked her tongue out at Janey. ‘See. It wasn’t me. Now you need to apologise.’

Dash it all. Hoist by his own petard. ‘If I said something Lady Marguerite did not find appropriate, I will certainly apologise. However, I don’t believe—’

‘My lord,’ Laughton said, ‘a note from Lady Marguerite. Peter brought it, just now.’

Jack opened the note. ‘She is not feeling well. She has a headache. She will come next week.’

Neither of them needed to apologise.

‘People say they have a headache when they do not wish to speak to someone.’

Heaven help him. ‘Where did you learn such a thing?’

Lizzie frowned. ‘Mama used to say it all the time. When people came to call who she did not like.’

He recoiled. His wife had said that to him on a couple of occasions, also. He had always taken her at her word. Did this mean that also had been a lie?

With difficulty, he controlled his rising temper. ‘Nonsense. If Lady Marguerite did not have a headache, she would be here,’ he said with more confidence than he felt.

‘What if she never comes again?’ Janey said, looking up from her refuge, her lower lip trembling.

Dash it all, he had paid the woman in advance. She ought to be here. And if she was ill, she was now alone.

The note did not indicate the extent of her illness. Well, he would damned well see for himself. He marched off to the stables. Having instructed Peter to return to Westram when he had eaten and rested from his long walk, Jack set off to discover the truth for himself.

* * *

Since the pain in her head was gradually abating, Marguerite made her way to the kitchen. Why she had headaches when it stormed she did not know, but they hurt so badly sometimes she could barely see. It was at times like this that she really missed Petra. Her sister always knew when she had a headache coming and provided the tea and the cool cloths for her forehead.

Well, now she just had to manage alone.

She poured water into the basin from the jug Peter had filled before he went to present her apologies to Lord Compton. She dipped a handkerchief in the water and wrung it out. With the storm long gone and the curtains in the parlour closed against daylight, she should feel better in an hour or two.

Would Lord Compton accept her excuse? Or would he dismiss her out of hand and ask for his money back? Her head throbbed a warning. She forced herself not to think. Thinking only made things worse. She took her cold compress back to the living room, placed the compress over her eyes and gratefully dozed.

* * *

A loud rapping sound jerked her awake. She removed the compress. What was the time? She sat up slowly. Her head no longer hurt, thank heavens.

The rapping noise came again. It was not in her head or her dreams. Someone was at the door. Slowly she got to her feet. Yes, she did indeed feel better. She parted the curtains to see who was at her front door.

Lord Compton?

She put a hand to her hair. Her cap was askew with her hair a wild mess. Bother. Should she simply ignore him? She glanced out to the lane and saw no sign of a carriage or horse. He must have left his mode of transport at the inn. But any moment now someone was sure to see him knocking on her front door. If they had not done so already.

He knocked yet again. Clearly, he was not going to go away until she had spoken to him. What did he want? Perhaps he was the sort of employer who needed to assess for himself the extent of an employee’s illness.

Clearly, having paid her in advance, the man didn’t trust her to keep her side of the bargain. She wished she had never met the man. Never agreed to teach his children.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. People were not exactly knocking her door down, seeking drawing lessons. No, she needed this employment. She had no choice but to speak to him.

The cap she tossed aside. She threw a shawl over the worn frock she had put on this morning in order to give Peter a note for Lord Compton and shuffled to the front door. Hopefully, she could convince him that she would be there next Wednesday and make him go away.

She eased the door open a fraction. ‘How may I be of assistance, Lord Compton?’

He stared at her open-mouthed.

She remembered her hair. The colour of it, dark auburn, and its tendency to curl, often caused that sort of shock to anyone who saw it unpinned. She forced herself not to make a futile attempt to tame it into some sort of order. It never worked. Instead, she lifted her eyebrows in enquiry.

‘I...er... When I received your note, I thought I should see if I could be of assistance.’

Did he really expect her to believe that? ‘No, thank you. I have everything I need.’ She made to close the door.

He put out a hand, holding it open. ‘May I send for a doctor?’

‘I do not need a doctor.’ She needed peace and quiet. And besides, even if she did need one, she could not afford to pay him. ‘I shall be perfectly well by tomorrow.’

He frowned and stared at her hand.

She had forgotten about the sodden handkerchief she had used for a cold compress.

‘Your note said you had a headache.’

He sounded accusatory.

She stiffened. ‘I do.’

‘Then it is willow bark you need. Let me make you some tea.’

She blinked, stunned by his offer. ‘I can make my own tea.’

His expression became thunderous. ‘If you could make it yourself, you would have done so by now. Please, allow me to perform this small service.’

Why could he not leave her alone? Dash it all, she did not want her neighbours seeing them having an argument on her front step.

She drew back. ‘Do as you please.’

Oh, dear, was that rude?

Warmth emanated from his large body as he passed her in the hallway. For some reason she felt the strangest urge to lean against him. To absorb his warmth and bathe in the lovely scent of his cologne made from pine and something lighter and sweeter. She must be even more unwell than she thought.

‘Lay down on the sofa. I will bring the tea to you.’

‘Lord Compton, really—’

‘Do not “really” me. I was married. I do know what a lady needs when she has the headache. I also know you are alone here. Allow me to assist you, if you please.’

Unable to find the strength to argue, she returned to the parlour and leaned back against the cushions. The sooner she drank his tea, the sooner he would be gone. She closed her eyes. A gentle hand on her shoulder startled her to full wakefulness.

‘Lady Marguerite, your tea.’

She straightened and took the cup and saucer. The first sip was heaven. He had laced it with honey to take away the bitter taste of the willow. ‘Thank you.’

‘You are welcome.’ He reached behind her and rearranged the cushions so they supported her head and to her surprise she found it much more comfortable.

‘I occasionally suffer from a headache when the weather is stormy.’ She owed him that much of an explanation. She had also noticed that they came more often when she was worried.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Some sort of megrim.’

‘Indeed. It is not so severe that I need help, I assure you, though I do thank you for the tea.’

He grimaced. ‘My daughter Elizabeth was concerned that her behaviour might not have been exemplary and that you might have decided not to return. I assume that is not the case.’

‘It is not. I will come on Wednesday as promised. I will of course apply the payment for today to Wednesday’s lesson.’

‘Never mind that. You can tack an extra lesson on at the end of the six weeks we agreed upon.

Relief almost overwhelmed her. She had been worried that she might not be able to pay her blackmailer being short of the money for one lesson this week. She realised he was watching her closely. Did he realise how desperately she needed that money? She hoped not.

‘Peter will return later today,’ he said and moved to the window to look out.

‘There is no need, I assure you. I am able to manage perfectly well.’

‘If Peter had not been here to bring your note, I would not have known you were ill and might have thought you had taken my money and absconded.’

While the words were harsh, there was a teasing note to his voice.

‘Would you indeed have thought such a monstrous thing?’

He turned, smiling slightly. ‘Likely not. I have the sense that you are an honourable woman.’

Surprised, she stared at him. ‘I appreciate your confidence.’

‘Good. And my daughters appreciate your lessons. Lizzie has promised to do as instructed.’

She inclined her head. ‘Then I shall see you on Wednesday.’

To her relief, he bowed and left. What a strange man. Dictatorial one minute and smiling conspiratorially the next. She would have to make sure not to miss any future lessons with his children. She did not want him arriving on her doorstep thinking he could order her about, the way he did with the rest of his household. It was bad enough that he insisted she accept the services of his stable boy, no matter that it was to suit his convenience rather than hers.

* * *

The following Friday afternoon, a downpour of rain forced Jack to abandon his plan to inspect a barn on the far side of the estate and return home. He hoped Lady Marguerite had not ventured out in such inclement weather, though he was glad it was only rain and not a thunderstorm.

He had not seen her when she had come to teach the children on Wednesday. He had made a point of it. He had the feeling that his presence made the woman uncomfortable.

Hell, her presence made him uncomfortable. He could not stop thinking about that glorious mane of hair when she had opened the door to him, or how the gown she had been wearing clung to her slender figure. Once more, he pushed those images aside and got on with dismounting and leading his horse into the stable to be cared for by a groom.

Peter came forward to take his horse. He frowned. Lady Marguerite must have come after all. ‘Did you get a soaking, lad?’

The boy touched his forelock. ‘It were barely spitting when we left Westram, my lord, and as Lady Marguerite said, a drop of water won’t melt us. We b’ain’t made of sugar.’ The lad grinned, showing a gap in his front teeth.

A person might not melt, but they might end up with the ague and it didn’t look as if the downpour would end any time soon.

He went indoors and changed into dry clothes. He found himself pleased to have an excuse to have a conversation with Lady Marguerite, which was nonsense, of course. He had been pleased when Nanny had reported that Lizzie had been co-operative with her teacher on the previous Wednesday and that Janey had followed Lady Marguerite around like a little shadow.

When he entered the schoolroom, the girls were not in evidence. Their teacher was cleaning off the blackboard.

‘Good day, Lady Marguerite.’

She turned with a smile and inclined her head. ‘Lord Compton. The girls are with Nanny having their afternoon snack.’

Ah, yes. He should have realised it was that time. He nodded. ‘How is everything going?’

A crease formed in her forehead and her smile disappeared. ‘Very well.’

‘Good. Good.’

She hesitated.

‘Was there something you needed?’ he asked.

‘I know we spoke of this previously, but at the risk of being repetitious, I would like to request that you permit the girls to spend some time outdoors each week.’ She smiled. ‘Provided it is not raining, of course.’

A cold chill entered his chest. ‘We did speak about this before and my answer has not changed.’

She huffed out a sigh. ‘I think you are doing them a great disservice. Yes, they are behaving themselves during their lessons, but they are listless. I am sure it is from being confined indoors every day with little to do and no exercise.’

Anger rose within him. How could she think he would endanger his girls by letting them roam around outside? And as for being listless, he had seen no sign of it. ‘If they feel the need for exercise, they have the long gallery. That is its intended purpose.’

‘That is what Nanny told me.’ She shot him a black look. ‘Have you set foot in that room recently?’

He had not. His wife used to perambulate there when she was enceinte. He had walked with her before the birth of each of the girls. Of course, they had been hoping for a son. He still needed a son. But he was in no rush. ‘I have not been up there since my wife died.’

She winced. ‘Perhaps you would be willing to accompany me for an inspection?’

No, he wasn’t willing, but he could see she was not going to take no for an answer. Besides, if there was something wrong with it, he would have it fixed.




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