“Crane!” the viscount called sharply to the valet, who was busily brushing his frock coat. “What sort of luggage do you make that out to be, eh?”
The portly valet stepped up to the glass and peered through the window into the drive below. “Well, my lord . . . ’tis mostly packing crates, I should say. Four o’ them.” He squinted mightily. “Aye, with two trunks, a dressing case, a small leather valise, and a portmanteau. All trussed up with a length of rope, that one is.”
“Good eye,” mumbled Lord Treyhern. His gaze left the mountain of luggage to study his new employee in greater detail. He could help himself. Helene de Severs was fascinating even at a distance. She was a tall woman, yet she moved across the drive with an almost athletic grace. Not the mincing steps and rigid hips of most women, but a leggy, confident stride, her shoulders back, and her chin up. Her cloak was of the severest black, her gown suitably trimmed for a house in mourning, and yet she seemed to glow with inner radiance. He could not help but wonder at the color of her eyes. Something exotic, most likely.
Then, just as Grayson lifted the lukewarm coffee to his lips, the new governess looked up to smile beatifically at the helpful footman, and Grayson sucked in his breath with an audible gasp, very nearly choking.
Bloody hell, it
was
Helene!
Not Helene de Severs.
Helene Middleton
. What the devil was she doing here? Despite the passage of twelve barren years, and the utter destruction of all his youthful fantasies, Grayson truly believed that he would have known her anywhere. His first thought was that his elderly coachman had taken up the wrong passenger; that somewhere in the dust and disorder of the Rose and Crown stood a bewildered and abandoned governess. The real governess. A plain, sensible, middle-aged woman in proper, wrenlike attire. But there was no mistake. He knew it with a certainty.
Dear God! Grayson had prayed hard for a miracle, advertised repeatedly for a governess, and yet what had the Good Lord and Mr. Brightsmith conspired to send him?
Helene!
The unusual name had immediately drawn his eye when first he had skimmed her letter of introduction, the very sight of the word submerging him in warm memories of his nascent sensuality. Inexplicably, he had not slept well since reading that damned letter. Perhaps his subconscious had held fast to those same memories this sennight past. Perhaps he had even been hoping to see her.
Hoping?
Oh, no. He had hoped never to see Helene Middleton again.