Authors: Donna Lea Simpson
“Nikolas, how tired you look!” Bartol said, approaching the desk. He tapped the surface and then folded his hands together. “You must take better care of yourself, nephew. What would this family do if you ever fell ill?”
“I am never ill, you know that,” he replied. “What is it, uncle? I don’t wish to hurry you, but is it not something that can wait until dinner?”
“You did not come to the table last night,” Bartol said, taking the chair opposite Nikolas across the broad expanse of desk.
“I was working and did not want to stop.”
“You should make time to eat a proper meal, nephew,” the man chided, waggling his finger.
Stifling his impatience, Nikolas said, “I will tonight. Can this not wait until then?”
The old man shifted in embarrassment, his cheeks red. “No, I don’t think so. It really is something we must speak of in private.”
“What is it then?”
Bartol grimaced. “You know me, I am the last person ever to make trouble. I am devoted to this family, though, and have all of your best interests at heart, especially those of the fair ladies in our masculine protection. I always say to Maximillian that we cannot do enough for the ladies, for their tender sensibilities—”
“Enough,” Nikolas said, his patience stretched to breaking. “Please, uncle, if you have a point, let me hear it.”
“This is so difficult,” he fretted, a sheen of perspiration breaking out on his balding head.
“Then leave it until you can more easily speak of it.”
“No, it must be said. Thank you for your bracing attitude, nephew,” he said, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief. “It is what I need. I fear Charlotte is in danger.”
Nikolas stopped and stared across at the man. “What do you mean?”
“I do not mean her physical health, God willing,” Bartol said. “I mean…” He stopped, looked around and leaned across the desk, lowering his tone to a whisper. “I am not one to retail gossip, but I have heard… Miss Stanwycke is not who she appears to be.”
“What?”
“I fear… yes, I must tell you. Charlotte must be protected from invidious influences. Miss Stanwycke is not who she appears to be; one would think, looking at her fair face, that she is an innocent young woman, but in reality she is far from it.”
His pulse quickened and anger began to build. “Tell me all, uncle. I need to know everything that you have heard.”
“I have heard,” he said, in a confidential tone, “that she is not an innocent, she was… she was the mistress of a young man of the family she last worked for. She seduced him and lay with him many times, wishing, no doubt, to beget his child and so ensnare the poor gentleman.”
Anger built, stoking and burning like a forge fire. Nikolas couldn’t speak, for his fury was choking him.
“She was dismissed as a whore,” Bartol said, his tone sharp now as his outrage built. “And she was told—rightly so, to my mind—that her infamy would be published throughout England if she looked for work teaching innocent young minds. My sister was undoubtedly taken in by some sad tale, for you know women… they are ever soft of heart and—”
Nikolas stood. “Get out! Get out, uncle, before I…” Summoning up every ounce of control, he lowered his tone from a harsh shout. “But first, I warn you,” he said, leaning across the desk and pointing his finger in Bartol Liebner’s pale face; the man was shrinking back, unprepared, clearly, for such a reaction to his information. Listening at doors and eavesdropping on private conversations to collect odd bits of gossip like so many fascinating trinkets was a nasty habit of Bartol’s that Nikolas should have curbed long ago, but now it would end. “Do not spread such vile and poisonous gossip around this household or I will not be responsible for the consequences.” He pointed to the door. “Leave me now.”
Bartol stumbled out of the chair and toward the door. “But I only was thinking of the best for poor, dear Charlotte, and—”
“Get out,” Nikolas roared.
“Of course, nephew, if you think it is all a lie, or if you think it is all right, I respect your opinion, and I swear I will never say another word.” He scurried from the room.
IT had been a long morning for Elizabeth… long and tedious. Though Charlotte was in the yellow parlor and nominally ready to apply herself, she was moody and dreamy the whole morning. Very little was accomplished. Though Elizabeth could see some subtle differences in Charlotte’s behavior—her posture was better, and she had taken on some neater eating habits
—would it be enough? Would others notice the changes?
Elizabeth had spent the afternoon in Countess Uta’s suite, entertained by the elderly woman’s tales of the family legends—wolves and werewolves, shape-shifters and demons. As folklore it was fascinating, but she was afraid the old lady really did believe some of it. Dinner was quiet and the drawing room cold without Nikolas there. All day she had alternately blushed at thoughts of him and turned cold at the knowledge that he had rejected her. If his emotions were engaged he would not have been able to, she reasoned, but an attraction that was merely physical he could master. Her own feelings toward him were a tumultuous mix of longing, tenderness, and fear… fear of her own desire for him and fear of what he might be hiding beneath the facade of gentlemanly behavior. Kissing him had left her with the sense that beneath the veneer of grace and dignity raged a seething cauldron of bestial impulses and urges both frightening to her civilized self and enticing to the voluptuary within her. Her greatest fear was that her attraction to him would overcome her better impulses finally, though she did not intend to let that happen. Though judging by his behavior the night before, she supposed she could trust in his rigid self-control should they be so tempted again. She was plagued by an awful question: Did she most want to test her own resistance, to prove to herself that she could master her wanton impulses, or was it that she really wanted to see his restraint break under unconquerable attraction to her?
She sat by the fire in the drawing room, and though Melisande had engaged Charlotte and Christoph in a difficult and lengthy piece on piano and violin, she was not tempted to join them. Let the young people be, for a while, without her trying to inject some lesson or homily into the evening.
Countess Adele was absent, and Countess Gerta played at piquet with Count Delacroix, her playfulness appearing to wear even on her lover after a while, for he excused himself and came over to sit by her. She could sense from him some desire to engage her in conversation, but she was too weary and confused to help him along. And she also was a little peeved by the gentleman who would refuse to see the love Countess Adele clearly held for him, preferring the sly and coquettish Gerta over the solid worth of the elder sister. It was ever thus, though, she supposed. Men would always value youth, beauty, and availability over worth, modesty, and courage… at least for a bed partner.
The Frenchman cleared his throat finally and said, “Miss Stanwycke, I need to broach a subject of some delicacy with you.”
Oh, Lord
, Elizabeth prayed.
Please do not let him confess his affair to me
!
“It concerns you intimately,” he said.
She met his gaze. “I beg your pardon?”
He lowered his tone, casting a glance around the room, and said, “I must say, this is exceedingly difficult for me, but I truly like you, mademoiselle, and I think you need to be told what is being said about you. I fear it has already reached Nikolas’s ears.”
“What is it?”
“I will not hazard a guess as to the truth or falsity of the gossip, but really it does not matter.”
The courtly Frenchman looked extremely pained, his gaunt face twisted in a grimace, but finally, he said, simply and with great dignity, “A source has informed Count Nikolas that…
that you were dismissed from your last position for having seduced a gentleman of the house and becoming his mistress.”
“When?” she said numbly. “When was this told to the count?”
“Today, mademoiselle. I’m so sorry. I felt you needed to be told so that if you were… if you were spoken to about this, you would not be taken by surprise.” He stood and bowed. “I must go back to Countess Gerta, but… but I hope all works out well for you.”
Nikolas hadn’t come to dinner again, nor to the drawing room. Was he even now making the decision to dismiss her as an evil influence on his niece? Was her own behavior with him a confirmation of sorts, and did he now look back at their passionate interlude with more jaded eyes? Who had told him? Immediately, she pushed the question away. Frau Liebner, she was certain, would not have. But Elizabeth had confessed herself to Uta, and who knew what the old woman would let slip accidentally?
After thinking about it from every angle, she stood and moved to the door, numb but sure of her actions. She would not live with this awful sword hanging above her head. If he was about to dismiss her, she needed to confront him and find out while she held strong.
She sped from the room, ignoring Melisande’s plea to join them at the piano, and made her way upstairs toward the library. That was where he would be. It was like his lair, where those who needed to see him bearded him in his den. Cautiously, she approached, standing outside the door for a long while, clenching and unclenching her fists.
“Whoever it is, come in; do not stand outside the door,” his voice roared from within, speaking German.
She understood. She had learned much, and though not fluent she could understand a lot more than she could speak. She entered without further ado and crossed the room swiftly to stand in front of his desk, like a schoolgirl ordered to come to be chastised. He stared at her, not smiling, but not grim, either.
She knew what she needed to say. “I have been told, Count, that you have been informed of some unsavory aspects of my personal history.”
He frowned and sat back in his chair. “How word travels in this place.”
She put up one hand and said, “Sir, I ask you not to speak until I am done.”
He observed her for a long moment, his expression neutral. “Very well,” he finally said. “Sit.
Tell me what you wish.”
She sat down across from him, composed herself, and then told him the story, unvarnished, not sparing herself, and yet not shouldering the entire blame for an affair that did not begin with her but with the man who told her he loved her.
Finally he said, “So, you were seduced…”
“Not against my will.”
“… and abandoned.”
“Yes. And… and I understand that in your eyes that must make me unfit to tutor an impressionable girl like Charlotte. I understand that you will dismiss me, but I ask that you give me time to find a new position before asking me to leave. And… and if you could see your way to giving me a recommendation, or even telling me if you know of anyone who might look for a tutor of English… I know some German, now, and—”
“Wait!” he said, putting up one hand. He sat up straight and continued in a formal tone. “As far as I can tell, Miss Stanwycke, you have behaved with the utmost dignity and rectitude while in my employ.”
“Except for kissing you,” she said, feeling the heat rise in her face.
“Except for kissing me,” he agreed. “But I am hardly likely to complain of that, since I was there and taking part as well. It would be most unfair to hold against you our mutual lapse from good judgment. What makes you think I will want to dismiss you?”
She was silent.
Nikolas watched her face and saw beneath the pretense of indifference the fear and trepidation that was evident even as it began to dissolve in the face of his question.
“You mean… I may stay?” she asked, her voice quavering, dangerously close to tears now that she had no need of courage.
He stood, circled the desk, and took her hand, pulling her up and leading her over to the fire.
“Sit, you are shivering with cold.” The chairs held dangerous memories of the night before for him, but he determined to stay rigidly focused on her needs in that moment. He added another log to the fire and used the bellows to good effect. “Miss Stanwycke,” he said, turning back to her. “Elizabeth… your past is personal to you. Even if I were inclined to criticize you—which I am not—I respect the opinion of my Aunt Katrina, and she thinks you are quite special.
As… as do I. You have this position until you are done with your task, just as before.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He sat in the other chair, weariness overtaking him. He knew how much courage it must have taken for her to face him, to march in and confront her future like that, but he wished it had not been necessary for her sake.
“He was my first… my only,” she whispered, staring at the flickering fire.
“He took your virginity?”
She nodded.
“Why did he abandon you?” he asked, wanting to understand. With so much beauty, intelligence, courage, and fierce sensuality, he could not imagine any man letting her go once he had experienced her; even an inequality of station would not explain it, for she would be worth daring much disapprobation to possess. It was a lesson to himself, that revelation, for he knew that he feared her power, feared that if they did make love, he would move heaven and earth to keep her, even to the detriment of his plans for the future of his family.
“His family found out,” she said. “At first he told them he intended to marry me, but then…
then they offered him something he wanted very much in exchange for abandoning me with no further ties. They offered him an estate and an independent purse if he would marry where they wished. It was too much to ask that he say nay to that.”
“Coward,” Nikolas growled, feeling her pain.
Her hands trembled as she smoothed the blue fabric of her dress. She said, her voice quavering, “He… he offered me…” She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut to quell welling tears. “He offered to keep me on as his mistress once he married. He enjoyed my company, he said, and would gladly set me up in a little house of my own for however long we happened to be together.”
He reached over and took one of her hands, squeezing it. “What did you say? How did you feel? Were you… tempted?”