Charlotte Louise Dolan (10 page)

She popped it into her mouth and bit down, releasing the juicy sweetness that blended so well with the smooth tartness of the cream. Looking up, she saw a short man mincing his way across the terrace toward them, but the sun was behind him, making it difficult for her to recognize him.

When she did, she realized that the wonderful summer she and the twins had been anticipating had suffered a severe setback. The lecherous uncle, who Mrs. Wiggins had assured her was technically
not
her actual employer, had come to Devon.

“Good afternoon, twins.” Nominally he was speaking to his nephews, but all his attention was focused on Anne—or rather, that part of her visible above the tabletop and below her neck. Since she was sitting down, he could not even be excused on the grounds that she was too tall for him to meet her eyes directly.

“Good afternoon, Uncle Creighton.” The boys responded in unison, but evinced no other interest in their uncle. Instead, they developed an apparent fascination with the crumbs left on their plates.

“It is a beautiful day, is it not?” No one replied to Trussell’s question.

“If you will excuse us ...”

“We must be going.”

The twins were already sliding sideways out of their chairs, although they did glance at Anne, their eyes asking silently for permission, which she gave with a nod.

After they scampered off, Trussell promptly seated himself in one of the chairs they had vacated and smirked at her. “I hope the twins have not been up to any mischief? Boys will be boys, you know, and one must make allowances for high spirits.”

Anne was debating with herself how quickly she could make her own excuses to quit his company.

“Knowing how reluctant you were to take this position, I felt it behooved me to come here and check up on you in person. If the twins are causing you any problems, do not hesitate to ask my assistance.” He reached out and patted her hand in what he appeared to think was an avuncular fashion. “I should not wish for anyone here to cause you the slightest distress.”

The man was a veritable maw-worm. Offering her his help, indeed. Trying to turn her up sweet so he could hop in her bed was more like it. Men were such fools, always underestimating a
female’s intelligence, treating most of them as if they were backward children.

“Would you like some tea?” she said politely, knowing the pot had grown quite cold.

“No, no, my
appetite
cannot be satisfied so easily.” Already forgetting his role as potential rescuer of a damsel in distress, his smirk changed to a leer.

Odious man. Was his heavy-handed attempt at a double-entendre supposed to make her develop an uncontrollable passion for him?

For the first time in years, she regretted her decision to use reason as a means of persuading others around to her point of view. Right now she would like to feel her fist flatten his nose. It would be such an efficient, such a precise way of letting him know her opinion of his character.

But she had outgrown such behavior. Although it was so tempting—perhaps too much indulgence in clotted cream inclined one toward physical violence? She smiled at the thought, realizing too late that Trussell would misinterpret her look as one of interest in him. He reached for her hand again, but she snatched it away in time.

Unexpectedly, his attention shifted from her. Then she heard footsteps on the gravel path, and she also turned to see who was coming.

“Excuse me, Miss Hemsworth.” Beside her, Sally bobbed a quick curtsy. “Not wanting to interrupt your tea nor nothing like that, but Cook says she’s a mind to speak with you at once.”

With thankfulness that she did not have to invent a trumped-up excuse to end her so utterly delightful and intellectually stimulating conversation with the maw-worm, Anne rose to her feet and looked down at Trussell. “If you will excuse me.” Without waiting to be excused, she strode rapidly toward the back of the house.

She had no sooner entered the kitchen, than she was pounced on by two boys.

“We rescued you,” Anthony crowed with delight.

“Didn’t our plan work well? I thought of it,” Andrew added with a grin. “But Anthony was the one who asked Sally to help.”

“We didn’t want to just abandon you—”

“Come quick now, before he finds us—’

“We know some great places to hide—”

“We’ll show you—’

Each one grabbing one of her hands, they dragged her away into the bowels of the house for an impromptu game of hide-and-seek, with Trussell being “it,” even though he had not been informed of the role he was supposed to play.

* * * *

Creighton poured the last of the brandy out of the decanter and stared morosely at his glass, which was only half full. Having renewed his acquaintanceship with Miss Hemsworth of the glorious bosom—albeit for only a few brief, fleeting moments—he had somehow not managed to catch up with her again.

When he checked in the schoolroom, he was told she was in the nursery; when he checked in the nursery, he was told she had returned to her own room, but her room was empty. She was not in the library, not in the kitchen, not in the stables. In a burst of optimism at the thought that she might have anticipated his wishes, he had even checked his own room, but the bed was empty.

He drained the last of his potion, then stared at the dregs in his glass. An evening of solitary drinking had only served to focus his attention on the elusive Miss Hemsworth. Having had her in his thoughts all those hours made it seem entirely reasonable to his brandy-soaked brain that she had likewise been thinking about him. She was undoubtedly getting impatient waiting for him.

Staggering to his feet, he tried to remember where he had put her. The corridor outside his room was dark, but it never occurred to him to light a candle. Although his path was somewhat erratic, his search was systematic. He opened every bedroom door along the corridor, cheerfully convinced that sooner or later he would find her waiting in bed for him.

To his delight, it was sooner rather than later, and she was indeed waiting for him. Opening the door to her room, he found her sitting up in bed reading a book. Perhaps he should apologize for being so late? No, better just to get on with it.

* * * *

“What the deuce are you doing in my bedroom?” Anne was astounded at the intrusion into her privacy. That Trussell was drunk was obvious from the careful way he was moving, as if balanced on a very narrow ledge.

“S-s-s-.” He was having difficulties getting his tongue to work properly. Under other circumstances Anne might have found it amusing. But not late in the evening in her bedroom.

“S-s-sorry, my dear,” he finally managed to get out, before smiling at her like an idiot.

Strangely enough, she felt herself to be at a disadvantage. She had never had much experience dealing with drunks, although somewhere she had heard that one should humor them.

Humor them? Before she realized his intentions, Trussell had taken off his robe and was folding it carefully. All he wore under it was a nightshirt, which exposed his bony knees and skimpy calves.

Distracted for a moment by the realization that his valet must use sawdust to fill out his stockings, Anne was caught off guard when the drunken lecher pounced, landing directly on top of her, the fumes of his breath making her nauseated and his hands—

How dare he!

With a bellow that Aunt Sidonia had once likened to that of a wounded bull moose, Anne tried to throw him onto the floor. With one hand trapped beneath the covers, she was somewhat handicapped. Unfortunately, those same covers provided her little protection from Trussell’s groping hands.

One-handed she could not quite best him, even in his drunken state. But she brought up her knee sharply, heard his grunt of pain, then managed to shift his dead weight enough to liberate her other arm, and after that there was no contest.

In less than a minute, he was lying face down and she was straddling his legs. She had both of his arms twisted behind his back.

“Do you think she means to smother him?” A young voice spoke beside the bed.

“Probably,” his brother replied with obvious relish.

Still feeling the effects of the strong emotion of the last few moments, Anne turned her head and saw the twins standing by her bed watching with detached interest.

“Why are you two out of bed?”

“We heard a noise. A
loud
noise,” Anthony clarified.

“Do you need any help?” Andrew asked. “We know a place where you could hide the body.”

“And no one would ever find it, not in a hundred years,” his brother said.

Her attention thus being called to the fact that Trussell’s squirms were becoming more feeble, she eased up on the pressure enough that he was able to turn his head and take great gasping breaths.

“You boys can go back to bed. I can handle your uncle quite well.”

They dawdled on the way out, giving her ample opportunity to call them back if she changed her mind, but she did not. Once they were gone, she climbed off Trussell’s back without releasing his arms, then pulled him off the bed, only to discover his legs would no longer support him. She was not sure if it was from the effects of the brandy or from being half smothered, but it mattered not. In either case, there was nothing for her to do but drag him bodily back down the corridor to his own room.

Men! Aunt Sidonia was right—they were nothing but unnecessary encumbrances. She heaved her present encumbrance through the door of his room and with satisfaction watched his unsuccessful efforts to get up. Leaving him crumpled in a heap on the carpet, she went to check on the twins.

They were in bed but not asleep. “Did you hit him?”

“I do not hit people,” Anne replied sternly. “I reason with them. Violence solves nothing.”

“We saw you reasoning his arms behind his back.” Andrew chuckled.

“I was merely getting his attention.”

It was undoubtedly only because it was the middle of the night that this remark seemed so funny, but the boys began to laugh, and finally Anne felt the anger drain out of her too. Kissing them good night once again, she returned to her room, where she took the precaution of locking her door behind her. After a moment of reflection, she also locked the French windows, which opened onto a little balcony.

Not that Trussell was any match for her, even sober. But she had no desire to have her sleep interrupted.

* * * *

Creighton did not awaken until well after noon. When he did, every muscle in his body ached, as if he had been run over by a team of horses and a stagecoach. In comparison, the hangover from the large amount of brandy he had consumed the evening before was negligible.

When he moved even slightly, his shoulders felt as if his arms had been wrenched out of their sockets the day before. Moreover, his back was stiff, his legs—well, it did not pay to itemize every ache. If there was one part of his body that did not hurt, he could not identify it.

Responding to his feeble cries for help, Wyke came into the room and went directly to the window to pull open the heavy drapes.

“No,” Creighton barely managed to croak out in time. “No light.”

Wyke approached the bed and stood patiently waiting. “Do you wish a bath?” the valet asked finally.

“I want to know what happened last night.” Even his jaw hurt, so Creighton did his best to speak with a minimum of movement.

“I have no idea what occurred. I helped you prepare for bed, then at your direction, fetched you another bottle of brandy and took myself off to my cot in the dressing room. At about two of the clock, I heard a thump and came in and found you lying on the floor. You were incoherent, so I assisted you to bed.”

“And that is all you know?”

“Except... well, this morning the governess returned your robe, all neatly folded.”

Wyke gave him a sly, knowing look, and Creighton seized the candlestick off the bedside table and hurled it at the valet. It missed, but came sufficiently close that Wyke correctly perceived it as an indication that his services were not wanted at the present time.

Shutting his eyes, Creighton thought back over the previous night. With Wyke’s explanation to jog his memory, he found he could remember most of what had happened. Enough, anyway, to know that the new governess had not only rejected him, but had treated him with mockery and blatant disrespect. And his nephews had witnessed it, yet had done nothing to help him.

Fury warred with pain, and fury won. Trussell forced himself to rise from his bed. Calling for his valet, he berated him for not being on hand when needed. Unfortunately, cursing his valet the whole time Wyke was helping him get dressed did little to alleviate his anger. Creighton was still coldly furious by the time he entered the morning room and found Miss Hemsworth and her charges blithely eating a cold repast and showing no sign that they were the least bit repentant for the trouble they had caused him.

“For conduct unbecoming a governess, you are fired,” he said, noticing with satisfaction the horrified looks on the twins’ faces. “You will pack your things and be ready to leave in the morning. Do not expect to get a character from me, either.”

She stared at him coldly. If she begged him nicely, he was prepared to reconsider, but she was not acting the least bit repentant.

“As you are not my official employer, I believe I shall remain here until I receive my notice from Lord Leatham.” So saying, she turned her back on him and began talking to the twins as if he were no longer in the room.

“There is no need to wait. I have full authority from Leatham to hire and fire employees!” His voice had risen too high. That blasted woman was enough to make a saint lose patience. “You will leave at once—today—within the hour!” He stamped his foot.

Without bothering to look at him, she said firmly, “When you show me a written power-of-attorney from Lord Leatham, I shall be happy to pack my things.”

His hands were itching to grab that woman’s neck and squeeze. Never had he felt such an urge to silence a woman by throttling her! “I do not need written authorization. No one has ever questioned my right to hire and fire.”