Authors: Elizabeth Thornton
She wasn’t going to cry, she told herself, and blinked the tears away. Lord Barrington was gone, but she was here. Somehow, someday, she would make Lord Kendal pay for what he had done. For the present, her first duty was to Quentin. She had to get him away. She had to.
Her chin trembled and she closed her eyes, thinking of Quentin. She’d come to him shortly after his mother’s death, and she remembered the first time she had met him. She had no conception then that the solemn-faced, four-year-old boy who viewed her with open suspicion would, very soon, become the most important thing in her life. She remembered his first pony, and how her credit had soared in the boy’s eyes when he saw that his governess was an accomplished rider. She remembered sitting by his bed, bathing his face and his body with cool washcloths when he was burning with fever. She remembered rocking him in her arms when he wakened from a dream, crying for his mother. And she remembered her own fear when she realized how much he had come to mean to her. She could not keep him forever. She wasn’t his mother. She was only his governess.
Abruptly rising, she moved to a dresser on which sat a small carved coffer made of oak. She felt in her pocket, extracted a key, and unlocked the coffer. Inside was a black velvet pouch. She emptied the contents of the pouch into the palm of one hand. Tiny diamonds set in an oval silver locket winked up at her. She pried the locket open and stared at the miniature inside. A young, dark-haired girl with a trace of a smile on her lips stared back at her. This was all that was left to her of her mother. Looking at that sweet face, she was filled with a flood of memories, not unlike the ones she’d had of Quentin a moment ago, only this time she was the child.
Swallowing, she turned the locket over. Her name was engraved on the back, her real name. This was her most prized possession, given to her by her mother on the last Christmas they’d spent together. Because her
name was on it, she could never wear it. Since she’d become a fugitive from the law, she’d been reduced to keeping it hidden away, and brought it out only on odd, reflective moments when there was no one there to see it. If Lord Kendal was after her, it was even more dangerous to have it in her possession. The thought made her shiver. It would be far wiser to give it to Miss Hare to keep for her. She thought about this for a moment, and came to a decision. When she left here, she would give it to Miss Hare to keep for her until … until what? She couldn’t envisage the day when she would be free to wear the locket without fear of discovery. A more prudent woman would get rid of it, but she couldn’t bring herself to do that. She would give it to Miss Hare, and one day, God willing, she would reclaim it.
She slipped the locket inside the pouch and replaced them in the coffer. With the tips of her fingers, she massaged her forehead. Her mind was churning with doubt and anxiety. Had she done the right thing in coming to the school? None of the other teachers had known her from before, and she had taken such pains to change her appearance that even her own father would not recognize her. And she did not think there was any way Lord Kendal could trace her. She was always so careful not to betray anything that would connect her to anyone in her past. Even Lord Barrington had been told a pack of lies to persuade him that she was the right person to be his son’s governess. Lies, lies, lies. It had become a way of life for her, only this was a worse catastrophe than before. Before she had only herself to think about. Now there was Quentin. What confounded her was that there had been no outcry when Quentin had disappeared, nothing in the papers, not one word. Lord Kendal must be responsible. He would want to silence Quentin and her before they could do him any real harm. She hoped that he was trembling in his boots as much as she trembled in hers. What he could not know was that, for the present at least, he was safe from detection.
If Quentin had been able to corroborate her story, she would have taken her chances and gone directly to
the authorities with what she knew. But Quentin had no memory of that night. The storm had awakened him and that was all he remembered until they had boarded the packet in Calais. He had not even known that his father was dead.
Another shudder passed over her, and she hugged herself tightly. Lord Kendal would never find Quentin, she assured herself, not unless he found her first, and even then, she would never lead him to the boy. Just thinking about it made her sick with fright. If anything happened to her, what would become of Quentin?
With a stifled moan, she began to pace the floor. Nothing was going to happen to her. She had made her plans, and she would abide by them. She dared not stay in one place for long. Mr. Gray had come upon the scene at just the right moment. And if Lord Kendal sent his minions to nose around asking questions about her, Miss Hare would know what to do.
It was imperative that she make a good impression on Mr. Gray. It shouldn’t be too difficult. He was a provincial, and she had the knowledge and skills to smooth his sister’s way in society. She must convince him of it.
In the pink and white drawing room of Miss Hare’s School of Deportment for Young Ladies, the ritual of taking tea was in progress. This was no empty ritual as was to be found in legions of drawing rooms throughout England on almost any day of the week. This was an exercise in deportment, a way of putting the girls through their paces, testing their competence in the social graces. That was the theory.
In practice, thought Deborah dismally, it was sheer torture, not least because the guest of honor on this particular afternoon happened to be a handsome, personable gentleman whom Miss Hare had vaguely introduced before abandoning him to his fate. It was he, of course, Mr. Gray, the gentleman who was seeking a mentor for his young sister, and Deborah could have wept in frustration. Of all the times to be caught unawares, this was unquestionably the worst. She could do nothing with the girls. They did not give a straw about learning the rudiments of drawing-room conversation. They were all man-mad, and were flirting outrageously. Miss Hare frequently arranged for gentlemen guests to be present when the girls took tea, but no one of Mr. Gray’s attributes had ever visited them. It was inevitable
that these brazen hussies would be thrown into a twitter.
He was certainly handsome. In her experience, most men with his looks had the conceit to go with them. They fed on feminine adulation and knew how to charm a female into doing whatever they wanted. Mr. Gray wasn’t like that. It had taken her only a few minutes to sum him up. She could see at a glance that he wasn’t used to being the center of attention. He was ill at ease and seemed more than happy to allow her to do most of the talking. His modesty, his ineptness around females, was quite touching.
As her gaze lingered, his head turned, and eyes as blue and clear as a mountain stream caught and held her stare before the gentleman looked away. She had a flash of unease, a quick impression of a cat among the pigeons, then sanity returned. She was overwrought. She was imagining things. If Lord Kendal’s minions ever caught up with her, they wouldn’t waste time by taking tea. They would swoop down like vultures and carry her off in pieces. This quiet, unassuming gentleman was exactly what he appeared to be. She had nothing to fear here. Then why was he smiling? What was he thinking?
Gray was congratulating himself on the approach he had decided to take with the girl. His first inclination had been to swoop down and carry her off by force. His interview with Miss Hare had persuaded him to a more subtle course of action. There was no doubt in his mind that Miss Hare would raise Cain if her protégée were to be mishandled. Not only would she call in the constables, but she would pursue the matter with the tenacity of a British bulldog. The last thing he wanted was to involve others in how he meant to proceed with Miss Weyman.
The more he observed her, the more the conviction grew that he was not dealing with an enemy agent but a guileless innocent who had somehow got in over her head. It would be no great feat to terrify her into submission. He had every confidence that in a matter of days, if not sooner, she would be willing to tell him all that he wished to know. Yet, a small part of him regretted
that he must be so hard on her. It was not his way to make war on defenseless women. He dismissed this thought almost as soon as it occurred to him. He could not be sure that she was as innocent as she appeared, and even if she were, she had abducted Quentin, and Quentin’s safety took precedence over everything.
Deborah touched a finger to the furrow on her brow, willing an incipient headache to retreat, and she did her best to ignore the fluttering eyelashes and simpers that emanated from her charges. When, however, Millicent Dench rose to offer Mr. Gray another cucumber sandwich, Deborah sat bolt upright in her chair. One never knew quite what to expect from Millicent. It wasn’t that the girl was wicked. It was simply that she could not refuse a dare. One quick look around at the girls’ faces convinced Deborah that mischief, in bold letters, was brewing.
She was on the point of rising to head the girl off when Mr. Gray’s voice arrested her. “Thank you, Miss Dench,” he said, “but I prefer something sweeter. Miss Moir, I’ll have a slice of that cake, if you would be so kind.”
The hush that descended eddied with hidden currents. Deborah knew that she had missed something, but could not begin to guess what it was. She was aware that Millicent had received a snub—the girl’s blushes attested to that fact—but there was more to it than that. Something had happened and she was the only person present who had missed it. She was aware of something else. The balance of power had shifted to Mr. Gray, and his innocuous words were responsible for it.
She looked at him curiously, and saw things about him that she had missed before—the breadth of his shoulders, the powerful masculine physique, and now that she came to think of it, that pleasantly modulated voice had carried an edge of steel. Had she mistaken his character? If so, it hardly mattered. The gentleman could be as masterful as Jupiter, just so long as he did not try to master her. There was no fear of that. His business would take him to London almost at once, and she and Miss Gray would be left to their own devices in
the seclusion of his country estate. It was perfect, if only she could manage it.
When he turned to look at her, she saw that his eyes were smiling, and an unspoken message flashed between them. There was a joke in this somewhere, and later he would share it with her. When she nodded imperceptibly, Mr. Gray gave his attention to the cup and saucer in his hand. The smile on Deborah’s face lingered.
She hadn’t been mistaken in him. He really was a nice man, the sort of man a woman could make a friend of, up to a point. The only other men she had befriended had all been elderly, with the exception of Lord Barrington. Her thoughts drifted and a wistful expression came over her face, an expression that was not lost on the gentleman who was assiduously drinking his tea.
She came to herself with a start to discover that the girls had taken advantage of her preoccupation and were firing off questions like English archers releasing their arrows at the Battle of Agincourt. Was Mr. Gray married? Betrothed? How old was he? What was his profession? Where did he live? Why had he come to Bath? As the only mistress present, it was Deborah’s duty to give the girls a push in the right direction when conversation flagged, or restrain them when they got the bit between their teeth. Though she was curious to know more of Mr. Gray, experience had taught her that if she gave the girls an inch they would take a mile, and there was no saying what they would come up with next.
“Girls,” she said, and got no further. A gong sounded, loud and clear, and Deborah tried not to let her relief show. A lady who earned her bread by caring for other people’s children must always appear in command of every situation.
“Study hall,” said Deborah brightly, addressing Mr. Gray, and all the girls groaned.
With a few muttered protests and a great deal of snickering, the girls began to file out of the room. Deborah assisted their progress by holding the door for them, reminding them cheerfully that on the morrow they would be reviewing irregular French verbs and she expected
them to have mastered their conjugations. As the last girl slipped by her, Deborah shut the door with a snap, then rested her back against it, taking a moment or two to collect herself.
Suddenly aware that Mr. Gray had risen at their exit and was standing awkwardly by the window, she politely invited him to be seated. “You’ll have a glass of sherry?” she inquired. At Miss Hare’s, the guests were invariably treated to a glass of sherry when the ordeal of taking tea was over. At his nod, Deborah moved to the sideboard against the wall. The glasses and decanter were concealed behind a locked door, and she had to stoop to retrieve them from their hiding place.
As he seated himself, Gray’s gaze wandered over the lush curves of her bottom. There was an appreciative glint in his eye. The thought that was going through his head was that Deborah Weyman bore no resemblance to the descriptions he had been given of her. Spinsterish? Straitlaced? Dull and uninteresting? That’s what she wanted people to think. She had certainly dressed for the part with her high-necked, long-sleeved blue kerseymere and the ubiquitous white mob cap pulled down to cover her hair. An untrained eye would look no further. Unhappily for the lady, not only was he a trained observer, but he was also an acknowledged connoisseur of women. Advantage to him.
Since her attention was riveted on the two glasses of sherry on the tray she was carrying, he took the liberty of studying her at leisure. Her complexion was tinged with gray-powder, he presumed-in an attempt to add years and dignity to sculpted bones that accredited beauties of the
ton
would kill for. The shapeless gown served her no better than the gray face powder. She had the kind of figure that would look good in the current high-waisted diaphanous gauzes or in sackcloth and ashes. Soft, curvaceous, womanly. When she handed him his sherry, he kept his expression blank. Behind the wire-rimmed spectacles, her lustrous green eyes were framed by—he blinked and looked again. Damned if she had not snipped at her eyelashes to shorten them! Had the woman no vanity?