Head in the Clouds (5 page)

James pulled a packet of papers out of his coat pocket and tossed them onto the desk. “Yes, finally. The court ruled in our favor. Isabella will remain with you.”

“Thank God.” Gideon hadn’t really doubted the outcome. He knew they were in the right and stood on solid legal ground. Nevertheless, the result flooded him with relief. “And what of our investigations?”

“Your man in London turned up enough dirt on Lord Petchey to make me want to take a bath after I read his report. The scoundrel is in debt up to his ears, gambles in the seediest clubs, frequents brothels, and even ran his horse to death once trying to win a bet during one of his fox hunts.

“I had wondered why Lady Petchey named you Isabella’s ward when the girl had family back in England, but now I understand. Her husband, the late viscount, even wrote his brother out of the family will for the most part. Reginald inherited the title and a tidy sum that would have kept him in style had he curbed his wastrel habits and invested it wisely, but of course he didn’t. Lady Petchey retained control of the rest. No doubt he expected to regain access to the family funds once Lady Petchey fell ill. It must have come as quite a shock to learn she put all the money into a trust for Isabella and named you executor as well as guardian. Contesting the will was his only option.”

Gideon recalled the last hours he had spent with Bella’s mother onboard ship. Lucinda Petchey had demanded that he send for the captain to witness her will. The ship’s surgeon had assured him she was dying, and all he could think to do was make her as comfortable as possible. Her emaciated body had looked so forlorn lying in that narrow berth, her skin paper thin, her flesh wasted away by whatever sickness had ravaged her.

He sent for the captain right away, unable to deny her anything that might bring her ease. In the end, she had hung on to life long enough to have her will properly signed and witnessed, as well as to give strict instructions on how to deliver it to her solicitor in London while leaving a copy with him. Once everything had been put in order and she had hugged her daughter one last time, she slipped away, accepting the peace death offered.

Clearing his throat, Gideon ran a shaky hand through his hair. “I knew Lucinda feared for Isabella’s future. I can only imagine what kind of life the child would have been subjected to once her uncle ran through her fortune. The bounder would have probably tried to marry her off to some rich blueblood before she was out of the schoolroom. He would have sold her off to the highest bidder, no doubt, not caring a whit about how the fellow treated her. Makes me want to tear him apart just thinking about it.” Gideon took several measured breaths in an effort to cool his temper.

“Yes, well, Lady Petchey was wise to have Captain Harris witness everything.” James’s own expression had turned rather dour. “His testimony to her soundness of mind—along with that of the ship’s doctor—is what swung the court in our favor. Petchey had painted her as a mentally unstable, paranoid woman who had run away from her only family for no reason whatsoever. He nearly succeeded in convincing the court that a sane woman would never have given her only child into the care of a stranger. If not for their testimony, you might have been forced to hand Isabella over to Petchey.”

“God forbid.”

Gideon slouched in his chair, glad for the first time since settling in Texas that several thousand miles and one very large ocean stood between him and England. The distance might separate him from everything that was familiar and the family he loved, but it also kept Isabella out of her uncle’s greedy grasp, and that was worth any sacrifice.

Chapter 5

L
ONDON

Reginald Petchey stormed into his solicitor’s office and slammed the door.

“This better be good, Farnsworth.” He took a seat in front of the thin man’s desk and glared his displeasure. “You’ve turned up nothing of importance in the fortnight since the court ruled against us, and now you have the nerve to summon me away from my club? I ought to dismiss you out of hand for such impertinence. You—”

“I found Westcott.”

Reginald halted his tirade and pierced his solicitor with a contemptuous glance designed to put him in his place. Farnsworth looked decidedly pasty-faced, and no doubt his knees were knocking together behind his desk, miserable milksop that he was, but he held steady. For the moment. Perhaps he wasn’t a complete invertebrate after all.

“Go on.”

Farnsworth managed to hold his gaze for a second or two before his mouth started quivering. Then his attention dropped to somewhere in the middle of Reginald’s chest. Satisfied at the man’s reaction, Reginald turned over his hand and began examining his manicured fingernails, sliding a dark look out of the corner of his eye every few seconds for good measure. He admired Farnsworth’s unusual display of mettle, but it wouldn’t do for the man to suddenly grow a backbone. There was too much at stake.

“Yes, my lord.” The little toad coughed and shuffled his papers. “I dispatched a man to Leicestershire last week to bribe Baron Westcott’s servants into divulging his son’s location. Unfortunately, the staff turned out to be quite loyal. We made little headway until I changed tactics.”

“You’re rambling, Farnsworth.”

The solicitor twitched and squirmed in his chair, then apparently dredged up what remained of his spine and looked Reginald in the eye again.

“Blackmail, my lord. The Westcotts insist upon morality from those who work for them, so we started searching for blemishes among the lambs, if you will. One loose-lipped fellow at the local tavern let it slip that an upstairs maid was rumored to have had a child out of wedlock a couple years back. My man traveled to her home village to investigate and found the girl’s parents raising the brat and claiming him as their own in an effort to preserve her reputation. However, he dug up several fine citizens who eagerly verified the rumor once they saw coin was involved. When we threatened to reveal her secret, the maid intercepted a letter her mistress intended to post to America and turned it over to us.”

Impatient with the long-winded explanation, Reginald gritted his teeth. “We already know he’s in America.”

“Yes, but until now we didn’t know where.”

Farnsworth paused for effect, but Reginald was fed up with the theatrics. He pushed up out of his chair, planted his palms on the solicitor’s desk, and leaned across the surface. His face lowered an inch closer to Farnsworth’s with each word he forced through his clenched jaw.

“Where … is … he?”

Farnsworth swallowed and pulled back, his round eyes emitting a delightful quantity of distress.

“H-h-he’s in the state of Texas. On a sheep ranch in a region called Menard County.”

Triumph surged through Reginald’s veins, but he masked his pleasure. He was having too much fun watching Farnsworth sweat.

“I assume you’ve booked passage for me on a steamer, then?” His nose nearly touched the man’s cheek as he rumbled the question.

“N-n-no, sir. But I’ll go as soon as we’ve concluded our business.”

“You’ll go now.”

Farnsworth sprung backward out of his chair, like a hare evading a hound. “I’ll go now.” Never taking his wary eyes off Reginald, he stumbled toward the door, plucked his hat off the rack, and fumbled with the latch. After several unsuccessful attempts, the cornered hare finally found his rabbit hole and escaped down the corridor.

Reginald paced over to the window and watched Farnsworth scurry down the street. Then his gaze blurred as his focus turned inward, his lips twisting into a feral smile. Lucinda’s attempt at revenge had failed. Why had he ever doubted it? No mere woman could outmaneuver him. Stuart might have surrendered to her wiles, but his brother had gone soft, letting her virtuous manner and religious drivel turn his insides to mush. Reginald would never fall for such tripe, and Lucinda knew it. She had thought herself so clever by fleeing England. Yet she hadn’t been able to outrun death, had she? He brushed his thumb and forefinger over the thick mustache that sat atop his lip. No. He always won in the end. Always.

Too bad that fact was harder to prove to his creditors than it had been to his sister-in-law. The impatient leeches. He had bought some time when Lucinda died, assuring them the Petchey fortune would revert to him. However, now that news of the will had spread, they would be back, and more demanding than ever. Reginald’s hands bent into fists. Ruin. Disgrace. Sour contemplations. It was his duty to protect the Petchey name. His ancestors fought and died to bring honor to this house. He wouldn’t allow it to be stripped away just because his brother had abdicated family loyalty in order to please his delusional wife.

Sunlight streamed through the window and glinted off the ring on his right hand. Reginald lifted it up to take a closer look and frowned as dark memories assaulted him. The black onyx stone overlaid with a gold P had been handed down to first sons for generations. Now it belonged to him, ever since the day a hunting accident had taken Stuart’s life.

Ah, Stuart.
He wished things could have worked out differently. The two of them had been close once upon a time. Before Lucinda. Reginald tapped the ring against the glass, his agitation building. The taps grew more forceful until he finally willed himself to stop. With mechanical precision, he lowered his hand to his side. The past could not be changed. He must focus on the future.

Stuart’s daughter
was
the future. Petchey blood ran through her veins, and it was his duty to restore her to her rightful family. Westcott couldn’t give her that heritage. Only he could. And with his niece under his protection, he’d have the blunt he needed to settle his debts and rebuild the Petchey fortune. All he had to do was remove Gideon Westcott from the equation.

Chapter 6

Adelaide leaned against the spindled porch railing and waved farewell to her traveling companions. Mrs. Carmichael sat stiff in her seat, but Miss Oliver returned the gesture, her genteel expression unruffled. Mr. Westcott said a few final words to his friend, shaking his hand and thumping him on the back before Mr. Bevin climbed aboard the wagon. With a snap of the reins, Mr. Bevin set the horses in motion, leaving her behind. The new governess. Her. Adelaide Proctor. The truth struggled to settle into her brain.

Mr. Westcott stood in the yard watching the wagon depart, and Adelaide watched him. The man seemed to be two people. By day he was a rancher wearing cotton shirts and denim trousers, wrestling pregnant ewes, and watering strange women’s horses. But in the evening, he became an elegant nobleman in silk ties and fine coats with fancy manners and cultured charm. The hardworking rancher earned her respect, but the English gentleman made her heart flutter, embodying every storybook hero she’d ever fallen in love with.

He was well formed and tall, but not overly tall. He kept his dark hair trimmed short, and his eyes were the color of melted chocolate. But it was his smile that did her in. He had dimples. Amazingly, the boyish creases did nothing to hinder his masculinity. Instead, they enhanced it and gave him a cheerful mien that was impossible to resist.

When he’d entered the parlor last night and met her gaze for the first time since their encounter in the stable, his eyes had teased her, bringing a blush to her cheeks and even greater warmth to her heart. It was as if she were Jane Eyre arriving at Thornfield to begin her position as governess to the young Adèle, but instead of finding the house without its master, her Mr. Rochester was in residence. A sigh bubbled inside her as the daydream played out in her mind, but the sound of Mr. Westcott’s approaching footsteps banished the fantasy.

Adelaide spun around and pressed her back to the railing to avoid looking at him. Her heart pounded in time with the rhythm of her guilty conscience. The last thing she needed was for her employer to find her mooning over him. Hadn’t her romantic inclinations gotten her into enough trouble already? Mr. Westcott smiled too much to play the role of a dark and brooding Rochester anyway. And her impulsive nature and chatterbox personality couldn’t possibly be more unlike the staid, proper Jane, who spoke more with her eyes than with her mouth.

She was at Westcott Cottage to do a job, not to reenact her favorite novel. Isabella deserved the very best she could give. God brought her here to minister to a child, not swoon over a man. She’d best not forget that.

“If you would be so good as to accompany me to the study, Miss Proctor, I’d like to go over your duties with you.”

She forced herself to meet his gaze. He grinned, setting loose those dimples to wreak havoc on her already quivery nerves. Those things were deadly to a woman’s concentration. She clasped her hands together at her waist and squeezed her fingers until the pain dislodged the breathless feeling from her chest.

“Of course,” she said, pleased that her voice sounded normal.

He ushered her inside and past the front parlor to a doorway near the foot of the stairs. Dark walnut furniture dominated the room, including an entire wall of built-in bookshelves. Soft olive and ivory fabrics in the upholstery, carpet, and draperies offset the heaviness of the dark wood, however. Cream-colored paper on the walls sported gilt-embossed designs that reflected what little sunlight penetrated the room. Some of the tension drained out of her. It was certainly a masculine space but not unwelcoming, which was a blessing. Meeting with her new employer was intimidating enough without having the walls press in on her.

“Please have a seat, Miss Proctor.”

A settee and two chairs were arranged along the wall opposite the bookshelves. Mr. Westcott touched the back of one of the chairs and motioned for her to sit. Once she did, he took the place across from her, their knees separated by a varnished table topped with two small leather-bound books. The covers showed a great deal of wear, not the pristine display one would expect.

Curiosity pushed all worries about the interview from Adelaide’s mind. The cracked leather spine of the first volume indicated a collection of Shakespeare’s works, while the other read
Holy Bible
.

“I keep them out to remind me that success requires sacrifice.”

Her hand twitched, and she nearly reached out to lay hold of the books, but at the last second, good sense suppressed the impulse. She primly folded her hands in her lap, hoping he didn’t notice that her grip was tight enough to cut off the circulation to her fingertips.

“I can understand how the Bible might bring sacrifice to mind,” she ruminated aloud, “but Shakespeare? I’m afraid I don’t see the connection.”

He answered with a self-deprecating laugh.

“You caught me. The truth is not nearly as noble as I tried to make it sound. The reminder is actually more physical than philosophical.”

“How so?”

“Those two books were my bosom companions for the two years I trailed sheep from California to Texas.”

“
You
trailed sheep?”

“Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

Shock must have stolen her manners. She fumbled to repair the damage. “I didn’t … mean to imply …”

He waved off her sputtering apology, his eyes dancing with humor. “Sometimes it’s hard for me to believe, too, and I’m the one who lived through it. Barely.”

Heat crept up the back of her neck. Why did she never think before she opened her mouth? She bit her tongue before it could cause any more trouble. Unfortunately, her hesitation bogged the conversation down in awkward silence, leaving her employer to wade into the mire to rescue her.

“I am the youngest of three sons, and I’d always been something of a gadabout.”

He picked up the Bible and thumbed through the pages, the thin paper crinkling. “My mother hoped I would follow in her father’s footsteps and join the clergy. I considered it for a time, but something held me back.”

“How did you end up in Texas?”

“Propaganda.”

She waited for more, but he just sat there with a smug look on his face. The rascal. He was going to make her ask, wasn’t he? She’d bet in his childhood he was one of those boys who pestered his brothers to the precise point where they would retaliate so that he could escape punishment while they received a scolding for beating on him. He probably had a full arsenal of crocodile tears to go along with those devastating dimples.

“You gave your brothers fits growing up, didn’t you?”

Belatedly, Adelaide realized her comment made no sense in the context of their discussion. At this rate, she was going to talk herself out of a position before she ever truly started. However, Gideon seemed to follow without difficulty. He exhibited no blank stare or puzzled frown the way most people did when she made a radical mental shift. Instead, his eyes danced with mischief.

“Every chance I got.”

She grinned, and he steered them back on course without a single bump.

“Word had it that any man with money to invest could earn vast profits with little to no effort in the American West. Buy a half-dozen sections of land, fill it with stock, and let the money roll in while you hunt big game and host parties.”

“Don’t tell me you believed that nonsense?”

He shrugged. “Well, I was intelligent enough to know there would be some work involved, but it sounded too good to pass up. My father, bless his wise soul, gave me a condition. He would provide the capital for me to invest in land, build a house, and purchase stock if I agreed to learn the wool business through firsthand experience. I consented, never imagining what a hard teacher experience could be. But everything worked out. The
pastores
I hired on in California had me trained right and proper by the time we arrived in Texas, and several of them stayed on to work the ranch with me.”

He laid the Bible back on the table, leaving it open. Adelaide couldn’t read the tiny print from where she sat, but she recognized the number 23 and figured it must be Psalms.

“I never realized how many verses there are about sheep and shepherds until I spent two years of my life outside with the silly creatures. Gave me a whole new appreciation for the Lord as the Good Shepherd and for how much grief his flock must put him through.”

Gideon Westcott might be a rascal, but he had depth.

“What about you, Miss Proctor? What circumstances led to your coming here?”

She couldn’t exactly say she followed a cloud, now could she? He’d think her deranged. Instead she opted for the bland version of the truth. “I came across the advertisement Mr. Bevin ran in the
Gazette
and decided to apply.”

Her employer shook his head at her and clicked his tongue, the frown lines in his brow at odds with the twinkle in his eye. “For shame, Miss Proctor. Surely there’s more to the story than that dull explanation.” He leaned on the chair arm nearest her and winked. Her heart stuttered. A lock of dark hair fell across his forehead just as she imagined any true rake’s would, tempting her to reach out and comb it back into place with her fingers.

“The chairman of the Cisco school board wrote you a glowing recommendation. Obviously they would have preferred you to stay. So what made you leave? Wanderlust? An overzealous suitor? A sick friend?”

Panic knotted her stomach. Not even the little-boy grin he was favoring her with could ease the tightness. Had Mr. Bevin told him of her marriage fiasco? She hadn’t revealed the details to him and he hadn’t pressed her for them, but if he had said something to Mr. Westcott … No. She shouldn’t borrow trouble. She’d learned her lesson about saying too much during her interview in Fort Worth. She’d not make the same mistake here. A woman was due some privacy after all, and a true gentleman would never pry.

“My reasons for leaving were of a personal nature. I’m sure you understand.” Adelaide smiled, hoping her words didn’t sound as prudish to him as they did to her.

“Of course.” He splayed his hands before her, palms up, as if accepting her vague response. Then he touched her. His index finger pressed lightly on the back of her hand, and shivers danced up her arm. “But it doesn’t seem fair for me to reveal a piece of my personal story without you doing the same. I promise to hold whatever you tell me in the strictest confidence.”

Adelaide bit her lip. He
had
opened up to her. She wanted to reciprocate, especially when he looked at her as he did now, as if she alone held the key to his future happiness. He wasn’t asking for much, just an answer to his question. But that answer could jeopardize her position.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Westcott.” She glanced down, her eyes glued to where his hand touched hers. “I’d rather not go into specifics. I can assure you, however, that the situation that led me to Fort Worth will in no way affect my ability to carry out the duties you hired me to perform.”

He sighed. “Very well.”

Gideon withdrew his hand, and his demeanor subtly changed. He shifted away from her in his seat. His smile faded to a polite curve. No dimples. No twinkle in his eye. No flirtatious wink. He once again became lord of the manor.

Another shiver ran through Adelaide—only this time it held foreboding instead of delight. Henry Belcher had charmed her with sweet words and false promises in order to get what he wanted—a female companion to toy with while he was away from his wife … and promotion-worthy book sales. Was Gideon Westcott cut from the same cloth?

He didn’t strike her as the type to lure her into a tawdry affair under the same roof as his daughter, but he had certainly been working his wiles to try to get her to divulge her secret. And she had nearly done so. If she had learned nothing else from her experience with Henry, she’d learned charm could not be trusted.

“So, Miss Proctor … about your duties.”

Relieved that her employer had assumed a more professional mien, Adelaide sat up straight and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Isabella is a very quiet child, and not just because she chooses not to speak. Ever since—”

“Excuse me. Did you say she
chooses
not to speak?” Adelaide’s mind spun. If the child wasn’t truly mute, then why didn’t she speak? Was she afraid? Obstinate? Unstable?

Gideon’s voice cut into her thoughts.

“She used to prattle on about everything under the sun.” Regret tightened the corners of his mouth. “I think it is somehow tied to her mother’s death. She hasn’t spoken a word since.”

Adelaide pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling. It had been years since her father’s passing, but she recalled the heartrending pain of the loss. She’d never really known her mother as anything more than a pretty woman in a picture on the parlor mantel. Anna Proctor had died trying to birth a stillborn son when Adelaide was two. But she remembered everything about the day her father passed, as well as the anger and resentment that flooded through her when Aunt Louise whisked her away to Boston, forcing her to leave everything familiar behind.

Well, except for Sheba. Adelaide had refused to leave without her filly. She’d slept in her horse’s stall every night until Aunt Louise finally agreed to bring the animal along. The sale of the ranch paid for Sheba’s boarding as well as Adelaide’s schooling, leaving her a small portion on account at the bank that could tide her over in an emergency. But even if her father had left her an inheritance equal to that of a British nobleman, she would have traded it all to have him back.

Was that what Isabella was going through? If Gideon had been trailing sheep the last two years, he surely would have left his wife and child back in England. Out of necessity he would have been absent from them for most of that time, becoming a near stranger to the child. Isabella lost her mother—not the only parent who loved her, surely, but the only one she truly knew. And on top of that she’d been pulled from everything familiar, from friends and grandparents and the house she thought of as home. No wonder the child was detached.