If the Slipper Fits (6 page)

“Absolutely not…”

Yet a dim memory gave Simon pause. The last time Clarissa had come to visit, a few months ago, they
had
spoken briefly of Nicholas. She had suggested the boy needed love as much as an education. Unwilling to coddle him, Simon had dismissed the matter. But now Clarissa had taken it upon herself to meddle with the household staff.

“I understand that her ladyship was a dear friend of the young duke’s great-grandmother,” Miss Quinn went on. “She spoke with great fondness of the boy, as if he were her own great-grandchild. Indeed, I’m certain she must have his best interests at heart.”

Simon clenched his jaw. So much for docile and submissive. The woman was supposed to accept his verdict and depart the study, never to be seen again. Instead, she was actually trying to change his mind. How had he let himself be drawn into discussing his decisions with a mere servant?

He stalked to the window, then turned back around. “
I
am the boy’s guardian.
I
make the decisions regarding his care. And
I
say he is too old for a governess.”

“I’m sure you’re a most excellent guardian,” she said, her chin lowered in a deceptively meek pose. “However, women have a strong instinct for the care of children. Lady Milford believes His Grace is in need of a woman’s supervision.” Before Simon could object, she hit him with a question. “Pray tell, what sort of boy is he?”

“Quiet and well behaved. Which is why I won’t have him pampered and spoiled.”

Though perhaps Nicholas was
too
quiet, Simon reflected grudgingly. Most days he didn’t even know there was a child on the premises, except for Fridays when the boy was brought to Simon’s study for an audience. Even then, Nicholas was painfully shy and had to be coaxed into speaking.

“His situation is different from that of other little boys,” Miss Quinn observed. “Considering the tragic death of his parents, I doubt he would be
spoiled
by having someone who is steady and dependable in his life. Rather, he would benefit from having a bit of … mothering.”

That was precisely the same argument Clarissa had used with Simon. At times he wondered if Clarissa had guessed his resentment toward the boy, although Simon took great pains to hide it. Nothing could be more shameful than to blame a child for the sins of his parents.

Yet every time he looked at Nicholas, he saw Diana. Beautiful, fickle, deceitful Diana. Even after all these years, Simon could not rid himself of a cold kernel of hatred for his late sister-in-law.

Miss Quinn was gazing at him expectantly. As if she trusted him to make the right choice for Nicholas. Damn it, why had he allowed himself to be drawn into this absurd debate?

“You overstep your bounds, Miss Quinn. I see no reason to continue this conversation.”

“It was never my intention to cause offense,” she said, bowing her head slightly and gazing up at him through the screen of her lashes. “I was only thinking of His Grace. Lady Milford gave me reason to believe that I could be of great comfort and guidance to him.”

“Lady Milford was wrong. It’s a pity you were misled, but that is none of my concern.”

She stared at him. “You’re sending me away, then?”

Those eyes
. They were wide and blue, beseeching him.

“Yes,” he stated. “Although considering the bad weather and the lateness of the hour, you may tell the housekeeper to provide you with a room for the night. Now go on, you may leave.”

Miss Quinn made no move to depart. She clasped her hands beneath her bosom and took a tiny step forward. “My lord, if I may please be allowed to speak on one more point. You see … I’ve a proposition for you.”

All the blood in his head rushed to his loins. His gaze locked to hers, and he leaned forward slightly as if she’d pulled him by a string. “A proposition,” he repeated.

She nodded. “In spite of our misunderstanding, I remain convinced that I can be of service to you. If you’ll just hear me out.”

“Go on.” His fevered mind was already picturing her naked in his bed. He wanted to see all that glorious hair spread out on the pillow. He wanted to watch her eyes darken with passion …

“Thank you.” She hesitated as if gathering her courage. “My lord, I would like to suggest a trial period, perhaps a fortnight—or longer if you desire. During that time I would accept no payment for my services until you are completely satisfied with my performance.”

A trial period to be his mistress? He stared at her in befuddlement. “Without payment.”

“Precisely,” she said with a nod. “That way, you’ve nothing to lose in allowing me to stay because you won’t be paying my wages. At least not until you can see for yourself that His Grace has benefited from my guidance.”

Nicholas. She was speaking of his nephew. Simon had never felt more brainless—or more frustrated. He crossed his arms and hoped she had no notion of what had been going through his mind. “I thought I’d made it clear that you’d disrupt his schedule.”

“I won’t, I give you my solemn vow. I’ll be most accommodating to his tutor and the other servants. Please, he’s just a little boy who needs a mother. And I—I would very much like to have this chance to prove my worth.”

The hint of desperation in her eyes grabbed at him. He knew nothing of her background except what Clarissa had mentioned in the letter, that Miss Quinn had been employed as a teacher in Yorkshire. Now he found himself inordinately curious. Was she just another impoverished woman like thousands of others? Or had something else happened in her past to make her look so desperate?

Too bad. It wasn’t his responsibility to save every lost soul in the world.

Nevertheless, Simon found himself abandoning his better judgment and saying, “Fine, I accept your proposal. Just stay out of my way. Both you and the boy.”

Chapter 5

Following the housekeeper through a maze of dark corridors, Annabelle quelled the urge to skip and dance. She had done it. She had convinced Lord Simon to hire her as governess—at least temporarily. The bargain would cost her a bit of income, but the sacrifice of half a month’s wages was preferable to being summarily dismissed from the castle with no prospects. At least now she’d have a roof over her head and the opportunity to prove her worth.

And by the heavens she
would
prove herself. That disagreeable, arrogant, condescending nobleman would soon wonder how he’d ever managed without her on staff.

Mrs. Wickett, a dour woman with salt-and-pepper hair and a ring of jangling keys at her waist, stopped outside a closed door. The oil lamp in her hand cast monstrous shadows over her plain features. “’Tis the nursery,” she said. “’Ee must be quiet lest we disturb His Grace.”

“Is he already asleep, then?”

“At six sharp he takes his dinner, then at six-thirty he reads fer a bit. At seven, ’tis lights out.”

“That seems rather early for an eight-year-old.”

“’Tis the master’s wishes.” Mrs. Wickett pruned her lips. “’Ee must heed his lordship’s timetable. The schedule be on the wall right inside here.”

The housekeeper opened the door and led the way into the nursery suite. The wavering light of the lamp revealed a spacious schoolroom with pint-sized tables and chairs, a globe on the teacher’s desk, and numerous low bookshelves filled with volumes. Rain pattered against the nearly dark windows.

“His Grace’s chamber be through there,” Mrs. Wickett murmured, pointing toward a doorway where a faint light could be seen at the end of a long corridor. “Ah, there be the nursemaid.”

A rotund woman in a homespun gown and apron came waddling out of the room across from His Grace’s. She was smothering a yawn behind her hand. Upon entering the schoolroom, she made a servile bob of her head to Mrs. Wickett.

“Miss Quinn,” the housekeeper said, “this be Elowen. She helps His Grace in bathin’ and dressin’ as well as cleanin’ the nursery. Elowen, Miss Quinn be the duke’s new governess. Henceforth, ’ee’ll be answerin’ up t’ her orders.”

Elowen flicked a rather dull, bovine glance at Annabelle. “Aye, mum. The cheel is abed.”

Her accent was even thicker than Mrs. Wickett’s, but Annabelle gathered that
the cheel
meant “the child.”

“Go and fetch a denner tray fer Miss Quinn,” the housekeeper said. “Be quick about it now.”

Elowen trudged out the door.

Mrs. Wickett clucked her tongue. “Never in a hurry, that one, but she’s good and loyal t’ His Grace. Come, ’ee’ll stay in the other wing.”

She proceeded through a doorway on the side of the schoolroom opposite the duke’s quarters. Annabelle trailed the woman down a short passage and then into a small bedchamber with a narrow iron bedstead, a chest of drawers, and a single straight-backed chair. The stone walls were barren of decoration, but Annabelle knew the gloominess would be rectified once her belongings were delivered. Already she wondered where to hang her embroidered samplers and the small wooden cross she’d owned since childhood.

Muttering, the housekeeper took a corner of her apron and wiped the crockery bowl atop a washstand. “Cobweb,” she grumbled. “If I’d known t’ expect ’ee, the place woulda been spit-spot.”

“I’ll be happy to tidy the room myself. I don’t wish to cause any trouble for anyone.”

“’Tis the maid’s duty t’ clean,” Mrs. Wickett said with a look of disapproving shock. “What manner of house dost ’ee hail from?”

Annabelle realized her blunder. At the academy, she’d been expected to assist the staff in everything from delivering the mail to washing dishes in addition to her duties as a teacher of etiquette. But now, as governess, she occupied one of the highest positions in the household. Menial work would be considered beneath her.

“In Yorkshire, I taught at a school rather than a house,” she said in an effort to smooth the woman’s ruffled feathers. “I’m sure I’ll learn your customs here soon enough.”

“Hmph.” Lifting the glass globe of the lamp, Mrs. Wickett used the flame to light a candle on the bedside table. Then she whisked the dustcover off the bed and tucked it beneath her arm. “Elowen will make ’ee a fire after she brings dinner. Now, mind ’ee be ready at dawn. His lordship don’t like slouches. Night t’ee.”

The housekeeper bustled out of the chamber, taking the lamp with her. “Good night to you, too,” Annabelle called after her.

As the sound of the woman’s brisk footsteps faded away, she sank onto the straight-backed chair and looked around with interest. A sense of happy anticipation simmered inside her. She was a governess at last. This stone-walled room would be her new home for the coming year until the young duke went off to boarding school.

Unless, of course, Lord Simon sent her away before then.

The thought dampened her high spirits. From a distance came the rhythmic crashing of the waves. The tapping of the rain on the single high window made Annabelle aware of how alone she was. Things had not turned out in quite so sunny a manner as she’d imagined on the long mail coach ride here.

Lord Simon did not want her here. And he ruled the household with an iron fist. He had made his views crystal clear.
I am the boy’s guardian. I make the decisions regarding his care. And I say he is too old for a governess.

Yet he had engaged her services nonetheless. Could it be he was not so unyielding as he wanted people to believe? Or was he merely a spendthrift who sought to take advantage of her free labor? Whatever the case, Annabelle intended to heed his parting words.

Just stay out of my way. Both you and the boy.

She shivered, as much from the harshness of his words as the chill in the air. What a dreadful thing for him to say about his own nephew! She could only imagine how the young duke must feel to be shunned by his closest relative. If he hadn’t already been put to bed, she would have enjoyed meeting the boy tonight.

The bedchamber had no clock, but surely it couldn’t be much later than seven. Despite the long and arduous day, she felt too full of energy to sleep. It would have been a pleasure to unpack her books or to pass the time with needlework. Lady Milford had been kind enough to provide a generous clothing allowance, which Annabelle had used to purchase fabric and thread for several gowns. Unfortunately, though, all of her belongings were packed in the trunk she’d left at the Copper Shovel.

The notion of continuing to sit here, gazing into the semidarkness, held little appeal. She felt impatient to take up her duties and cement her position in the household. Perhaps it might be wise to familiarize herself with the duke’s daily schedule.

Taking the pewter candlestick, Annabelle ventured out into the darkened schoolroom. She made a slow circuit of the chamber, holding up the candle to see better. She looked through the teacher’s desk to find pens and paper, a chart of multiplication tables, along with slates and chalk. There were no toys anywhere, not even a rocking horse or a set of marbles. Didn’t wealthy children have lots of games and toys? She’d gathered as much from the chatter of the girls at Mrs. Baxter’s Academy. Perhaps the duke’s playthings were kept elsewhere.

Annabelle walked to the schedule that was tacked to the wall beside the door. By the flickering light of the candle, she perused the long list written in a man’s heavy black script.
7:00 wake & dress, 7:30 morning prayers, 8:00 breakfast, 8:30–11:30 lessons, 12:00 luncheon, 12:30–1:30 silent study
 … The list continued on with notations as to which subjects were to be taught on specific days. Lessons were taught until four-thirty each afternoon, and afterward, reading was recommended for the duke to keep up with his studies.

Did His Grace never have the chance to run outdoors and explore nature like a normal child? Apparently not.

A flurry of raindrops struck the windows, an accompaniment to her troubled reflections. At least the schedule explained the lack of toys. Nicholas was allotted no time to play. How sad to think of him living such a regimented life. It reminded Annabelle of her girlhood when she’d been required to help the maids with the cleaning. Often, she’d gazed outside, longing for the chance to use a skipping rope or to climb a tree.