My Lady Governess (Zebra Regency Romance) (12 page)

“Anything yet, Graham?” he asked, motioning the man to a chair and taking another himself.

“No, my lord. She’s taken the children to a museum and to the park. Went shopping on her off afternoon. Took a maid with her and bought stockings and ribbons. Browsed in one of those lending libraries. Didn’t speak to anybody but shopkeepers, the museum curator, and the maid.”

“Did anyone approach her?”

“No, sir, not that I saw.”

“No chance for her to have passed information? What about the maid?”

“Nothing. The maid was with her the whole time—nor have either of them left this house alone.”

“What about Jones—has he observed anything suspicious?”

“She hasn’t been near the stables, my lord.”

“Damn! She must make contact somehow. Inform your superiors at Bow Street that we need two or three more men to hang around the street discreetly and follow anyone who leaves this house other than her ladyship or me. Can’t risk your being recognized, you know.”

“Yes, sir. What if they don’t leave afoot?”

“Arrange to have some sort of conveyance available. Something unobtrusive. A peddler’s cart, perhaps.”

“ ’Twill be done on the morrow, my lord.”

“You mean today,” Adrian said with a rueful glance at the ormolu clock on the mantel. “Thank you, Graham. Oh! Have Jones find out where John Coachman delivered her and picked her up after her interview for the governess job.”

“Yes, sir.”

When Graham left, Adrian sat musing. Everything seemed so innocent in “Miss Palmer’s” behavior. Yet she had lied about her identity and her documents had been falsified. A closer inspection of them on his return from Belgium revealed very subtle alterations in otherwise authentic documents. How had this impostor obtained the real Miss Palmer’s credentials?

This impostor? Was that how he really thought of her? She is still Elinor. Elinor—of the laughing gray-green eyes. Elinor—whose loving care had nursed Bess and Geoffrey, who had perceived a young girl’s loneliness in Anne. Elinor—whose passionate response to his kiss had ignited such desire in him. Even now, he fought the impulse to charge up to her room and demand the truth from her; to tell her it was all right, whatever she was involved in, he could handle.

He shook his head. How gullible could he be? So she liked children. So she responded to a kiss. He had no business falling in love with someone who had deliberately misrepresented herself to him.

Falling in love? My God. Was that it? Had he come so close to allowing his own emotions to get in the way of sworn duty? A spy worms her way into his personal world and what is his response? He—the cool diplomat, dedicated protector of his country—he wants to take her in his arms, comfort her, protect her, bury himself in her.

But who was she?

He could not just confront her; that might jeopardize efforts to apprehend the entire spy ring. Hmm. The real Miss Palmer might provide a clue. But where was she to be found? What if she were dead? Spenser had said she was an old woman when she left his employ.

He would set Bow Street on this, too.

 

 

The Marquis of Trenville’s town house boasted not only its own private stable and carriage house, but a large, well-tended garden in the rear. Access to the stables by carriage was on a back street and a footpath extended through the garden to the rear entrance of the residence.

The garden was a favorite sanctuary for Elinor. In late February, the afternoon sun valiantly extended warming rays. Colorful tulips and daffodils complemented the perfume of hyacinths. She drank in the sensual beauty, sharply aware of the contrast between nature’s cheerful renewal and her own despair.

Prior to his return, she had thought seriously of telling Adrian the truth and asking his help. Surely, those kisses bespoke some fondness, some caring on his part, though she was not so foolish as to think he loved her. Still, the beginnings of a true friendship seemed to have permeated the strictures of the employer-employee relationship.

This
had
been her thinking. Now, she was not so sure. He seemed more aloof. Several times she had caught him looking at her questioningly, even suspiciously. If her eyes chanced to meet his, he would look away or smile a bland say-nothing smile with little warmth in his gaze.

It was probably only a matter of time until her uncle found her. Had he not said he had some new leads? Pure chance had kept Lady Barbara from recognizing her. She might not be so lucky the next time. If Brompton found her in the Trenville household, what would stop him from stirring up mischief harmful to these people—one, in particular, whom she had grown to love? She had to leave. And she had to get word to Peter.

She sat in the garden penning a note to her brother which she would herself deliver to Miss Palmer, who, in turn, would have Henderson see it delivered to the young earl at the Ostwick town house. She held the writing paper against a book she also thought to read as she labored over the wording. After three false starts, she thought she had the right tone of confidence and determination. Lord knew what Peter would do if he sensed her despair and, indeed, her danger.

She felt so utterly helpless. Lady Elinor Richards had never been one of those fluttery, helpless females. She was a take-charge type of person. Determined. Efficient. Decisive. Now she knew not where to turn. Taking a position as governess had seemed such a perfect solution to her problems.

It was, for
you
, she admonished herself, but you did not consider the consequences, did you?

Well, how could I know then, she answered herself, that I would fall in love with him—that his children would become as dear to me as Peter?

You could not, but you might have given a thought to the welfare of others when you were exposed. If you were exposed.

I simply have to leave before that happens.

Running away again, eh?

What choice do I have? If I am discovered here, the resulting scandal would probably force Adrian into offering for me.
I will not have Pennington and I will not
, she told herself fiercely,
have a man who has been coerced into having me, no matter how much I want him.

She thought the tears were only inward, but now she felt them well and slip onto her cheeks. She swiped at them impatiently with her fingertips and dropped her book and papers in the process just as she heard the crunch of footsteps on the graveled path from the stables. Maybe whoever it was would not see her.

But he did.

Adrian stopped before her and bent to pick up the book and papers, but she hastily retrieved them herself, carefully placing the papers inside the book.

“Miss Palmer? Elinor, has something upset you?”

Was she upset? Of course not. Her whole life was disintegrating, but the intrepid Elinor Richards was not upset

“No, my lord.” She managed to keep her voice calm. “I was merely indulging in a moment of self-pity.”

“Somehow that does not seem in character for you.” Without invitation, he sat next to her and put an arm around her shoulder in a friendly gesture. “If there is anything I can do, you’ve only to ask, you know.”

“Th—thank you, my lord.” She wanted to nestle into the warmth of his encircling arm, but steeled herself against doing so. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand in a childlike gesture. “I’ll be all right. You must not concern yourself.”

“I thought we agreed on ‘Elinor’ and ‘Adrian’ in private,” he said softly. He lifted her chin and forced her to look at him. The expression in his eyes deepened with compassion—and something else. “Please let me help,” he whispered.

He held her gaze for a long moment. Sympathy, questioning, a degree of pain shone in his eyes. Then with a soft groan, he lowered his mouth to hers. His lips were insistent, demanding, but firm and tender, offering comfort and refuge. For an instant she gave herself up to the haven he offered, wanting the perfection of this moment to go on forever. She kissed him back without thinking to restrain the longing and heartache of recent weeks.

Abruptly, she twisted away.

“I ... you can’t.” She tried to stifle the sob in her voice. She looked into his eyes, willing him to see her love, knowing he would despise her when he learned the truth of her deception. “Oh, Adrian. I am so sorry.”

Clutching the book, she nearly ran into the house.

 

 

Adrian sat stunned for a moment. He certainly had not intended to kiss her again, but he could not help himself. The instant he had seen her silently weeping, all his resolve to catch a spy had simply disappeared. Elinor—his Elinor—was hurting and needed comforting. Nothing else mattered.

But she had rejected his help. Reluctantly, perhaps, but rejected all the same. He rose and ran his hand through his hair in frustrated resignation.

Bloody hell! Now, what?

Then he spied the paper under the bench. There were splotches and cross-outs and it was unfinished. Reading it was an invasion of another’s privacy, but was he not supposed to be investigating a spy ring?

He was totally unprepared for the sheer pain the unfinished missive brought him.

Still frightened by her near encounter with her uncle, Elinor set out to visit Miss Palmer on her next free half day. Eventually, Peter would remember how close she had been to the governess and that Miss Palmer now lived in London. If Peter worried about his sister—and she had no doubt that he did—he would surely pursue that line of inquiry. She must try to forestall his doing so.

Melton, Trenville’s London butler, was in the foyer as she came down the stairs in her bonnet and pelisse. He glanced up.

“Are you going out, Miss Palmer?”

“Yes, I am. I shall be gone quite some time.”

“I will send Aggie with you—or a footman.”

“Please do not trouble yourself. I shall only walk in the park and I will return by tea time.”

“His lordship will not countenance your going out alone,” the butler warned.

“You are probably right, but it will be on my head, not yours, will it not?” She smiled to take the sting out of this rebuff as she pulled on her gloves and swept through the door.

The lies come “trippingly on the tongue,” don’t they?
she asked herself as she made her way down the street. Despite this twinge of conscience, she quite enjoyed being out in the fresh air with no worry of a child dashing into danger. The sheer freedom of the moment was exhilarating.

She walked a few blocks before feeling secure from any eyes belonging to Trenville House. Then, trying to act as though she hired public conveyances as a matter of habit, she hailed a hackney cab.

“Be ye sure yuh’ve the blunt to go that far?” the driver asked suspiciously, taking in her plain apparel.

“I assure you that I have,” she said in her most officious schoolroom tone.

“Aw right. Keep yer lid on.” He clambered down to help her into the carriage. “Man’s got to look out for hisself,” he muttered.

Elinor made no reply. She noted the bustle on the streets as the cab wove through the busy traffic which submitted only to such control as various drivers could exert in pursuing their own ends. Shouts and curses of drivers mingled with occasional jeers from the sidelines. Iron wheels and horses’ hooves on cobblestones, along with jingling harnesses, added to the din. Riding in an open carriage provided no protection from the assault to one’s ears—or one’s nose. In the better neighborhoods, civic efforts had worked to clean the streets somewhat, but where commerce flourished and in the poorer sections, the blended smells of rotting vegetation, sewage, cooking, animals—along with others unidentifiable—overwhelmed the occasional fragrance of spring flowers.
So much for fresh air,
Elinor thought ruefully.

Miss Palmer greeted her one-time charge warmly, but with surprise and concern. After initial greetings, she called for Henderson to serve refreshments.

“Are you sure it is all right for you to be here?” she asked in a worried tone.

“Not absolutely sure,” Elinor admitted, “but I must have this note delivered to Peter. Here in London, I cannot be certain he will receive it if I post it. I am sure my uncle controls the staff in London as he does at Ostwick.”

“I will have Henderson deliver it into no other hands but your brother’s.” Miss Palmer laid the letter on a side table. “Now,” she said, busying herself with the tray, “how are you faring otherwise? Is the disguise working?”

“Oh, Miss Palmer, I have made such a terrible mistake!” Overcome by the enormity of her situation and being at last able to let her guard down fully, Elinor burst into tears.

Immediately, Miss Palmer moved to the settee and put her arms around the younger woman. “There, there, my lady. It cannot be so very bad.”

“But ... it ... is,” Elinor said between sobs. She cried into Miss Palmer’s comforting shoulder for a few moments. Then she straightened and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief her friend offered. “I never lose control this way.”

“I know.” Miss Palmer patted Elinor’s shoulder and waited for her to continue.

“I did not realize ... All I wanted was to escape Uncle Brompton’s plotting. And now if it ever gets out—oh, Miss Palmer, what have I done?”

“I think you must begin at the beginning and tell me all.”

Through occasional sniffs, Elinor told her of life at the Abbey, of the Christmas visit, and of the children. She told Miss Palmer of nursing Bess through her illness and Geoffrey through his injury and of Anne’s development from a bossy little know-all to a more caring person with confidence in her achievements. She also related her near encounters with her former school friend and her uncle.

“You have developed a deep fondness for these children, have you not?”

“Yes. Is that so surprising?”

“Not at all.” Miss Palmer gave her a quick, but intense hug. “You were ever wont to strong attachments.” She paused. “And what of the marquis? Have you developed an attachment for him, too?”

There was no reproach in the question, but Elinor could feel the warmth flooding her cheeks.

“I never could keep anything from you, could I? Yes, I fear I have. And therein lies much of the problem. I would not have Adrian, Lord Trenville, harmed by my actions.”

“How might he be harmed?”

“Think how the ton would feast at the trough of scandal should my identity become known!”

“That, of course, was always a danger, was it not?”

“Yes, but it is different now.”

“I see.” Miss Palmer looked at her thoughtfully. “And Lord Trenville? Are his affections engaged?”

“I—I am not sure.” She blushed again, remembering his kisses. “I—I think he is not totally indifferent to me, but—oh, can you not see? It does not signify!”

“I should think his feelings would signify very much indeed.” Miss Palmer’s tone was gentle, but wry.

“Under ordinary circumstances ... if we had met in a ballroom ... but as it is, his position in society—indeed, his mission with the government—might be endangered. And once he learns how I have deceived him . . .” Her voice trailed off in despair.

“Perhaps you underestimate his lordship.”

“No, I think not. He takes his responsibilities, his sense of honor, very seriously.”

“What if you confided in him?”

“I cannot do that.”

“Why?”

“I could not bear to see his disgust of me. Nor can I burden him with my problems.”

“Pride?”

“Perhaps a little.” Then she added in a more vehement tone, “But I refuse to be an instrument society can use against him. Nor would I have him approach me out of a sense of obligation. There is some degree of pride in that, I suppose.”

“So what do you plan to do?”

“I simply do not know. But I must do something—and soon. Here in the city there is too much danger of my being recognized eventually. Had that been Elizabeth Wentworth rather than Barbara Harrington visiting the marchioness, you can be sure it would be all over now.”

“I suppose there is no question of Trenville’s returning to the country?”

“Not until the season is over.”

“And it is only just beginning.”

“I fear I shall have to give notice and leave.”

“Where will you go?”

“My father had an aunt in Northern Scotland. Mary Kincannon MacGregor. I have never met her—she was estranged from the family. Perhaps she can be persuaded to take me in, assuming she is still alive. It would be for only a few more weeks.”

“The Highlands?” Clearly, Miss Palmer equated that part of her native island with the moon or the wilderness of the Colonies.

“The Highlands.” Elinor smiled for the first time. “I shall write her immediately and hope for the best. I could have a response in about a month, could I not?”

“I suppose so.” Miss Palmer still sounded dubious.

Elinor patted her hand. “Now don’t you worry. I shall come about. I feel better for having talked with you. I must go. I promised to be back by tea time.”

 

 

Late that evening, after the rest of the household had long since retired, Adrian sat in the library listening to Graham’s report.

“You say she went to the same address John Coachman took her to?”

“Musta been. ‘Twas the same street. Respectable neighborhood. House has four apartments. Two of ’em let by tradesmen’s families and two by widows of tradesmen.”

“Hmm. Find out who those people are—and the names of any adult living with them. Those widows may have companions.”

“Yes, sir. I’ve the names of the persons who actually rent the establishments, but they ain’t very helpful, I’m thinkin’. Benton, Neville, Garrison, and Baker.”

“None rings a bell. Neville could be French, though. Keep on it. We’ve not much to go on. Anything else?”

“Well, I’m not sure, my lord. There was a feller seemed mighty interested in that house. Just loitering about.”

“Did Miss Palmer make contact with him?”

“No, sir. Not that I could see anyways. She come out with what seemed to be a manservant who hailed a hackney for her. This other feller followed the hack, but as I told you, I lost ’em in the traffic near Piccadilly.”

“Damn! He may be the contact.”

“I’m sorry, my lord.”

“Never mind. You did well. Just keep at it—all of you.”

Adrian sat there long after the servant-investigator had left. With whom had she actually met? If the man on the street was her contact, why had she visited the house alone? Something did not add up here.

Had she gone to meet her lover—this mysterious Peter? But hadn’t that fragment of a note said it was “too dangerous” for them to meet? Was Peter the man on the street? Was he the contact?

Peter. Pierre. Was there a connection somehow with the spy they had already unearthed?

Oh, Adrian. I am so sorry.
Her words echoed in the caverns of his mind. He knew the regret was genuine. Her response to his kiss was genuine, too. How could she react with such passion to him when she had just been penning a note to a lover?

Sorry about what? Sorry she could not love him? Sorry about her deception? If she were indeed “sorry,” why did she continue to spy for a foreign power? Who had such a hold on her?

Well, lady, I am sorry, too. You and I might have had something pretty wonderful.

He heaved an inward sigh of regret and, straightening his shoulders, made his way up the stairs to check on the children before he retired. As he reached the landing of the floor on which family and guest bedchambers were located, including his own, he observed the figure of his secretary near the room assigned to him at the far end of the hallway. Huntington saw him, hesitated momentarily, then, with a wave of his hand, entered his own room and closed the door.

Adrian frowned. What was Huntington doing out and about at such an ungodly hour? He was not dressed to have just come in from a social engagement. Or had he had a “social engagement” with a member of the Trenville staff? The governess, perhaps?

Good God. You are ready to suspect her at every turn, aren’t you? Besides, Huntington knows very well the rules regarding Whitson employees. It is not likely he would risk his position to carry on a clandestine affair right under your nose.

He shrugged and continued climbing the stairs to the next floor which featured the children’s rooms—their bedrooms, playroom, schoolroom, and chambers for the nurse and governess. He found Elinor seated on the edge of his daughter’s bed holding the sobbing child tightly to her. A lamp, its wick turned low, shed a dim light.

“It’s all right, darling,” he heard Elinor murmur. “It’s all right. It was only a dream.”

Instantly he took in the scene and recalled the earlier time when Elinor had herself needed the sort of comforting she now extended to Bess. And he recalled how she had felt in his arms then, too. Bess had begun to quiet and pull back from Elinor when she spied her father.

“Oh, Papa. I had a bad dream.” She reached for him and quickly wrapped her arms and legs around him as he held her.

“Did you now?” He felt the fierce surge of tender protectiveness that engulfed him at times like this. “We won’t allow anything to harm our Bess, will we, Miss Palmer?” He patted Bess on the back and looked at the governess.

“Certainly not,” she said, obviously for the child’s benefit. Elinor had apparently donned her dressing gown hastily. She now belted it more firmly about her and drew it closer at the neck. Her actions made him aware of the unconfined form beneath. Turning his attention back to his daughter, he kissed Bess and lowered her to the bed.

“Go back to sleep, now, Puss,” he said, touching her cheek with the back of his hand.

“Miss Palmer, too,” Bess said, lifting her arms toward Elinor.

Adrian stepped back as Elinor bent over the little girl and kissed her on the forehead.

“Sleep tight, my dear,” Elinor said in an audible whisper.

Bess snuggled into the covers and the two adults watched as she quickly succumbed to the innocent sleep of children. They quietly left her room. The hall was lit by a single sconce several feet away.

“Does this happen often?” he asked outside the door.

“No. Once in a while only. I heard her cry out.”

She was standing very close to him. He could smell a faint trace of the scent she so often wore. He instinctively leaned a little closer, felt the warmth of her body, then caught himself. He took her hand and lifted it to his lips.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

“Of course, my lord.” She extricated her hand, but it seemed to him that she did so reluctantly. For a moment it appeared she would say something else. Her eyes were deep pools of mossy green. Was that longing he saw? Regret? She turned toward her own room.

A short while later, he lay staring at the underside of the canopy over his bed, the fire across the room affording dim light. His hands were tucked behind his head, his elbows jutting out like flutterby wings.