Charlotte Louise Dolan (12 page)

“We have something very important to tell you, Uncle Bronson—”

“About Anne—”

“Our governess—” As usual, both boys were talking at the same time.

“Uncle Creighton wants you to fire her—”

“Because she wouldn’t let him kiss her—”

“But it was all his fault—”

“So we think Anne should stay—”

“And you should kick Uncle Creighton out of the house—”

Kissing her accomplice in front of the boys—it was beyond belief. The sooner he got rid of her the better. “Just where were they kissing?”

“In Anne’s bed—”

“Except they weren’t kissing—”

“They were wrestling—”

“But Anne was stronger—”

“So she sat on Uncle Creighton—’

“He was moaning.”

The devil take that woman! Bronson could picture it quite clearly—the lovemaking, which the boys in their innocence thought was wrestling. He just bet Creighton was moaning— moaning with pleasure.

“How did you happen to see all this?” He was proud of himself for staying so calm, but he did not want to upset the boys any more than they obviously were already.

“Oh, Anne made a lot of noise—”

“So we went to see what was wrong—”

“But she said she didn’t need any help—”

“And she sent us back to bed.”

I’ll just bet she did, Bronson thought.

“She says from now on, she’s going to lock the door.”

A little late for that, now that she had already let the boys see what kind of light skirt she was.

“The next day Uncle Creighton said she was fired—”

“But Anne says she doesn’t work for him—”

“She works for you, but you’re not going to fire her—”

“Are you, Uncle Bronson?”

So, there was a falling out among thieves. “When did all this happen?”

“Four nights ago.”

Since so much time had elapsed and the governess was still in residence, it would appear that the conspirators had gotten over their lovers’ quarrel. “I will need to talk to Miss Hemsworth and your Uncle Creighton and see what they have to say before I make up my mind.” He felt the twin in front of him take a deep breath, as if preparing to argue further. “And that is all I am willing to promise at this time,” he added, not sure he could control his temper if the boys began relating more nefarious doings at midnight.

Arriving at the stables, he swung the boys down before dismounting himself. “Now then, perhaps I might have a talk with your governess.”

“She’s not here.”

“She took the day off.”

Bronson felt like cursing, but he reminded himself that no matter how irresponsibly she was behaving, he could not become more angry with her, because he had already reached the limits of his temper. “So where did she go? And when will she be back?”

“She went to see Lady Thorverton.”

“And she said she’d be back by teatime.”

It was now eleven o’clock. He’d be hanged if he would wait around until she decided to show up. No, by all that was holy, he would drag her back by her hair, and
then
he would throw her out on her ear.

But first he would find Trussell and deal with him.

He found his wards’ uncle sitting down to a late breakfast of coddled eggs and back bacon. The food smelled so good, Bronson filled his own plate. There was, after all, no point in ripping another man to shreds on an empty stomach.

“I hear from the boys that you have been having trouble with the new governess you hired,” he said, deliberately keeping his voice cool.

Trussell turned white as a sheet, and for a moment it appeared he might faint, but then he made a recovery. “The boys talked to you? Oh, they probably exaggerated. It was nothing, really.” He laughed rather sickly. “If you will excuse me; I am not feeling at all well.” The dandy practically ran from the room.

Rather energetic for an invalid, Bronson thought. Finishing his own meal, he ordered a horse brought around from the stables, then set off to track down the missing governess.

He missed catching her at Thorverton Hall by three-quarters of an hour. She had taken lunch with them and had then set off for Tavistock.

Hoping to catch her before she got to town, where she could lose herself in the crowds, he put his horse to a gallop, but he met no one along the road until after it joined the main road from Tavistock to Plymouth. After that, there were any number of travelers to choose from.

Once he arrived in town, it did not take long to realize he had no idea what the errant Miss Hemsworth looked like, other than that, according to Mr. Black, she would do very nicely as an opera dancer.

Having had experience with opera dancers in his salad days, Bronson had a reasonably good idea of the type of woman he was looking for. He was also able to eliminate women with small children in tow, older women, farmer’s wives, and so on, which narrowed the field considerably.

After an hour of looking, he had worked up enough thirst that he stopped in the Red Stag for a glass of ale. The landlord himself waited on him, and without thinking, Bronson asked him if he had seen his wards’ new governess in town that day.

“Aye, she left her horse here an hour or two ago.”

“Do you know which way she was headed?”

“Nope.” The landlord was being uncommonly laconic.

“Did you happen to note what color of dress she was wearing? If I knew that, it would be easier to spot her in the crowd.”

Someone behind him snickered, and he heard someone else say in an undertone, “Easier to spot—that’s a good one.”

Leaving the rest of his ale untouched, Bronson stalked out of the taproom without waiting for the landlord to give a more specific description of the missing governess. He had changed his mind about dragging her back to the Hall. Apparently she was wandering around town in a gown that was so indecent, he had best forget about seeing to it that she was suitably chastised, and simply concentrate on getting her back to London where she belonged.

Behind him he could hear loud laughter coming from the taproom, which only added to his feelings of rage.

* * * *

Having enjoyed a nice cup of tea with the vicar’s wife, who had shown a surprisingly motherly affection for “those two poor neglected children,” Anne was now enjoying herself, walking along the high street, looking into the shop windows, when someone coming out of the tobacconist’s bumped into her.

“Excuse me,” she heard a deep voice say. She looked up into a pair of dark brown eyes—such kind, intelligent eyes, it took her a moment to realize she was looking up instead of down. She stared at the man wordlessly, too overcome by his magnificence to utter a word.

For the first time in her life, she did what people had so often done to her—she looked him up and down, from head to toe and back again, shamelessly memorizing every detail of his physique: his broad chest and muscular shoulders, his narrow hips and shapely legs, his firm jaw and square chin....

Then her eyes met his again, and she had the strangest feeling that they were communicating without words. The intensity of his look was so strong, she almost forgot that he was a stranger, that they had not been properly introduced.

Despite an inner shiver, undoubtedly occasioned by his forceful gaze, she could not feel the proper regret that she had allowed him to see her interest. Indeed, she doubted she could have hidden it, no matter how hard she might have tried.

Tipping his hat at her, he finally moved away, and as if in a trance, she continued in the opposite direction. She stopped in front of the next shop window and stared at the dusty apothecary jars with as much interest as if they were the latest bonnets from Paris. Then, unable to refrain any longer, she looked over her shoulder and saw the tall man still standing in front of the tobacconist’s shop, watching her.

If she were of a romantic disposition rather than having a practical turn of mind, she would say that his hair was black as midnight, that his eyes were a rich mahogany, like dark Jamaican rum ... and that she had met the man intended for her since the world first began turning ... that the fates had decreed she would meet him on this street at this time, and that he would be a part of her life from this moment forward.

But unlike other young women in these modern times, she had not had her head stuffed full of such silly dreams. Instead, she’d had the inestimable good fortune to spend a few short years at Aunt Sidonia’s side, which had cured her forever of the desire to throw herself into the arms of a man—to give control of her own life into the hands of a husband.

No, she was definitely too practical for such romantic nonsense. Risking a glance at the stranger again, she saw he was still watching her intently.

That he was a London man, she could not doubt from the cut of his jacket, although there was nothing of the dandy about him. Just thinking how ridiculous a man his size would look decked out in frills and furbelows made a smile creep out onto her face, which she realized only when he smiled back at her.

This time she was the first to turn away. She fully intended to continue on down the street, but after only a few steps, curiosity to know what he was doing—to find out if he was still looking at her—pulled her to a stop in front of the second shop. Yes, he was still watching her.

* * * *

She was the most magnificent woman Bronson had ever encountered. Tall enough that he could converse with her without getting a crick in his neck, she also had lustrous brown hair and clear blue eyes. But it was not her beauty that attracted him. It was the intelligence, the humor, and the kindness in her eyes that he found so appealing—and so unexpected. Plus something else he had not yet identified.

For a moment he had been terrified by the fear that she might just be passing through town, but he was reassured when he noticed she was wearing a royal blue riding habit. Dressed like that, she could not have journeyed too far. Surely someone in town must know her—must be able to introduce him to her properly.

That was the last rational thought he had—at the insistence of his body, he ceased thinking and allowed himself merely to feel ... to admire ... to appreciate ... to enjoy. He could not tear his gaze away from hers—her blue eyes were like a magnet, pulling him back to her. He could still vaguely hear the sound of the traffic, but it was virtually blotted out by the beating of his own heart.

Helpless to resist, he took a step toward her, trying to shake off a hand that was clutching his arm.

The hand refused to release him, and the voice that had been a minor irritation gradually became understandable words.

“Lord Leatham, please, I must speak with you.”

Looking down at the woman who was clutching his arm, he knew at once who she had to be, namely the errant Miss Hemsworth. He could even see how she might successfully pass herself off as a governess, while still having the kind of looks that would attract a man like Trussell. For himself, he thought her a bit too fleshy, too overblown, and her prettiness was already beginning to fade.

“Please, Lord Leatham, I must talk to you. The landlord at the Red Stag told me you were in town. It is about Creighton Trussell. I realize he is no relation of yours, but as he is uncle to your wards—”

He gripped the woman’s arms, not caring if he was leaving bruises. “I have no intention of listening to your excuses. As far as I am concerned, you and Trussell are equally guilty, and I want you out of town—no, out of this county—immediately. On the next stage, if possible.”

She cringed away from him, still whining piteously at him. “But I have no money—”

He released her, then pulled out a handful of gold coins and flung them at her feet. “That will be enough to get you to London, after which you can peddle your wares in Covent Garden, where such as you belong.”

The woman made no move to pick up the coins, but covered her face with her hands and began to weep.

“Don’t talk to my mother that way. You’re making her cry.”

A little scrap of a boy kicked Bronson in the shins. It was not hard enough to hurt, but it was enough to startle him out of his fury.” Mother?” he repeated in a stunned voice. No one had said anything to him about the governess having a child.

* * * *

Anne no longer had the slightest interest in staring at the tall man. No matter how magnificent his physique, he had proven to have feet of clay. And to think, he had even started to follow her before the other woman had detained him. Although the woman had spoken to him calmly, the man had responded by berating her, by shaking her even, reducing her finally to tears. Then he had shoved her away from him, only to have the boy come to her defense.

Turning her back on the pathetic tableau none of the other passers-by seemed to have noticed, Anne started walking briskly on up the street.

There was really only one way to interpret the scene she had just seen. Although dressed as a gentleman, the man clearly did not know the first thing about honor, and the woman had to be his cast-off mistress.

She must be, because otherwise, however harshly he might have spoken to her,
he would not have touched her person.
The way he had grabbed her arms denoted a degree of intimacy between the two of them that could not be explained away.

She gritted her teeth in an effort not to call curses down upon his head. Why, oh why could he not have been as wonderful as he had seemed at first?

“Men are useless encumbrances,” Aunt Sidonia’s words echoed in Anne’s ears. “When you need them most, they will fail you. Put your trust in yourself, not in a man.”

For a moment, overcome by nothing more than his sheer size, Anne had imagined she had found a man she could count on, who would not fail her. How laughable she would seem if her aunt could see her now. Taken in by a pair of broad shoulders and kind eyes. Kind eyes? There was no kindness in that man. He was the worst sort of male who walked the face of the earth—a user and discarder of women.

So why did she feel so much pain? Why were her eyes even now filling with tears? She was not by nature a watering-pot. She had, in fact, always agreed with Aunt Sidonia that women who used tears to get their own way were silly widgeons, not worthy of the slightest respect.