Charlotte Louise Dolan (13 page)

Taking a handkerchief out of her reticule, Anne surreptitiously dried her cheeks, hoping no passers-by had seen her momentary loss of composure.

It was not pain; it could not be. It had to be sympathy for the poor woman, that was all it must be. It was definitely not disillusionment that the tall man had shown himself to be an irresponsible cad.

She could not be crying over him, because he had never been who she had thought he was—never! So she could not now feel as if he had betrayed her. The fact that she would never even see the bounder again was something she should be rejoicing in, not weeping over.

So why was a stray tear still sliding down her cheek? And why was there such a lump in her throat that she doubted she could even speak? And why was there such an ache in her chest that she felt as if her heart were breaking?

* * * *

The woman grabbed the boy and held him protectively in her arms, as if afraid Bronson would strike him back. “Come away, Adrian, come away.”

“Wait!” Bronson again caught her arm, but this time he held it more gently, although still too firmly for her to pull away. Something was not right here. Something did not make sense. “What is your name?”

The woman was weeping too much to speak, so the boy answered for her. “Her name is Martha Miller and she is my mother.” The boy drew himself up to his full height, reminding Bronson of a banty rooster. “And you, my lord, are no gentleman. Gentlemen do not make ladies cry.”

Bronson was stunned speechless. Martha Miller. Not Anne Hemsworth. He had mistakenly accused a stranger of the most vile conduct, and then had ordered her to—

He cursed himself for his rashness. Was he the man who had frequently been praised for his ability to react calmly during any crisis? The only thing he had managed to do correctly during this contretemps was to keep his voice down, so that none of the passers-by had heard his accusations.

“Please, madame. Please forgive me. I mistook you for someone else entirely. I apologize for the things I said. They were not meant for you. I ask your pardon, and I will listen to whatever you have to tell me about Creighton Trussell.”

It was a good ten minutes before he was able to find out from her that she was the daughter of a
vicar just over the border in Cornwall, and that Trussell had seduced her while promising her marriage. But when she had told Trussell she was with child, he had laughed in her face and abandoned her immediately.

Her father had, of course, thrown her out, and she had been forced to support herself and her son by becoming a servant. But the old woman she had cooked for had died recently, and the heir had wasted no time in ordering her and her misbegotten son out of the house.

Miss Miller, however, was not asking for charity or even for simple justice. She just needed assistance in finding another job.

Thoroughly humbled, Bronson bent down and picked up the coins he had thrown in the dust. “I can only offer you my profound apologies, madame. I mistook you for someone else, but that is no excuse for the things I said to you. If you will consent to take this money, I shall do my best to find you honorable employment as soon as possible.”

After more persuading, this time aided by the boy, who looked enough like the twins that Bronson saw no reason to doubt the woman was telling the truth, she finally accepted the money.

“Where are you staying?” he asked her.

“I had not thought that far in advance. I was trying to get to Wylington Manor, because I heard that Creighton was in residence, and he is so seldom there. But when they told me in the Red Stag that you were in town, I thought to approach you instead. I suppose I can stay there.”

“I will tell the landlord to send me the bill, and I shall do my best to find you employment before the week is out.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you.”

To his dismay, the woman threw herself down on her knees, and seizing his hand, began to kiss it.

When he finally got her calmed down and she set off with her son for the inn, Bronson turned and looked back up the street. In his imagination, he could still see the unknown lady standing there looking at him, still feel the incredible pull to go to her.

She was no longer there, of course, which did not surprise him in view of the way he had just acted. He, who never explained his actions to anyone, now felt a compulsion to find the tall, beautiful lady with the magnetic blue eyes and explain everything to her—not just about Trussell’s mistress, but about all of it.

He wanted to tell her his suspicions about Trussell, to tell her about the runner’s report on the governess’s background. He wanted to tell her the whole story about Demetrius being jilted. He wanted to see her smile again—hear her laugh—he wanted to laugh with her.

What was surprising was that no matter how he covered the town, up one street and down the next, peering into each shop window, always scanning the crowds, he could not catch even a glimpse of her.

Finally it grew late and he knew he must abandon his search, or he would finish his ride home in darkness. Returning to the Red Stag, he inquired of the landlord, who informed him the governess had collected her horse and departed hours ago.

The governess. It was, in a way, her fault that he had lost the unknown lady. For Bronson, that thought, coming as it did at the end of a very long day, seemed sufficient justification for transporting Miss Hemsworth to Australia, even without her other various and assorted crimes.

“We translated two extra chapters of Cicero while you were gone,” Andrew said.

“Without even being asked,” Anthony added.

“And we had the cook fix clotted cream especially for you.” Andrew looked at her appealingly, but Anne did not return his smile.

Sitting at the table in the schoolroom, Anne continued to drink her tea and eat what was obviously a peace offering from the twins. She did not, however, say a single word to ease the twins’ consciences. Her tacit disapproval of their earlier actions had its effect: Neither of the twins had touched his pasties or saffron cakes, and they were both letting their own tea grow cold.

Finally Andrew said, “We are sorry that we sent you into town without telling you Uncle Bronson was coming.”

“But it was not really a mean thing to do. We just did it to try to help you,” Anthony added. “We thought if we told him about Uncle Creighton first, before he had a chance to fire you, then maybe he would believe us and not send you away.”

“And we never actually lied. We never told you anything that was not true.”

Anne looked directly at the twins for the first time since she had arrived at the house to find the servants in a turmoil over Lord Leatham’s arrival. She had been doubly shocked to discover that he had been expected, and that no one had bothered to inform her of that fact.

“I have only one question.” At least she now had their undivided attention. “You say that you did not lie to me. Did you at any time, however, suspect that you might be tricking me by what you were not telling me? Or did you in your hearts, in fact, actually
know
that you were deceiving me, no matter how you managed to justify it to yourselves?”

There was a long silence while the twins looked at each other, then back at her. “Yes,” they said in mournful unison. “We knew.”

Anne continued to eat her clotted cream, but it might as well have been cold porridge, for all the enjoyment she derived from it.

“Does this mean you will never trust us again?” Andrew asked.

“Like the broken egg can’t be put back together again?” Anthony added.

“I do not know,” Anne replied honestly. “Do you plan to be trustworthy or devious? Will I still have to guard against the things you do not say? Do you plan to be honest with yourselves, or do you plan to come up with excuses and justifications to do things you know in your heart are wrong?” It was the surreptitious sniffle that got to her the most, although she was not sure which twin had lost control to that extent.

“We promise that you can trust us in the future,” Andrew said.

“Please forgive us—please!” Anthony entreated.

“Very well, I forgive you, but that is not to say you shall go unpunished. For your deliberate deceitfulness, you may spend the rest of the day in your room.”

One would have thought she had offered them a special treat, the way they thanked her. Then, after hugging and kissing her, their normal hearty appetites reasserted themselves, and they cheerfully gobbled up the food remaining on the tea tray.

Watching them eat, she realized how much she would miss them. Their attempts to help had been inspired by affection, of that she had no doubt. It was unfortunate that their efforts had been in vain, but Anne knew enough about the role governesses and companions played to realize that Lord Leatham would take Trussell’s word over hers any day. Virtually every governess she knew who had the slightest pretension to beauty—and indeed many who could honestly only be described as quite, quite plain—had a story to tell about a “gentleman” in the household accosting her.

It mattered not if the gentleman were twenty or seventy, the results were the same. The lady of the household was either jealous or protective, depending on her relationship with the “gentleman,” and the governess/companion invariably lost her position.

Well, now she had her own story to tell, Anne thought with a smile, and although being thrown out on her ear was not to be desired, Mrs. Wiggins was adept at minimizing the repercussions of such a blot on a governess’s record. This dismissal would, therefore, not unduly affect Anne’s chances of obtaining another satisfactory position.

It was the twins who would suffer, especially Anthony. Having finally given their trust to an adult, they would be devastated when she was sent away. On the other hand, considering the total indifference of their guardian, she did not think such an argument would carry weight with Lord Leatham.

But life was as it was, and wishing did not alter circumstances. There was nothing for it but to start packing.

Rising to her feet she headed for the door, where she paused. The most shocking thought had occurred to her. Patrick, the head groom, had said Lord Leatham had gone into Tavistock looking for her.... There was that man she had been attracted to in town.... No, he could not have been Lord Least-in-Sight!

But then again, the man in town, now that she thought about it, could be said to bear a resemblance to the boys, especially the shape of the eyes....

The mere idea that the tall man—that user and discarder of women—could be Lord Leatham was so appalling, she did not even wish to know for sure if, by some wild chance, her suspicions were correct. Admitting her own cowardice, she reached for the door handle.

But, on the other hand, how could she endure wondering if it were true? Just the mere possibility that they could be one and the same man—just the thought of such an unmitigated disaster—the very idea would torment her until she knew for sure. Turning back, she asked the twins one last question. “How tall is your Uncle Bronson?”

“Oh, tall. Really, really tall.”

“‘Bout the tallest person in the whole world, probably.”

As quickly as possible, Anne made her way to her room, her thoughts in such a turmoil, she was shaking all over. She should have known the minute he grabbed that woman’s arms—on the street, right out in public view—she should have known he was Lord Leatham, whose low opinion of women was unequaled, that much she had learned from the twins.

She should have known—Anne threw herself face down on the bed and hit her pillow over and over again. She should have known—how could she ever have been attracted to such a man, even momentarily?

To compound her horror, she burst out crying, like the veriest watering-pot. In spite of her best efforts to stop, she was forced to bury her face in the pillow to muffle the sound of her sobs.

The sooner she left Devon and returned to Aunt Sidonia, the better. A few days of exposure to her great-aunt’s no nonsense ways and Anne knew she would be cured of these emotional outbursts.

* * * *

Bronson had ample time to think during the ride back to Wylington Manor, and his thoughts stayed firmly centered around the three women who had affected his actions during the course of the day: First, the woman he had sought after; second, the woman he had found; and third, the woman who had found him. Each of them had taught him something unexpected about himself.

The governess had taught him that he was not actually the patient man he had long prided himself on being. It had been an insane idea to go chasing after her on the spur of the moment instead of waiting for her to return. Never before had he acted so ... so out of control.

Control? Martha Miller had shown him an even more unpalatable side of himself. He, who had always been careful to show women the proper respect, had attacked an innocent woman—a woman who, moreover, had come to him for help—and he had reduced her to tears. The demeaning things he had said to her in his anger had served only to demean himself—the degrading things he had accused her of doing and then suggested she continue doing, only reflected back unfavorably upon him. He did not recognize the picture of himself he saw, nor did he like it.

If he had observed another man acting in a similar manner, Bronson would have considered him to be a conceited, arrogant oaf, and he would not have hesitated a moment to call such a man to account.

On the other hand, every time Bronson’s thoughts came back to the tall woman with the magnificent brown hair and magnetic blue eyes, he felt even more of a shock at his reaction. “Know thyself,” had always been his motto, and until today he had thought he did.

He had thought he was not like other men—not so weak as to fall under the spell of a woman and make a fool of himself. Women played only a very minor role in his life. Indeed, sometimes for months at a time they were totally absent from his life and not missed even for a moment. If he had been asked—and indeed, Thorverton had asked him—he would have said that in general, women bored him.