Rules of Engagement

"You'll stay here and put on my robe."

"I must consider my reputation."

"Lady, if you don't get those clothes off, I promise to leave your reputation in shreds."

It was obvious by his lowered head and rapid-fire response he had lost all patience, and this time she opted for wisdom. "You kissed me before." She held out her hands, palm up. "You must promise that if I do this, you won't try and kiss me again."

"Miss Lockhart, the only thing I promise you is that I will get the truth from you one way or another." He pointed. "Now get back
there
and strip off."

AVON BOOKS

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Copyright © 2000 by Christina Dodd

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Miss Pamela Lockhart gave a light-hearted skip as she made her way toward home. The residential London street might be prematurely dark from the rain, she might be chilled and wretched, and once again she'd had to try to teach tone-deaf little Lorraine Dagworth how to play "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" on the pianoforte, but she had easily collected the month's fee from Lorraine's mother. She had also, after a bit of struggle, collected from the aristocratic Lady Phillips. And finally she had given Lord Haggerty's son his dancing lesson and—while fending off both the younger man's groping and the older man's offer of an ignominious affair—secured the month's reimbursement without offending either of the loathsome gentlemen.

Yes, a governess's work proved difficult and occasionally abhorrent, but payday, glorious payday, made it all worthwhile, and as Pamela cut through the filthy, garbage-filled alley, she tipped up her head to the raindrops and laughed aloud—and stumbled to a halt.

Something snagged her skirt. A protruding board, perhaps, or…

A sharp point jabbed at her back and a rough voice snarled, "Give me that purse ye've got hidden in yer bosom, miss, an' I might spare yer life."

Pamela froze, heart pounding. That object… a knife! A thief held a knife to her back. He might stab her. She might die.

He wanted to steal her money.

The knife prodded her, and the man snarled right in her ear, sending the stench of gin and tobacco on the puff of foul breath. "I said, give me that purse. No denyin' ye've got it, miss. I saw ye at th' greengrocers payin' fer them pretty strawberries."

She clutched the bag with her purchase. Rain sluiced endlessly down. No one remained in sight; everyone with any sense had hurried home to sit before his fire and toast his toes. Only she remained, bait for this footpad who planned to steal her beautiful, hard-earned, just-collected cash.

The blade jabbed again, and the thieving fiend grabbed her arm hard enough to bruise it. "Are ye a half-wit? I said give me yer money or I'll kill ye."

Frustration roiled within her. Frustration, anger and despair.

The knife jabbed deeper. She felt the pop of threads as it cut through her gown and corset cover.

She snapped, "Let me think about it."

Miss Hannah Setterington smiled at the nervous eighteen-year-old girl seated before her desk in the study. "I can find you a position," Hannah said. "That is what we do here at the Distinguished Academy of Governesses. But because we supply only the finest governesses to the
ton,
and you have no experience as yet, you must work through our rigorous month of training. This teaches you to deal with the situations that arise with children and with your employers."

Still damp from the rain, the girl shivered a little and glanced longingly at the flames that leaped in the hearth. "Thank you, Miss Setterington, but… I've just arrived from the country. I have nowhere to live and… I can't pay… for any schooling…"

Her choked dismay almost brought a tear to Hannah's eye. She'd been young like this once, unsure, desperate… running away. She was older now, wiser, in control of her life, but she could never completely leave behind the memories. Rising, she said, "Let's talk over here. It's cozier." She led the way to the grouping of chairs beside the fire and indicated a seat, then waited while young Miss Murray composed herself. "You do not pay for our training, and you will remain here, under our roof, while you participate in it."

Miss Murray frowned in suspicion. "Why would you be so kind without reimbursement? I'm from the country, but I'm not stupid. I'm a good girl."

"I'm glad to hear that," Hannah said steadily. "But we do expect reimbursement. In return for your bed, board and instruction, we will place you in a position and collect the fee which your employer will pay us for the guarantee of a learned and accomplished governess."

"Oh." Settling back into the chair, Miss Murray said, "I… I suppose that's reasonable."

"Quite. The first week of your training is a time for us to get to know you, to decide if you are the high caliber of governess we want to represent and for you to decide if this is the career you wish to follow."

Miss Murray snuffled into her handkerchief. "I have no choice."

"One always has a choice." Hannah was not one to countenance self-pity. "We represent females in every capacity. Sometimes one teaches young children better than older children, sometimes one proceeds better as a finishing governess, sometimes one is superior as a companion to the elderly."

Miss Murray brightened. "I hadn't considered that. I used to care for my grandmother, and I liked that very much."

Hannah nodded. "You see. We have already discovered a direction for you. We do provide companions, and also daily and weekly teachers of pianoforte, needlework and dancing. We here at the Distinguished Academy of Governesses pride ourselves on finding an instructor for every need."

She heard a knock on the front door—a still infrequent occurrence and one that brought her to her feet. The butler would of course open the door, but he had instructions to bring any customer to her immediately.

Hannah said, "Our housekeeper waits for you at the head of the stairs. Mrs. Knatchbull will show you to your bedchamber, where you may unpack, and tomorrow you will join our other two students in learning to be the type of governess our school is proud to call our own."

Miss Murray recognized a dismissal when she heard one. She bobbed a curtsy, gathered her bag and went to the door. The girl was well bred and courteous, if unsure, and with training she would prove an asset to the school.

Smiling timidly, Miss Murray stood aside to let the butler Cusheon by. Then she stopped. Her mouth dropped open. And she gawked at the gentleman who trod on his heels.

Indeed, Hannah judged it a lucky circumstance Miss Murray had reacted as she had, or Hannah herself would have been the one dumbfounded. The gentleman, dressed in the height of fashion, was marvelously, languidly, seductively handsome. Tall and long-legged, he wore a dark blue suit that amply displayed his breadth of shoulder. He carried a gold-headed cane and wore gloves of leather dyed to match his suit. His black hair, trimmed close against his collar, hung in loosely curled and rumpled splendor over one side of his forehead. His aristocratically proud nose had been broken at one time—probably from a fall off his pony, Hannah decided uncharitably. His eyes were so soft and brown a woman could lose herself in them, yet a sharp intelligence operated beneath their fathomless depths, for he summed up Miss Murray and dismissed her in a single glance. Then his focus sharpened on Hannah. He didn't wait for Cusheon to introduce her, but bowed curtly. "Miss Setterington, I presume?"

Hannah took an instant dislike to the man. Rude, abrupt creature. "Yes, and you are…
?"

"Devon Mathewes, the earl of Kerrich," Cusheon proclaimed, and only one who knew the old butler well could tell that the earl's presumption exasperated him.

The earl disdained to notice Cusheon's displeasure, nor did he remain to observe Hannah's curtsy. Instead, he strode forward into the study and trusted she would follow.

Of course she did follow, and Cusheon took up his guard at the door.

"How may I help you, my lord?" She made her way to her chair behind the desk.

Sinking into a chair in front of the desk, Lord Kerrich proclaimed, "I need a governess."

The front door of the townhouse again opened and quietly shut. Hannah hoped it was Pamela, for it was raining and almost dark. She worried about her friend and fellow owner of the Distinguished Academy of Governesses, out on the London streets day after day pursuing the jobs that kept the academy alive during its first crucial months.

But Hannah dared not take her attention off her client—a widower with children, she presumed. "You wish to hire a governess, and you have come to the right place. We supply only the finest governesses. How many children do you have?"

He reared back as if offended. "Good God, I don't have a child!"

Hannah paused in the act of sitting. "My lord?"

"Don't you understand, woman? I need a child, too."