Rules of Engagement (3 page)

"Come to the fire, dear." But Pamela didn't move, and Hannah insisted, "We are not so desperate as that!"

"Yes, we are," Pamela said in gritty perturbation.

Taking her shoulders, Hannah asked, "What's wrong?"

Pamela jerked herself free and trudged into the study, discarding her drooping bonnet onto the floor.

Hannah followed, picking up the hat, shocked that her normally tidy friend could be so careless. "Pamela?"

Pamela ran her hands through her hair, pulling off the white net and quite a few pins in the process.

Hannah winced. That must have hurt, but Pamela didn't seem to notice. She just stood before the fire and held her hands to it even though she still wore her soaked kid gloves. Something had happened. Something hideous. But Pamela seldom told her troubles.

Asking would get Hannah nowhere, so she tried guile. "How can you pass as a plain older woman?"

Pamela raised her gaze from her now-steaming gloves. "When Lady Temperly expired and willed you this house, she left her clothing, did she not? I will wear it."

"Lady Temperly was tall! She topped you by two inches, and she had a pronounced dowager's hump."

"Yes. That will do." Pamela stripped off the gloves and tossed them on the settle. "I'll wear some pale powder and glaring rouge, just as the older women do. I'll pass. I have to."

"And what about those families who have previously employed you? What will they say when they see you so disguised?"

"I'm a governess, not a social butterfly. As always, I'll remain in the background, and in any case, I've always worked outside of London. The chance of seeing someone who will recognize me is slim."

"Pamela, what's
wrong
?"

Pamela rubbed the place between her eyes as if in pain. "Do you remember when Charlotte, you and I were all desperate for employment, and we decided to try and make a go of the Distinguished Academy of Governesses? How we hoped we could help others find appropriate places of employment and make our fortune at the same time?"

"Yes, of course I do." Desperation had led Hannah to propose the plan. Desperation and ambition, for if the three friends didn't discover some way to make a living not dependent on the whims of the
ton,
they would never have control over their fates.

Pamela, even more than the other two, wanted the Distinguished Academy of Governesses to be a success, and she had worked like a madwoman to obtain temporary positions so Hannah could find suitable candidates and begin the teaching process.

"This school is my only chance to end my life in some kind of prosperity," Pamela said. "I won't give up on my dream now. Our dream."

Hannah realized what the problem
must
be. "It's been too much for you, hasn't it? You've been working too hard, going from house to house teaching those dreadful children.

You'll take anything to avoid doing it any longer, but I told you, Pamela, I would be glad to—"

"No!" Pamela took a deep breath, then grasped Hannah's hand. Taking her fingers, Pamela carried them to a place on the left side of her back. "Here."

Hannah found a tear in the soggy woolen gown. A tear that went deep, past Pamela's corset. "What… ?" Pulling her fingers away, she stared at the spot of crimson that stained one finger. "Pamela?"

"It happened on the way home."

"Cusheon!" Hannah shouted, then took Pamela's arm. "You must sit down. You're hurt."

"I'm not, really. It's just a pinprick." But Pamela allowed Hannah to lead her to the chair. "I gave in as soon as the point touched my flesh."

Cusheon arrived at a run. "Madams?" Seeing Pamela's pale face, he shouted for the housekeeper.

Mrs. Knatchbull bustled in with the two older trainees in her wake.

"We need bandages," Cusheon commanded. "And hot water. At once."

"I was robbed. I lost all the money for the last month." Pamela's firm chin quavered. "Unless I take this position, we are ruined."

Kerrich looked up from the accounts spread before him to stare critically at the lady making her way into his large, book-lined study. A fire burned in the grate, candles flickered in candelabras placed throughout the room, the heavy velvet curtains were open over the tall windows to let in whatever light there was, but the gray and cloudy day made it difficult to observe all the particulars of her appearance. Yet the scent of lavender preceded her as she walked briskly toward him. Then the candlelit circle of light around his heavily carved mahogany desk embraced her, and for the first time in a fortnight his heart lifted. There was no mistaking it—Miss Setterington had indeed produced a governess who fit his needs. Dour, unattractive, yet not so old she would scare the child.

And Miss Setterington had produced this miracle one day earlier than his deadline. He never doubted the power of money.

Rising, he bowed. "Miss Lockhart."

She curtsied, then examined him quite as if he were a recalcitrant pupil and she his instructor.

Lifting his monocle, he returned the favor. She bore a worn, hideous, flowered carpetbag of mammoth proportions, large enough that the handle dangled off her wrist and the bottom bumped at her knee. She carried a black umbrella with a primitively carved wooden handle. Her ill-fitting purple dowager gown hung about her shoulders and showed damp spots from the monotonous rain, yet she sported a generous bosom and neat waist.

Ah, but he was well acquainted with the corset tricks women used to conceal figure defects and enhance deficiencies. Undoubtedly, Miss Lockhart was acquainted with them, too.

She wore tinted spectacles, he noted, a sign of weak eyes and excessive learning. Her complexion was bloodless and her lips pale. Her brown hair was pulled back so tightly from her face that any sagging around the chin and neck had been reduced—another feminine trick, and one that would scarcely fool a connoisseur such as himself. A tangled, spidery thin net of gray lace covered her hair, and she sported an absurd decoration that looked like nothing so much as two knitting needles stuck in right angles through the knot at the base of her neck.

He dropped his monocle and seated himself. "Perhaps you'll do," he said.

She nodded and without waiting for an invitation, seated herself in the old-fashioned Hepplewhite chair before his desk. The style fit her. "I was going to say the same for you."

He scarcely refrained from laughing out loud. She reminded him of his grandfather, a gentleman who had been unwilling, by God, to take insolence from one so undeserving as a mere thirty-year-old grandson.

His amusement evaporated. Because of his grandfather he was doing this. Because of his grandfather and the bank and the family name, which must not suffer for his cousin's weakness and… and which did not deserve to be made a laughingstock. His fists clenched at the thought of that laughter. "You have brought references."

"Of course." Plunging her hand into the capacious carpetbag, she brought forth three closely written sheets and handed them across the organized piles of paper on his desktop. "I have nine years' experience with children, and as you see, I've worked for quite exemplary families in various counties around London. Lady Byers, especially, was pleased with the results of my instruction. Her daughter was quite wild when I came into the household, and when I left she was desolated."

He looked the letters over cursorily. They were from good, solid country families, mostly in the southern counties. All claimed that Miss Lockhart taught children with extraordinary skill. He didn't care. He only cared that she fulfilled his requirements. "I assume Miss Setterington has conveyed my needs."

"Yes." Miss Lockhart placed the carpetbag at her feet. "I am to buy you an orphan and train it as your companion."

Ha. Put like that, it didn't sound so dreadful.

"So you may win some"—she looked around his lavishly appointed library—"wager, or some such, which will bring you yet more lucre."

That
sounded dreadful. Fiercely resentful of the implied rebuke, he rose to his feet.

But she held up her hand. "Save your facile indignation, my lord. Unlike other women of my acquaintance, I understand that handsome young aristocrats, as well as hoary old merchants, can develop a taste for the acquisition of possessions. Indeed, I would call such an attribute part of the honored English way of life." She smiled in a kind of pale imitation of humor. "Even ladies desire their share of the fortunes. For that same reason, indeed, am I here."

Still he stood and stared at this annoying woman. That damned Miss Setterington had managed, in her disapproval, to make his mission sound more palpable than this old maid in her approbation.

"I can assure you, I will shield the child from any hurt," Miss Lockhart said.

"The child?" Why was she babbling about the child?

"Yes. I assumed your momentary hesitation had to do with worry for the orphan. In fact, you look rather dyspeptic over the fate of the little dear." Miss Lockhart bunked at him from behind her tinted glasses.

Blinked at him, or winked at him?

Her actions recalled him to his purpose. Lifting the candelabra from his desk, he strolled around the desk and shed its light full in her face.

She looked down, her thin nostrils pinched in disdain— or perhaps in dismay. For Miss Lockhart was not as old as he'd first assumed—not that he could depend on age to protect him from unwelcome advances. His initial impression of Miss Lockhart's governess-sternness faded, leaving him to think her merely an unattractive female, firmly on the shelf and, perhaps, desperate to jump off and into any available masculine arms.

More specifically, into his arms.

A simple test would prove him wrong… or reluctantly right. Coldly he moved to secure his own peace of mind. Looming over her, he displayed the kind of virile confidence women seemed to find utterly appealing, and waited for her to look up.

At last she did, but if she was impressed, she gave no outward indication. "Could I prevail upon you to put the candelabra down, my lord? It is very bright and I fear you will drip wax on my second-best gown."

"Your second-best gown? It is so attractive," he lied glibly, "I thought it your best gown."

She viewed him as if he were a candidate for Bedlam and moved her skirt from beneath the flickering candles. "I wear my best gown on Sundays, my lord. When I, like all Christian woman, go to
church."

A reprimand, one aimed at his dissipated conduct. "Then it is simply the lady wearing it who creates the illusion of unparalleled beauty."

Ignoring his graceful figure, she reached into the carpetbag at her feet and brought forth a ball of yarn and the start of a black woolen knitted… thing. "How excessively likely."

Hm. She didn't sound particularly sarcastic, nor did she seem struck by his charms. Was she pretending disinterest, or was she truly the dried-up old prune he required? Placing the candelabra off to the side, he perched one hip on the desk and leaned toward her. "As I expressed to Miss Setterington, I feel the child will be better off serving me than being left in a home for foundlings. It was the thought of my deceit which caused a twinge of conscience."

Her cheeks sucked in as she pursed her mouth. "I see."

He smiled with winsome, if feigned, interest. "Yet I find myself wondering how conscience-ridden you are, Miss Lockhart. An attractive woman, in the prime of life, must not always wish to care for the children of others. Surely you must wish for your own."

She snapped at him. There was no other word for her unrestrained impatience. "What I wish for is no concern of yours, my lord. Your only interest should be in my character and my efficiency. Now." Reaching behind her head, she plucked the long sticks from within her coiffure, threaded them through the knitted thing and proceeded, before his astonished eyes, to knit. "Miss Setterington told me of your generous offer of salary. Yet you'll excuse me if I not only confirm the amount, but discuss my living arrangements."

Words failed him for a few precious moments. Miss Lockhart was an eccentric, then, the kind of absurd spinster that England produced in abundance.

The needles clicked without pause. "Bed and board, of course, Lord Kerrich, and in a decent room, well ventilated." She looked around, appraising his study.
"This
is a pleasant room, with many beautiful decorations and, more important, I can't feel a draft. This chamber is larger than it needs to be, but I imagine, like me, you detest a close room. A close room promotes ill health, and a woman on her own cannot be too careful of her health. Also, I'll have a fireplace that doesn't smoke. I'll have a half-day off every fortnight, no exceptions. I expect to be allowed to go to worship every Sunday, and to take the child, too. I believe a righteous heart is necessary for a successful upbringing, and—"

He interrupted out of sheer necessity and to complete his test. "My dear Miss Lockhart. Dear, dear Miss Lockhart." He laid his hand over one of hers, stilling her incessant knitting. "You must know you needn't worry about the placement of your bedchamber. I will… personally… approve your room not far from my own."

She looked at his hand in cool disfavor, then up at him. Behind the tinted lenses, her heavily lashed eyes narrowed. "I beg your pardon?"

"These details are of no consequence. You shall have whatever you wish, and I look forward to working… closely… with you on the teaching of the orphan." He blinked his own not-inconsiderable lashes at her.

With deadly accuracy, she used the knitting needle to rap his hand hard enough for him to snatch it back and rub the bruise. She then raised the needle and skewered the knot at the base of her neck. Thrusting the unfinished knitting back into her bag, she said with awful severity, "Young man, although I cannot believe my ears, I do understand you. It is the curse of my pulchritude to be besieged by male attentions, but I refuse to unquestioningly accept my fate. Much as I would enjoy your generous salary, I must decline your attentions and the position."

My God, she was perfect. Impervious to his charm, so sure of herself, her morals and, amazingly enough, her allure, she could not be swayed from her righteous path. "No! Please, Miss Lockhart, you have made your principles quite clear to me. Rest assured that our association will be that of employer and employee, no more." With Miss Lockhart, he knew the orphan would be molded and cared for and he would be safe alone in his bed.

She viewed him suspiciously. "And my requirements for this position?"

"All will be met."

"You will be able to restrain your animal tendencies?"

With excessive gravity, he agreed, "As difficult as that will be, yes."

"I wish to state my opinion, my lord, although I've never met a man who was reasonable enough to listen to reason."

Oh, this should be prime
. "Go ahead."

"It would be better if you married."

"You women all think alike. That is just what Her Majesty told me."

"Marital union, I am told, provides a man an outlet for those inconvenient passions that afflict them. But I suppose you have only a short amount of time before the queen's demands must be met?"

"She has given me three months."

"Three months in which to become respectable?" She looked at him and laughed, a bitter croak of disdain. "Even I believe that is unfair. Yes, you have no recourse except to bring a child into your home, for no woman in her right mind would marry a man like you without extensive courting and vows of fidelity, written and signed in blood."

He straightened from his lounging position. "No woman would refuse me."

"You jest, my lord."

"There isn't a woman alive who can't be seduced by a handsome face, a title or a fortune, and without conceit I can say I possess all three. Really, Miss Lockhart. You have proved resistant to seduction, but what if I offered marriage?"

"That is a stupid supposition. If I were the most beautiful woman in the world, you would still not offer me marriage. Every man claims his passion leads him, but if that were true, they would marry as they wished and not where they must."

"But if my passion led me to you, you would have me for my face and form."

"Men do not love from the fullness of their hearts, and handsome men are worse, for they are spoiled."

"Then you would have me for my title."

"I come from noble stock. I know that title does not confer honor or constancy or integrity."

Deliberately, he played the snake in the garden, and offered the irresistible apple. "Then you would have me for my fortune."

She faltered.

As he knew she would. "Ha!" Tucking his knee into his cupped hands, he leaned back and surveyed her with satisfaction. "I was right."

She looked at him and saw something in his face—and what could it be, damn it!—that stiffened her resolve. "You are wrong. I have managed to refrain from running away with any of the men who make me offers, and I would not trade my dreams for a life with you."

"Your dreams must be grand."

"Not grand, but they are mine." Standing, she hefted the bag on her arm. "And I am done with this fruitless discussion."