The Carriagemaker's Daughter (30 page)

Charles stared at Miss Phillips, his mind racing, certain of what she had said but in no wise able to understand why she would have said it. He had been so sure that the governess would agree to his
carte blanche
. And now–had he heard aright?  She would not be his mistress, but would invite him to her bed for the night? 

Miss Phillips was looking at him curiously and Lord Quentin assumed that his face had turned a rather alarming shade of red.

“Tonight?” he hissed, “What on God’s good earth are you talking about?”

“Have I not made myself clear?” she responded, a little tartly. “I am willing to be... intimate with you for the night. But I will not be your mistress.”

“Why?” he finally asked her. “Why would you want to... do that?  What would be the point?”

The governess shook her head, apparently exasperated. “Surely it is obvious that I am not indifferent to you,” she said. “But I will not risk getting with child.”

Charles was at sea. Pregnancy was a hazard of these circumstances, certainly, but the complication was rarely discussed between a gentleman and his mistress. There were certain ways to avoid it–Lord Quentin frowned at the thought–but he had assumed...

“With child?” he managed.

“Well, I heard people talk. In London, you know. On the street. The ladies–”

“
The ladies on the street?
”  His voice sputtered, and rose to such a pitch that the governess looked up in alarm.

“Hush,” she told him. “You’ll have Lady Sinclair at my door again.”

“You spoke to the ladies on the street?” he hissed. The conversation was spinning out of Charles’s control.

“No, of course I didn’t
speak
to them. But several of the... ah... ”

“Prostitutes?” suggested Lord Quentin.

Miss Phillips nodded. “Yes, several of... them seemed to spend a great deal of time on the sidewalk below my bedroom window. I could hear their conversations– ”

Charles groaned.

“And it was obvious that they were all concerned with this... issue. I just thought that–”

She faltered, but Lord Quentin felt sudden enlightenment. He lifted one eyebrow and fixed the governess with what he hoped was a schoolmaster-ish eye.

“Let me guess. You’ve somehow assumed that a woman is unlikely to get with child–the first time?”

“Exactly.”  The girl sighed, relieved that no further elaboration of the subject would be necessary.

“I see.”  Lord Quentin was caught between desire and laughter. He was loathe to pursue the topic further; still, Helène deserved the truth.

“ ’Tis no less likely the first time than any other,” he told her. “If you understood the... arrangement of the endeavor, you would know this to be true.”

“Oh.”  She rose to her feet, looking confused.

He stood as well, and caught her hand before she could back away. Some unknown pain flickered in her eyes, and Charles saw clearly that Helène was passing from his reach for all time, saw her inexorably slipping away.

How had it happened?   He had been so sure–

“I would love to live with you in your beautiful world,” said Miss Phillips. “But I could not live with myself.”

* * * *

Helène did not sleep for the rest of that night. She kept to the nursery the next day, and for several days after that, and saw nothing of Charles Quentin. The houseparty was nearly over, and with the exception of Lord Quentin and Lady Harkins–who Amanda claimed would manage to stay until she was booted out the door–most of the other fine lords and ladies were preparing their return to London. Each morning the children ran excitedly to the schoolroom windows when the general clatter and commotion of horses announced another departure.

One morning the departing guest was Lord Quentin, setting out for Tavelstoke in the company of the marquess.

“Lord ‘Wentin!  Papa!” called Peter, then–   “He waved!” 

Who
waved?  Helène never knew, for she refused to join Alice and Peter at the window. Eventually there came the sound of hoofbeats, first clearly heard, then receding slowly into the distance until they were finally, irrevocably gone.

That evening, exhausted, Helène prepared early for bed, and it was by sheerest luck that she had not yet removed her day dress when the magistrate arrived, for her bedchamber door burst open, and two burly men of uncertain provenance and foul breath dragged her from her room, down the grand staircase, and through the front hall of Luton Court.

At least the children were already asleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY

“Ahhh,” sighed Lord Sinclair, stretching his legs out onto a large ottoman, “my feet don’t want to see the inside of another pair of boots for days.”

“Then we are agreed,” said Lord Quentin. His own legs were slung over the side of an armchair. Rufus, the earl’s ancient Irish setter, occasionally roused himself from his bed in front of the fire to sniff worriedly at Charles’s feet.

The two friends sat in the Tavelstoke library, weary from the long ride and enjoying their second–or third–glass of Lord Quentin’s best port. It had been the custom for years, even while Jonathan’s first wife was alive, for Charles and Jonathan to make this trip at the end of the Luton houseparty. Their journey this year meant pleasant company as usual, but an uncomfortable ride. Temperatures were warm for early February, and with the amount of snow fallen, the roads had turned to slush.

Slush kicked up from the horses’ hooves, slush falling from the branches above them– knee deep in slush, sometimes, when they dismounted for the necessaries. Both men had been thoroughly chilled by the time they reached the gates of Tavelstoke, and they had consumed several glasses of port in the effort to warm themselves.

Perhaps the drink was the cause of his present, cheerless mood, thought Charles. It could hardly be anything else. He had always enjoyed these two weeks with Jonathan, two weeks  where he and his friend counted themselves free from every social obligation. They would tramp for miles through the surrounding countryside, play game after game of bad chess, and sit up until all hours of the night drinking, with never a female to say them nay.

It was one of the highlights of his year, so why did he feel so... bereft? 
This
was what he wanted, freedom from every worry and claim upon his affections.

He felt fine, actually. Altogether fine. He and the marquess would have a splendid time, and at the end he would make a brief trip to town and treat himself to the most beautiful courtesan in all of London. He would stay at the Tavelstoke townhome and be perfectly satisfied for days on end. Yes. That was clearly the plan.

“A fetching chit, I should say,” commented Jonathan.

“Your pardon?”  Charles realized that his attention had been wandering. 

“Miss Phillips.”

At the sound of her name, Lord Quentin’s careful logic collapsed into a hollow, dreadful pain. Miss Phillips. Miss Helène Phillips, whom he was not likely to see again until Luton Court’s next houseparty, and if Celia had her way, perhaps not even then. Charles imagined her lovely, smiling face as if she were standing in front of him and remembered the feel of her skin under his hands–

He heard the delighted cries of Alice and Peter as they pelted their governess with snowballs, and Miss Phillips’s laughing response–

Never to see her again.

“Yes,” said the marquess. “I think she’d be perfect for you.”  There was a short pause, then Jonathan added, “And a splendid countess.”

* * * *

“What in heaven’s name is all this ruckus?” 

Lady Detweiler threw open the door of her bedroom, snifter of brandy in hand. She and Lady Pamela had both heard the commotion, but Pam was faster to respond and had already thrown on her robe as she hastened toward the grand staircase. She motioned for Amanda to follow, and they reached the hallway’s end in time to see Helène Phillips being half carried, half dragged down the marble steps by two very large and scruffy-looking men. The men were sweating and swearing, lurching from side to side and banging into the balustrade as the governess struggled frantically against them. Helène’s cries were muffled under the beefy hand of the larger of the two men.

Below they could see James barring the way to the front door. The footman’s fists were raised, and he was clearly prepared for a fight.

“James,
no!
”  cried Lady Pamela, charging down the staircase. She had recognized the two men holding Helène. Petrus and Torvin Emory!  The two had a reputation in the village as rough trade indeed and would likely be armed with knives.

Which they might not hesitate to use against a poor servant. Lady Pamela reached the bottom step, Amanda at her heels, and they sidestepped the thugs to stand at James’s side.

Pam tried to give Helène a reassuring smile, but the governess’s eyes seemed not to focus, and her face had taken on an ashy hue. She was wedged tightly between the two men, continuing to struggle weakly against them.

“It’s all right, Helène,” Lady Pamela told the governess. “I don’t understand what’s happened, but we’ll set it to rights.” 

The footman had not lowered his fists, and Pam gently touched his shoulder. “You’ve done very well, James,” she whispered. “Now, don’t worry. I will see to the matter.”  He nodded, and Pam realized that for once there was no trace of uncertainty or confusion on the footman’s face. James, it seems, was a man to be counted on in a crisis.

“Now,” said Lady Pamela to the Emory brothers, “what is the meaning of this?”

 Petrus and Torvin halted. Without relaxing their grip on Helène, they eyed Lady Pam uncertainly. Not quite stupid enough to attack the marquess’s sister, she decided. Petrus glanced to one side and only then did Pamela notice that there was someone else present, another man. He had been hiding, by the looks of it, standing in the shadow of a huge Kentia palm.

“Eh,” snarled Petrus,  “scullery slut, y’ said. Weren’t to be no gentry coves.”

“No gentry coves!” echoed his brother.

The third man seemed to shrink against the palm. “I paid you!  Do your jobs!”  Lady Pamela immediately recognized the frightened, nasal bleat of Malcolm Brigsby.

What was the squire doing at Luton?  As Pam’s eyes adjusted to the dim light of the entry hall she saw that it was indeed Sir Malcolm, the identification confirmed by his short stature and a pair of breeches that were, predictably, several sizes too small.

“Gracious, an overstuffed sausage,” murmured Lady Detweiler, snorting her distaste.

“Sausage?” said Torvin, looking around.

Sir Malcolm coughed nervously.

“Helène,” said Pam, giving the girl a worried glance, “give me a moment to talk to

these... people.”  Miss Phillips’s face was drained of all color and Pam realized, with horror, that the governess’s wrists were manacled.

This was outrageous.

“Sir Malcolm, explain yourself immediately,” ordered Lady Pamela. She was uncomfortably aware that she was dressed only in a silk wrapper, and that the Emory brothers were leering at her. “Are these ruffians at your hire?”

“Well–”

“Ruffians she calls us!” said Petrus. He seemed pleased.

“You see–”

“Ruffians!” said Torvin.

“Not enough wit between the two of them for even a single ruffian, I should think,” commented Amanda,
sotto voce
.

Lady Pamela’s attention was fixed on the squire. “This young lady is governess to Lord Sinclair’s children,” she informed him. “I insist that she be unhanded at once.”

Sir Malcolm’s face was beet red and his forehead shone with perspiration. “Ah, well, I don’t know about that,” he said to Pam. “I was told–”

This was unbelievable. Who did the little mushroom think he was talking to?  “Do not argue with me!”  Pamela said, stamping her foot. “You have no right to be in this house. Release Miss Phillips and get out at once!”

There was a moment’s silence, and Sir Malcolm seemed to be weakening. Then–

“
I
asked... asked him to come.”

The marchioness’s voice, unsteady with drink, floated down from the staircase. All eyes turned to see Lady Sinclair at the balustrade. She was flushed and, against all previous habit, disheveled.

“Celia,” said Lady Pam, “what in heaven’s name is going on here?”

“I sent for Sir Malcolm’s services as a magistrate,” said the marchioness. “In the absence of the marquess, of course.”  Celia held up a piece of jewelry, large green stones flashing along a gold chain. She pointed a shaky finger at Helène. “This woman stole... stole my emerald necklace. I found it hidden behind some books in the nursery.”

Helène’s head jerked up, outrage evident in every line of her body.

“What!” cried Lady Pamela.

“Yes,” said Amanda. “I just bet you did.”

* * * *

Lady Sinclair had been waiting for this moment, planning for it–but now that she saw the harsh facts before her, the governess manacled before her eyes, doubts arose in force. What had she done?  That spineless Sir Malcolm!  And those two dreadful men he had brought with him, of all the
nerve
to bring such riffraff inside her home.

An empty decanter of sherry in the marchioness’s suite was testimony to Lady Sinclair’s current state, and she wished for another glass even now. She’d only thought to cause gossip, she’d never intended–

Celia hiccoughed, and swayed. Speaking of gossip, where the devil was Beatrice?  The marchioness had assumed Lady Harkins would be up as long as there was still wine and
les petits aliments
to be had. She was counting on Beatrice to carry the story to London. The marchioness, even when sober, had spared little thought to the potentially serious consequences of an accusation of theft. Her intention was only... was only . . .

Celia was suddenly confused, unsure of why it had seemed necessary to ruin the reputation of Helène Phillips. Something about speaking French, and Charles Quentin’s interest in the girl, and her own husband–

Lady Sinclair felt her resolve waver, the tears start to her eyes. Then she saw Helène standing below, dressed in a day gown of fine cambric, her jaw set in defiance. Showing not an ounce of shame... Celia’s back straightened. She was a marchioness!  The girl was a nobody, plaguing her without end in her own home. It was insupportable, and she’d been given no choice, really, the girl must go.