The Reluctant Governess (10 page)

This heated speech cost Nick, and he slumped against the staircase. He was tired of Eliza's disapproval—it seemed he could never win with her.

“Are you all right?”

“No, I am not all right. I find all this very tiresome. In every respect. If I were still in Italy—”

He sighed. Someone like Eliza would not appreciate hearing how lovely everything was when she was accustomed to the gray of England. What was the point of thinking of Italy? Sun-dappled walled gardens, ruby-red wine, and lemons fresh from the tree had not been enough to keep him there when his brothers had begged him to come home anyhow. He had a duty to his family, no matter how badly he was mucking it up. If he'd truly known how Alec had suffered after Edith died, Nick would have been home in an instant.

Daniel Preble would be enjoying his perfect villa soon now since they had traded houses. Of course in Nick's case, he had paid well for the privilege. He'd be lucky if he ever saw any lira from Daniel toward his rent.

He was reminded he needed to pack up Daniel's artwork and send it to him as he'd promised. Well, he was downstairs, was he not, and the thought of going upstairs all at once was not appealing. Let them go a floor at a time and get started inventorying Daniel's paintings. He could manage to hold himself up for a while, couldn't he?

“If you will stop haranguing me for half an hour, I need some help identifying my friend's art. Then you can contact some removal men to crate them up and send them to him.”

“You are supposed to remain in bed,” Eliza reminded him.

“I can't
remain
when I'm not there to begin with, can I? I promise I'll be a good boy and go up when we're finished.”

“I suppose these pictures feature more naked women.”

Nick was about to reply when he saw a miracle. One of Eliza Lawrence's eyelids dropped, then rose, and her lips turned up. By the gods she was winking
and
smiling at him. Would wonders never cease?

Nicholas Raeburn was growing on her. He'd been rather eloquent—and almost heroic—outside before he lost his breakfast, and had rightfully shamed her inside when she'd been so sniffy about his models.

He was right. Everyone was entitled to decent employment, even girls who chose to reveal the secrets of their bare skin to the world. Eliza had been judgmental toward those less fortunate than she, and she felt guilty.

Not everyone was good with figures—the numerical kind. Not everyone was organized. Eliza adored office work, but she supposed some people might find it deadly dull. She herself would never remove her clothes in front of a man who was not her husband, but she was not the arbiter of all life.

That was rather a revelation. Eliza felt herself unwinding ever so slightly, and it felt good. Nicholas Raeburn was not so terribly wicked; he just saw things very differently.

“Are you sure you are up to it?” she asked upon closer inspection. His face was gray, and his hairline was damp.

“I'll be all right. There aren't so many paintings, according to Daniel.”

“Where shall we start?”

“Right here in the entryway. This is one of his. He sold almost everything before he left. Daniel Preble's an Impressionist, you know.”

Eliza had an immediate vision of pastel smudges, but the painting Nick pointed at hanging in the hallway was far from pale and dreamy. She thought she was looking at a violent rust-orange seascape, but wasn't sure. Seawater was supposed to be green, wasn't it?

She touched the frame, and an envelope slid out from behind the wall. She bent to pick it up, assuming if Nicholas tried he'd fall on his head.

Nicholas smiled. “I remember Daniel picking up his bills when they came through the letter slot and stuffing them behind this. Out of sight, out of mind. That philosophy got him into quite a bit of trouble. Let me see it.”

His smile faded when he saw the writing on the envelope. “Barbara,” he murmured.

That was the name of Sunny's mother. His mistress. Why was the woman writing to this Daniel Preble fellow?

“Are you going to open it?”

Nicholas shook his head. “Best not to. Nothing can be done now. She's been dead for two years, and the postmark is much older than that. But I'll send it along for old times' sake.” He tucked the letter in his pocket.

The air was definitely out of the balloon now. Nicholas seemed distracted as they moved through the dining and morning rooms. There were three more pictures, all incomprehensible to Eliza with their smeary brushstrokes and muddy colors.

“Is this what you paint like?” she asked. She hoped not. Eliza was never an especially good liar, and she would be unable to muster any enthusiasm if his own work resembled the work of an unprecocious three-year-old.

Nicholas was leaning against a console table, looking pale. “No. This one is mine. See the difference?”

Eliza examined a smallish canvas dotted with gold leaf and a host of bright colors. It was of a woman—naked, of course—her voluptuous body glowing as if it were made of sunshine. While no one had multi-hued blue hair—to her knowledge—it was a beautiful portrait.

“Oh.”

“You don't like it.” Nicholas sounded resigned.

“I do! I'm surprised—I told you I know nothing about art, but this is very . . . eye-catching. Different. The gold, the gleam—” Eliza didn't have the words for what she wanted to say.

“It was an experiment. Not my best, which is why I gave it to Daniel. It's too much like Gustav. Klimt, that is. Derivative, not different at all.”

“But it's lovely.”

Nicholas raised a bifurcated eyebrow. “Even with the naked body?”

“Because of the n-naked body. You've made her skin glow as if she's lit from within.”

He nodded. “She was. Full of life and joy. One couldn't look away from her. One didn't
want
to.”

Eliza knew without asking he was speaking of Barbara again. How he must have loved her.

In real life, her hair must have been as blue-black as Sunny's. The eyes on the canvas were dark and knowing, almost amused, as she watched her young lover paint her. Barbara's lips were wine-red and full, pursed as if she were about to say something intimate.

It was an extraordinary painting, even to Eliza's untrained eye. Full of passion for both the woman it depicted and art itself. Nicholas Raeburn possessed true talent in a field Eliza would never understand.

Perhaps she would learn if Sir Thomas Featherstone hired her to manage his artists' cooperative. But that would mean leaving the comfort of the Evensong Agency, not that she'd been there long enough to grow deep roots. But she was comfortable there. Oliver was great fun to work with and even elderly Mrs. Evensong was a dear.

Eliza glanced at Nicholas, who was clutching the table as if it were a lifeline.

“You need to go back upstairs. I can take care of labeling the other paintings—Mr. Preble's work is very distinctive, not to mention he signed them
and
there are brass plates on the frames with his name on them.”

He gave her a weak smile. “Nothing gets by you.”

“I told you I was efficient. I'll call Oliver and he can send some workmen over to crate them up. I'll make arrangements to ship them to Italy on the first available boat.”

“He may actually still be in Paris, staying with mutual friends. That's where we exchanged keys. I don't think he plans on going to my house full-time until after the New Year. Too many amusements in the City of Light, don't you know.”

“Give me their address. And the letter.”

Nicholas reached into his coat pocket with some reluctance. Had he been planning to read it first after all, despite what he'd said? Eliza was tempted to steam it open herself, but she wouldn't succumb to the jealousy that was unaccountably stabbing at a place in her chest.

She was being ridiculous. Yes, she had kissed Nicholas Raeburn, but she mustn't do so again, even if he wanted to.

Or if
she
wanted to.

Anyway, if he fell in love with women who looked like Barbara, he could have no possible interest in her. That woman was all dark mystery, chased rose-gold and ruby. Richest chocolate. Eliza was smooth white enamel by comparison. Vanilla.

“What's that world-weary sigh for? I thought I was the injured party here.” Nicholas collapsed onto a tufted chair, scribbling an address on a scrap of paper. “Maybe you could fetch me one of the walking sticks so I can get upstairs eventually.”

Eliza bolted to the hallway before she gave herself away. What was she doing, mooning about over forbidden kisses? She had never behaved in such a fashion over Richard Hurst. Of course, Richard Hurst had never looked at her with an artist's eye, probably undressing her with every glance.

Eliza picked up a bamboo cane and considered rapping herself in the head with it. Things were getting out of hand. She might blame her sudden surge of emotion on propinquity, or all the confusion on the front steps. She'd had an exhausting few days on Lindsey Street.

And if she didn't want any more, she
must
call Oliver.

She returned with the cane and her inappropriate feelings mostly in check. “May I help you upstairs?” she asked.

Nicholas shook his head. “I'd better manage on my own. You have enough to do without running yourself ragged up and down the staircase.”

“I should check on Sunny, too. I feel as if I've fallen down on my duties.”

“Nonsense. You've exceeded your job description. Thank you for trying to deal with those newspaper people. It was an admirable effort.”

Eliza knew he wasn't speaking the truth. Until he stepped outside, she'd been near tears trying to make herself heard over the shouts. All her poise and professionalism was wasted on the rabid pack of reporters, who wanted good gossip instead of the facts.

She bit a lip watching him limp out of the sunny morning room, then scurried downstairs to see that all was well in the kitchen. Mrs. Quinn pressed a cup of tea on her, which was a welcome respite from the past half hour. Sunny was sleeping, her fever finally broken.

It wouldn't take Eliza long to tag the remaining paintings. But first she put in a call to Oliver. He answered himself on the third ring.

“I was about to call
you
,” Oliver said, once they'd exchanged greetings. “What on earth is going on over there?”

“You've read the papers, I trust.”

“Read them! I've clipped the pertinent articles out for your scrapbook.”

He sounded altogether too jolly. “I don't have a scrapbook.”

“You do now. I bought you one, red Moroccan tooled leather. Mary threw you right into the lion's den. She won't be best pleased when she finds out.”

“Oh, you cannot tell her anything!” Eliza urged. “It would spoil her honeymoon.”

“Do you take me for an imbecile? Of course I won't tell her. Neither will Aunt Mim, that is, Mrs. Evensong. Mary has radio cabled us already from the boat, you know. The girl doesn't know how to relax, even if she's got that divine Highlander at hand. Those thighs!”

“I'm sure she's worried about her aunt,” Eliza said, ignoring Oliver's admiration for Lord Raeburn.

“Oh, Mrs. Evensong is tip-top. Now that the lift is in the building, nothing can stop her.”

Eliza had lived through the renovations, barely. The sawdust made her sneeze her head off. “Yes, well, how is the governess search coming on?”

“I don't think we should discuss this on the telephone. How about I pop by Lindsey Street this afternoon?”

“I don't know if that's such a good idea, Oliver. Mr. Raeburn has a touch of influenza. And a concussion from that horrible man who attacked him.”

“I don't want to talk to him, love, although I wouldn't mind comparing him to his big brother. Is he as braw and bonny as Alec?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Eliza said quickly.

“Oh, come now. You must have noticed. I met the third brother, too, when I was up there, you know. Ian? Ewan? No, Evan, that's it. What a family.” Oliver gave a lusty sigh.

“Someone could be listening in, Oliver,” Eliza warned. Sometimes he was not a bit discreet.

“You are right, as usual. Ever since Lord Raeburn took Mac with him to America, I've been at loose ends. Put the kettle on and I'll come round for tea about four.”

“Bring some men with you.”

“Now who's being careless, you naughty girl?”

“No, I need some fellows to crate up paintings and get them to the docks. They need to go to Paris—the pictures, not the men. Have you ever heard of the artist Daniel Preble?”

There was a pause on the line. Oliver kept his own scrapbooks. He had his finger on the pulse of London society, and knew everything about everybody.

“You don't want to get mixed up with him,” he said finally.

“I'm sending boxes to him—I'm not going to jump out of one. Why? What's the matter with him? He's a friend of Nicholas's. I mean Mr. Raeburn's.”

“Is he? Why don't you ask your employer, then?”

“I told you—he's sick.”

“I'll tell you all the gory details over tea. Be careful, Eliza.”

He broke the connection, and Eliza stared at the receiver. Of course she would be careful. She was a careful kind of girl.

Which meant . . .

No. More. Kisses.

“It's all a bit
Arabian Nights
here, isn't it?” Oliver set his cup down and looked around with approval. His yellow curls had been tamed by macassar oil, and Eliza wondered if Nicholas had ever resorted to using that grooming product for his leonine mane.

The removal men who had arrived with Oliver had gone, their cart filled with about a dozen hideous paintings. A ship was leaving this very evening—Oliver had handled all the arrangements. Mr. Preble would have his paintings and his letter in a day's time, not that he would make his fortune as an artist if Eliza was any judge. The man would have to get them to Italy himself—but if he were smart, he'd burn them and start another riot in Paris.

She had chosen to have tea in the morning room, which overlooked the neglected garden. To her, it was cozier than the vast double parlor upstairs and one of the least-decorated spaces in the house, but the profusion of patterns and colors was still overwhelming.

“You like all the decoration?”

“I do. Makes for quite a change from the pater's house. You'd find nothing but Bible illustrations on his walls and a grim picture of peasants praying over a bowl of turnips.”

Eliza knew Oliver was estranged from his family, and knew the reason why. Until she had met him, she'd been totally ignorant of the forbidden relationship that could occur between two gentlemen. Oliver's proclivities should have shocked her to her core, but she found him to be so sympathetic, and an enormous help training her in her duties at the agency. He was a year or two younger than she was, but somehow he seemed much, much older. Tilting against society's windmills had that effect, she supposed.

Eliza passed him a plate of biscuits. She suspected they were store-bought, but with Mrs. Quinn's kitchen still in crisis, it didn't much matter. “How is everything at the office?”

“Capital, as usual. I have a list for you.” He thrust his hand in a coat pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of foolscap. “All have been vetted personally by Mrs. Evensong or myself. Of course, that was before the newspapers got hold of this attempted murder story. That may reduce the applicants to some degree.”

“I shouldn't be surprised.” Eliza read down the names in considerable dismay. There were only three of them to begin with. “Three?”

“Well, some of the candidates balked that they would not have a room of their own. Some did not care to have an artist as an employer—I did have to mention the naked girls and the studio, you know. Before she left, Mary insisted I not waste time and try to pull the wool over anyone's eyes.”

“That's not where the wool should go in this house,” Eliza muttered. She handed the list back to him. “See what you can arrange. We can begin the interviews the day after tomorrow. Mr. Raeburn should be better by then, and if he isn't, I think he'll trust me to hire someone for him.”

“You have his confidence, eh? That was quick work.”

Eliza felt the beginnings of a blush and fought to stem it. “We have had nothing but adversity since the minute I arrived. One either pitches in or ships out.”

“How is the little girl?”

“Still sick, but improving. It's Mr. Raeburn that concerns me. The doctor came by earlier and is concerned about the concussion. Apparently, Ni—Mr. Raeburn is seeing double every now and then, which will prove to be a hindrance in his profession if it proves permanent.” The altercation at his front door had not done him any favors. His fever was higher than ever, and Dr. Samuelson had been angry with her for permitting Nicholas to get out of bed and out into the autumn air.

As if she could stop him, she thought sourly.

“You should have him paint you before you go,” Oliver said. “I've seen his work, you know. There was a show at one of the Mayfair galleries last year. He wasn't present, however. Still off gallivanting in Italy, I expect. What's he like? As handsome as his brother?”

Damn the blush again. “I really couldn't say, Oliver. He hasn't been himself since I took the job, and right now his injuries mask whatever handsomeness he may possess.”

Liar.

“Hm. Well, with any luck, you'll be out of here and behind your desk in jig time.” He took a lemon biscuit and popped it into his mouth.

“You were going to tell me what you know of Daniel Preble.”

Oliver held up a slender finger as he chewed. “I know I'm glad he's not in England,” he said, brushing the crumbs from his lips. “He's not a fellow you want to have anything to do with.”

“Why not?”

“You are such an innocent, Eliza. Daniel Preble is a greater sinner than I am.”

“You're not a sinner,” Eliza retorted, even if she was in disagreement with the Bible. Oliver's preferences were a part of him and he was in every respect a good friend. There was not an ounce of real wickedness in him.

Unlike Nicholas Raeburn . . .

“The man was notorious a decade ago. Opium. Hashish. Carnal relations with anyone with a heartbeat. I mean
anyone
. Young. Old. Male. Female. In any and all combinations. Coercion and force if necessary—he does not observe the niceties. His parties here were legendary.”

“A decade ago you were a child of twelve. How do you know this?”

Oliver shook his head. “You don't need to know. He took young Nicholas Raeburn under his wing to mentor him, but if anything, your ‘Naughty Nicky' surpassed him. Quite a bad boy, your Nick. Outclassed Preble in art, too. Raeburn's pictures demand high prices, while Preble—let's just say whatever promise he had was frittered away years ago. It didn't curtail his pleasures, though. He spent money like water and is deep in dun territory now. It's why he's gone back to the Continent and sold his house to Raeburn.”

Eliza had to ask. “He and Ni—Mr. Raeburn weren't lovers, were they?”

“Not in the usual sense. They may have shared women on numerous occasions—”

“Oliver!”

He looked at her from under his lashes, which were a shade darker than his hair and annoyingly long and curly. “Well, you wanted to know. Be careful what you wish for. Nicholas Raeburn was a wild child himself, but since he inherited the little girl, he's had a change of heart.”

“Inherited?” What an odd word.

“There's talk that she—Domenica, isn't it?—is not really his. No one knows except the mother, and she's dead.”

Eliza's eyes slid to the painting. “Barbara.”

“Contessa Barbara Stefano. That's her on the wall, isn't it? She was often Raeburn's model. Preble's, too. Quite a bewitching creature in that painting, even to me.”

Eliza felt her heart hardening all over again. “It all sounds very sordid, countess or not.”

Oliver waved a hand in the air. “Oh, artists. You know what they're like. You cannot depend upon them to behave like us lesser mortals. And Barbara was just a simple country girl who attracted an ancient
conte
who conveniently died on their wedding night, or close enough to
.
He left her very well off, I believe.”

Eliza was impressed with Oliver's grasp of international gossip, even if she didn't like what she was hearing. She knew he kept a stack of scrapbooks in his office and was forever poring over the newspapers and clipping items of interest. Sometimes she wondered how he ever got any work done. But Mary and her aunt found Oliver's knowledge about society useful in the agency's business dealings. In his own life, he had a regrettable tendency to seek lower company. Oliver's love affair with his rich father's chef had caused the man to disown him.

Was it true that Sunny was not really Nicholas Raeburn's daughter? Did it matter? It was apparent to her that they loved each other very much. The warmhearted Nicholas would never disown the little girl.

The poor child, subject of rumors and innuendo. She was too young to feel it now, but as she grew older, the rumblings about her origins could have a dreadful effect upon her. She'd need Nicholas more than ever then.

And perhaps a loving stepmother.

Eliza picked up the leather binder Oliver had given her upon arrival and flipped through the pages. “A souvenir,” he'd called it, as if she could ever forget the confusing days spent on Lindsey Street. The disgusting headlines jumped out at her and she snapped the book shut. Mrs. Quinn had burned all the papers in the stove this morning, and Eliza was inclined to hand her the scrapbook as well.

Oliver blotted his mouth with a lace-edged napkin. “Ouch. How violent you are with my poor offering. If what you tell me is true, there will be more newspaper articles in the morning papers whether you like them or not.” He rose and straightened an invisible wrinkle out of his jacket. “I'll send the candidates over at ten o'clock the day after tomorrow, if that's a convenient time. Back to the grindstone for me. Old Mrs. Evensong is a slave driver. Thank you for the tea, my dear. We do miss you on Mount Street.”

Eliza knew Mrs. Evensong was waiting for Oliver with a decanter of brandy. Since Mary married, he had been offered her room over the agency's genteel offices, and was now an adopted member of the Evensong family. His round-the-clock presence relieved Mary from too much worry about her aunt.

She was tempted to tell him about Nicholas's scheme to have her work for his friend Sir Thomas Featherstone, but she hadn't even met the man yet. No point to counting chickens, and she didn't want to appear disloyal to the Evensong Agency and the wonderful people who had become her family as well.

Impulsively, she stood on tiptoe and kissed Oliver's cheek. “Thank you for coming, Oliver. I need a friend. And maybe a daily charwoman to help out the housekeeper.” She wouldn't ask for another nurse. Dr. Samuelson had not been encouraging on that front.

Oliver smiled down at her. “I think that can be arranged. A cleaning woman might not be as fussy as a governess regarding where she works.”

“Oh dear. You think we'll have trouble finding someone to replace me?”

Oliver sat down again. “Damn. I almost escaped without adding to your worries. To tell you the truth, Eliza, I wasn't much impressed with the women I interviewed. Those that had potential weren't interested in the circumstances of the situation. The Raeburns have courted scandal for years, you know. Governesses are a snobbish lot. Their consequence is a reflection of the family they serve, and all this notoriety is not helpful.”

Eliza was too enervated to sit. “It's not fair! Once you get to know Nicholas, he's not as outré as all that. And Sunny is just delightful when she's not unwell.” She paced to the marble fireplace and picked up a small bronze horse from the mantel. Its heft made her want to throw it at something, but she mustn't let her frustration get the better of her.

Oliver raised a golden brow. “That's the fourth or fifth time you've slipped and called the man by his given name. Are you sure you
want
to leave?”

“Don't be ridiculous! Of course I want to leave. I am not trained for this.”

“It might be good experience, you know. For when you become a mother.”

Eliza halted in mid-step. “I am not getting married, Oliver.”

“How can you say that with such assurance? You're not a total antidote. Some poor half-blind fellow might succumb. Anything might happen in the twentieth century.”

He was teasing, she knew. While Eliza was not half as beautiful as Oliver was, she was not a total antidote at all. “I don't have any plans to marry.”

“Far be it for me to quote Rabbie Burns in the home of a Scotsman, but you know what he said about best-laid schemes.”

“I can't understand Burns.” She was unnatural—poetry and art had never moved her much. Give her a column of figures to reconcile, and that was a different story.

“Heathen.” He stood again, fussing with the same nonexistent fold. Oliver was such a man-milliner. “Listen, I'll do my best. Maybe Mrs. Evensong has someone up her sleeve to add to the list—you never know. The old girl is quite a wonder still.”

“How is Harriet faring?” Harriet had been Mary's right-hand woman before Oliver stepped in to fill the breach after the young woman was hospitalized for appendicitis last June. Her recuperation had been worryingly slow.

“Still knocked off her feet. Mrs. E and I worry about her. She should be all healed by now, but she can only manage a day or two a week in the office without needing complete bed rest. We'd send her to the Forsyth Palace Hotel, but they're about to close for the season.” The hotel's spa regimen was legendary, especially now that they had a proper medical staff for the guests.

“Give her my best.”

“Of course.”

Eliza walked him down the hall to the front door. “Did you come by omnibus?”

“No. The Underground. I may hail a hackney cab on Kensington High Street to go back—the tube will be mobbed at this hour. Do take care of yourself, Eliza.”

Her hand shot out to the door handle. “Wait.” Gingerly she opened to door a fraction. Lo and behold, there were four reporters loitering in front of the house. They looked up instantly, their faces lit with curiosity.

“Damn.”

Oliver peeked over her head. “The afternoon editions must have prompted them to camp out on the sidewalk. I wonder what was said.”

“I'll never know because I can't leave the house! You shouldn't go out this way, Oliver. You don't want to get mixed up in all of this.” She slammed the door shut.

“Well, what do you suggest? A reverse Father Christmas? Perhaps I can climb
up
the chimney.”

“Be serious. I suppose you can go out into the back garden. Are your trousers loose enough to climb over a wall?”

Oliver rolled his eyes. “Now who is being silly? I'll break my pretty neck.”

“Better than risking your reputation. They won't leave you alone if they know you were here. Imagine them looking into—” Eliza cleared her throat, grateful from Oliver's grim nod that she didn't need to say more.