The Reluctant Governess (11 page)

“Very well. But you'll owe me. I'll expect complete obedience when you come back to work. Hot and cold running tea at all hours of the day. Perfectly typed contracts. My desk dusted and organized.”

“I do that now,” Eliza said dryly.

“You'll have to do even more of it. With any luck, this will all have died down before I send the candidates round.”

Eliza hoped so. She found she was unsuited to living under siege, especially since she didn't have any boiling oil handy.

Love Triangle or Love Rectangle?

Mystery Man Spotted Leaving Naughty Nicky's Love Nest by Garden Gate: Trouble in Paradise?

Maisie: He Came to Murder US

Raeburn Pleads Case, Loses Breakfast

Governess or Good-Time Girl?

 

Nick shut his eyes and wished Mrs. Quinn had not gone out to the market this morning and brought back fourteen newspapers along with a roasting chicken. The clump of reporters had disappeared after Tubby told his side of the story and passed out pound notes, but Nick had a feeling they'd return unless something catastrophic happened elsewhere in the city. Phil Cross had been arraigned this morning with Tubby giving evidence since Nick could not seem to get out of bed.

Eliza Lawrence was fit to be tied. Good-time girl indeed. Right now she was refusing to speak to him unless absolutely necessary. She was a frosty ice queen, so of course Tubby was in love already.

“Gad, but she's a looker,” his friend said, propping his feet up on the scattered scandal sheets on the counterpane. “Has she warmed your bed yet, old man?”

“For the gods' sake, Tubby, I'm sick. Practically dying. The last thing I'm thinking about is sexual congress with my reluctant governess.”

That was not precisely true. All night Nick had dreams of painting a pliant Eliza au naturel
,
her pale skin flushed with desire. Her only adornment had been, oddly enough, a hat—a frivolous confection in pink that brought out the blush to her cheeks and the rose of her nipples. Because it was
his
dream, he had fashioned her to perfection. It would be interesting to see if his imagination matched her reality.

Suddenly fingers were snapping in his face. “I say, have you heard a word I've said?”

“Sorry. At death's door.”

“That's not what the quack said. I was right here for his visit, remember.”

Yes, Nick was improving, but not fast enough. He was wasting time in bed.

Particularly if Eliza wasn't in it with him.

Where did that thought come from? Three days ago he didn't even know the girl.

He didn't know her now, except he was very aware she had a temper when libeled. Or was it slandered? He could never remember the difference.

“Can you do me a favor, Tubby?”

“Anything for an old friend. Especially if you'll give me Miss Lawrence for my project. I marvel that you are willing to let her go.”

As if he could keep her here.

But maybe he could. With ribbons. Silk scarves. Tie her to his bedposts. No doubt a gag would be necessary to silence her inevitable objections. Nick's cock lifted in a most embarrassing way.

“That will be up to her. She already has a receptionist position at the Evensong Agency that she's happy with, and room for advancement.”

Tubby whistled. “‘Performing the Impossible Before Breakfast Since 1888.' She must be a whiz if they hired her. My father used them to get out of his entanglement with Mrs. Roberts.” Tubby would be even richer today had it not been for his father and his string of Mrs. Robertses.

“Yes, she seems very capable,” Nick said vaguely. Now that he gave it some consideration, he didn't know if he liked the idea of Eliza working for Tubby. For one thing, Tubby wasn't tubby at all—he was an attractive, fit fellow with a meticulously groomed nut-brown moustache, whose deep pockets were filled to bursting with money. His nickname had sprung from an incident in his school days involving paper boats and bath time and had stuck, just as those boats had stuck in the drain and flooded his dormitory. Maybe it was time he started calling the man Thomas.

“I need a hat,” Nick said.

“A derby? The No. 9 Electro is a good choice. It's a bit late in the year for a straw boater. Or are you dining with the King anytime soon? I can find you a proper John Bull top hat.”

“No, no. Not for me. You know I don't like to wear hats—they ruin my curls. I need a lady's hat, something pink and delicate. Flowers, ribbons, a feather or two. Expensive. So fetching that a lady would be unable to refuse it.”

“It's not a peace offering for that Maisie, is it? You'll waste your blunt there. She's taken you into great dislike. She even spat at me in the courtroom. Fortunately her aim was off.” Tubby shuddered.

“No good deed goes unpunished, and don't worry, I shall never attempt to be Sir Galahad again.”

“So who is the lucky recipient of the hat I'm to purchase?”

“Never you mind. Just buy something exquisite. I trust your taste.”

Tubby swung his legs off the bed. “Am I to leave this instant to find a milliner?”

“Please. You'll find money in the desk drawer.”

Tubby waved him off. “We'll settle the accounts later. You looked fagged to death. Why don't you take a nap?”

How Nick wanted to. But it behooved him to spend a little time with Sunny. The household was getting back to normal. She'd returned to her own room with her bear and books, and he could hear Eliza talking to her across the hall.

There was a burst of laughter from them both, and it did something odd to Nick's heart.

“They sound as if they're getting on well,” Tubby remarked as he pulled on his gloves. He'd already complained that there was no one at the door to take his coat and hat once he'd gotten rid of the reporters and entered the house. After ringing the bell in a fruitless effort, Tubby had used the key Nick had given each of his friends that fateful night.

Everyone in the house had been hiding from the press, including Nick.

Maybe he should go to ground and book a suite in one of the new hotels. Order a room service meal if his stomach could handle it.

No. That was the coward's way out. Anyhow, he was fairly sure he could smell roast chicken and apple tart right now, and the aromas were rather pleasant. Tonight he might dine in the dining room with his daughter and her governess no matter what the doctor said, and they could pretend everything was normal.

Nick bade good-bye to Tubby and dragged himself out of bed, brushing his hair behind his ears. He was due for a haircut—the artistic locks he sported and never covered unless it was snowing might have been fine for Italy (where it never snowed), but not staid old England (where it did). He needed to shave, too, if he was to be the civilized head of his little family.

Family
. He'd run from the Raeburns for years. Oh, his brothers were fine fellows, just meddling. Quick to tell him what to do when they hadn't a clue how to run their own lives.

He put on his bathrobe and shuffled across the hall. Eliza and Sunny sat on the bed in Indian fashion, a deck of dog-eared playing cards between them.

“Are you corrupting my child?”

“Papa!” In an instant Sunny had tumbled off the bed and into his arms, nearly knocking him over. “Miss Lawrence is teaching me to add. Did you know that the seven of hearts plus the three of clubs equals ten? I counted!”

Nick ruffled her hair. “I suppose you used your fingers.”

“Indeed I did not! I looked at the hearts and clubs and combined them together.”

“Clearts or hubs, I wonder? I wished I'd learned my maths from a deck of cards. That almost sounds like fun.”

“It is, Papa. We are making pairs that equal ten. Come play with us.” She tugged on his hand to drag him to the bed.

What if he climbed up on it, his weight sagging the mattress? Eliza might topple over into his arms. She'd look up at him—annoyed rather than dewy-eyed, he bet. No point to the fantasy if it didn't end well.

“I wish I could. But if I'm to join you for dinner downstairs, I need to lock myself in the lavatory for a spell and freshen up. I may even put on a cravat. I trust you have no objection, Miss Lawrence?”

Eliza examined her hands. “The dining room faces the street, Mr. Raeburn,” she said, her voice barely audible.

“Well then, we'll just have to pull the curtains shut. I'm not going to let those idiots determine where we eat or what we do. This is my house. My castle, so to speak. Eventually they'll all get bored and go away.”

“Who will go away, Papa? Those men outside that Uncle Tubby spoke to?”

“Yes, poppet. And don't you go looking out the windows or opening the door to them. Maybe I really should try to get a butler. Where we'd put him, I don't know.” Daniel Preble couldn't afford one, and had used the two rooms at the top of the house for his studio and storage. Nick had made the latter room a venue for his photography equipment, and did not want to give up an inch of space.

Maybe this house wasn't right for him after all. It suited the life of a bohemian artist like Daniel, but Nick was a family man now. The garden was too overgrown for Sunny to play in, too.

They might all be better off in Scotland at Raeburn Court. The place was so big they could stake out a wing and never see Alec and Mary unless the occasion warranted it. His brother had wanted him home, not that Nick had thought of the place as home for ages.

Damn. His head was pounding again with the logistics of it all. Selling the Lindsey Street house. Packing up everything after barely unpacking. Persuading Eliza to come to Scotland. She liked Mary, didn't she? They could keep each other company over the endless Scottish winter.

His mind was truly scrambled if he imagined Eliza would agree to continue on—she wouldn't even raise her eyes from the cards to look at him.

And Nick was in no position to make a decision about much of anything—even the prospect of getting dressed was draining. But he had to pull himself together, and soon—Tubby planned a show for him in one of the galleries he sponsored next month. The shipment of paintings would be here soon from Italy, and he wondered if his and Daniel's work would pass each other in transit. And he wanted to add some photographs to the display as well—there probably wasn't time to undertake a new canvas.

Unless he could get Eliza to pose for him. She was a most desirable subject, worth staying up the night for.

Unlikely. Nick imagined her snorting at his proposition, her delicate nostrils flaring. She couldn't wait to get out of his house and away from him.

It took him three times as long as usual to make himself presentable for their little dinner party. He'd scraped his face twice and misbuttoned his waistcoat once, but Nick was beginning to feel his juices flow. He was itching to get up to the studio, no matter how many stairs he had to mount. But now it was time to go down, a slightly easier task. He noted that the drawing room curtains on the first floor were closed, as if they expected a reporter to climb a tree and peer in.

Eliza and Sunny were already seated in the dining room, the electric chandelier blazing since the fringed velvet drapes were closed, covering the rather pretty stained glass medallion that was set into the window to the street.

“Good evening, ladies.” He took his place at the table, which was set with a profusion of crystal and silver. The effect was somewhat dazzling for a midweek family supper.

“I set the table myself, Papa,” Sunny said proudly. “Miss Lawrence helped only a little.”

“Very impressive, poppet. I should have brought my sun spectacles down.”

“I'm sorry. Does the electric light hurt your eyes?” Eliza asked.

“I was making a joke, Miss Lawrence. All the silverware and plates and glasses have quite a shine to them, do they not? They're a bit blinding.”

“Oh.” She turned scarlet. Nick imagined she wasn't much used to jokes in her line of work.

Sue had recovered sufficiently to help Mrs. Quinn serve the simple dinner. The conversation that flowed was not as dazzling as the dinnerware and was dominated by Sunny, who was unaware of the tension between the two adults in the room. When the last of the apple tart was removed, Nick stood.

“Miss Lawrence, I'd like to speak to you after Sunny goes to sleep. And you
will
go right to sleep like a good girl, won't you, poppet?”

“What do you wish to discuss, sir?” My, she was being somewhat formal for a woman who had seen most of his bobs and bits.

“We have those interviews tomorrow, do we not? We'll need to make a list of questions.”

“What's an interview, Papa?”

Damn. Sunny wasn't aware that Eliza was not going to stay. His daughter had formed a strong attachment to her in such a brief period of time. Friendship in adversity—they were all bound together by the hardships of the past few days.

“It's like a meeting, sweetheart, where grown-ups talk. You'll be downstairs with Sue and Mrs. Quinn while Miss Lawrence helps me.” The last thing he needed was Sunny climbing into the vase to hide.

“Are those men coming?”

Lord. He'd forgotten about the reporters. Hopefully they wouldn't be camped out on the steps so the governesses could get through.

“No. This meeting is for ladies only,” Eliza said. “You needn't be afraid. Your papa has everything in hand.”

Did he? That was news to Nick.

It had been no trouble at all coaxing Sunny to sleep—she was still peaky from her illness, and dining with her father downstairs in such a lavish state had quite worn her out. Eliza kissed the child's cool forehead and listened for the telltale even breathing.

She would be back upstairs herself soon, nestled next to the sleeping child, hoping a little foot wouldn't find its way to kick her all through the night. Living in the Raeburn household was exhausting. Lord knows what mischief Nicholas would get up to next. Saving elephants from the circus? Releasing lunatics from Bedlam? Anything was possible.

Eliza paused by the mirror to make sure her updo was still smooth. The collar of her shirtwaist was high enough to choke her—she had no available evening dress to dine with her employer. Her pink silk hung in the closet at home, several years out of date put still pretty. Eliza couldn't remember the last time she'd worn it.

She'd brought it to the Forsyth Palace Hotel on the off chance she might somehow contrive to dine with Richard Hurst. It had remained in the closet there, too.

Nicholas had asked her to meet him in the drawing room. It ran the depth of the house and once must have been two rooms. An ornate columned archway in the middle kept the ceiling from falling on their heads.

The room was littered with so much furniture and bibelots it was difficult to navigate. Nicholas was sitting at the far end overlooking the back garden and the houses on the next street, though the drapery was closed against prying eyes. He sprang up as soon as she stood in the doorway.

“That was fast! I usually have to read about ten stories before Sunny drops off. Sometimes the same story ten times. Come in, come in, and make yourself comfortable. Would you like some Turkish coffee? Or perhaps a drop of brandy?” She noted he had nothing by his side, still following Dr. Samuelson's cautions. Though the little copper pot's scent was inviting, this wasn't a social occasion. Eliza shook her head and took a chair as far away from him as possible.

“Sunny was tired, as am I. I hope this won't take long. You should be in bed, too. Doctor's orders.”

“All business, aren't you, Miss Lawrence? I had hoped we could relax for a few moments together.”

Eliza noted he'd dispensed with his tie, an absurd paisley thing the likes of which she'd never seen on a gentleman before.

But Nicholas Raeburn was not a gentleman, despite his breeding.

He reached inside his jacket pocket and withdrew a small notepad and silver pencil. “All right. You've got experience on both sides of the desk. What questions would you put to a potential governess?”

“I would ascertain if she were organized. Punctual. A child should have a daily schedule. The structure is healthy for the child and the household.”

Nicholas looked up, a frown on his face. “What if something comes up?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know. One is on a walk with one's governess, and one sees something too interesting to pass by. One has to examine it, which makes one late to luncheon.”

“It is rude to inconvenience the servants who have worked hard to put that luncheon on the table. A child should show consideration for those who care for her, no matter how interesting that something is. A good governess will stick to the schedule and perhaps return at a later date to examine the someth—the object in question.”

The silver pencil was moving at a furious pace on the paper. “What if that object was no longer there?”

Eliza shook her head. “In my experience, when one is young one, one is somewhat forgetful. Passing fancies, and all that. Out of sight, out of mind, like your friend Mr. Preble and his bills.”

“You don't know Sunny all that well then,” Nicholas said, turning a page.

“Of course I don't know her well! I've only been here a short time. But stubbornness in children should be rooted out at an early age. You won't thank me or any governess when she is a young lady who thinks she's fallen in love with an unsuitable man and cannot be swayed by rationality.”

“Some might say
I'm
an unsuitable man, Miss Lawrence.”

Eliza had nothing to say to that. This discussion was very odd indeed.

Nicholas got tired waiting for her reply, though his pages kept flipping. “All right,” he sighed. “So you believe routine is important for a child's development. What else?”

“Well, the woman in question should be clean. Tidy. Kind. Knowledgeable in the basics, of course. When Sunny gets older, I presume you'll want to send her to a proper school and she'll need to be adequately prepared.”

“Adequate. Proper,” Nicholas muttered. “This tidy new governess sounds deadly dull. If the woman won't stop to admire the marvel of a leaf that's lost its chlorophyll and be ten minutes late to lunch, I don't want to hire her. And you've ranked kindness smack in the middle. It seems to me kindness is the most important quality.”

“Well, of course it is! It goes without saying.”

“Does it? Didn't you say the Hurst children had some horrible old crone before you came?”

Miss Bemelman. Eliza had worked hard to extricate that woman from the children's dreams. “Yes, sir.”

“Well then. I assume she was qualified and organized and clean, and look what happened.”

Eliza swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

“Stop with the sir-ing. We are on too intimate terms for such nonsense.”

Eliza felt her face grow hot. “We are not on intimate terms, Mr. Raeburn!”

“Everyone else thinks we are, according to the gossip rags. You may as well acknowledge that.”

“At least they haven't printed my name!” A miracle, that.

And bound not to last.

Nicholas—Mr. Raeburn—was still busy scribbling. “What are you doing?” Eliza asked. “You aren't recording our argument in Pitman shorthand, are you?”

“Good heavens, no. That would be your area of expertise. If you must know, I'm sketching you again. I need one more large painting for the exhibit Tubby is sponsoring, and I doubt I'll get any more models here until this Maisie business blows over. You don't mind, do you?”

Mind? Of course she minded! He was drawing her without permission and would expose her to the world! “I forbid it!”

“Oh dear, Miss Lawrence. I'm afraid I never had a governess beat my stubbornness out of me. When an idea takes root, it grows unfettered.”

“I'll—I'll
fetter
you!” Eliza said, having no idea if she was making any sense. Was fetter even a verb? Nicholas Raeburn seemed to have that effect on her.

“Don't worry. I won't paint your face in, though it's a shame. You are very attractive, as you must know. I'm envisioning a life study, though you'll be wearing a hat.”

Eliza was now speechless. A life study. Didn't that mean nude? She managed to summon a breath. “As I said to you from the very first day, I am not removing my clothes for you!”

“Yes, yes,” Nicholas said dismissively. “There's no need of that. It's the language of your body I'm looking for, how you hold yourself. The primness. The surety. You are so very rigid. The nudity will make for a nice contrast. Reveal the tension and duality of your nature.”

Eliza clasped her hands so she would not pick up the bronze statue of Pan that rested on the table next to her, along with about eight other small objects, all of which would make satisfactory missiles. Pan's sharp hooves looked especially deadly if they were to sink into soft human flesh. “You did not really ask me here to discuss the interviews, then.”

Nicholas looked up at her, his face deceptively innocent. “Of course I did, and I value your opinion. I just don't agree with it. I'm beginning to think that the constraints expected in London will not be suitable for Sunny. She needs more freedom to decide who she's going to be.

“It's funny, you know—I couldn't wait to escape Scotland as a lad and become a free man and out from under my brothers' thumbs and every other digit. But now I wonder if it would not be better for Sunny to be raised at Raeburn Court. No one would bother us there. I could still come down to London to flog my work a couple of times a year. Maybe I'll take you out to lunch when I do.”

Eliza opened her mouth to refuse, then thought the better of it. Nicholas Raeburn was simply mad, and she was not having lunch with him. Ever.

“That's it! It's too bad I can't capture the expression on your face. It's perfect.”

Perfect for what? An illustration of a murderess? Eliza rose.

“The candidates will arrive at ten o'clock tomorrow morning. I, for one, have had a long day.” A long,
horrible
day, filled with scurrilous newspaper stories her mother had read. Eliza had tried to explain on the telephone, but the connection was not all it could have been. Eliza had taken the precaution of sending Dr. Samuelson to make sure her mother was all right.

She squelched the urge to snatch the pad from Nicholas's long-fingered hands. “Good night,
sir
.” Her emphasis on the last word left no doubt of her displeasure.

“I don't suppose I could impose on you for a few minutes longer. These sketches will be very helpful.”

Eliza was uninterested in being helpful. She had tried to give the man good, sensible advice, and he'd rejected it out of hand. “No. Sir.”

Instead of being rebuffed, he threw back his head and laughed. “Really, Eliza. Are you sure you're not a governess at heart? You are so very . . . stringent.”

“Whether I'm a governess or a typewriter girl, I am a virtuous woman.”

Nicholas clucked. “No one is asking to deflower you, at least not at present. I wouldn't say no to another kiss, mind you, but I just want to catch the set of your shoulders. Give me another few minutes.”

Deflower! Kiss! He had colossal nerve, but it was as if he were speaking of the weather.

“You—you—” She was at a loss for words.

“I, I,” he agreed. He was so damned equable.

She wanted to run, but for some reason her feet stuck to the carpet.

“I think I'll paint you defending your virtue, holding a sword. Allegorical pictures are all the rage with a certain type of collectors. Not my usual style, but it might be an amusing exercise. Could you raise your right arm? Or are you left-handed?”

Eliza raised her chin instead, her arms remaining at her sides. “No.” Skipping the sir was an indication he had finally gone too far.

“Even better! What a fanatical gleam you possess, Miss Lawrence. Magnificent. It's a pity you won't pose for me formally.” The pages fluttered by as he did who knows what with his little pencil.

She could sneak into his room later and steal the notebook. That would show him, the wretch.

Now where had that idea come from? Thoughts of murder and theft were generally absent in Eliza's world. A few days with Nicholas Raeburn, and she was ready to join a gang.

“I am going to bed,” Eliza said.

Nicholas hopped up, tucking the notebook inside his jacket. “All right. I think I've got what I need. I say, Miss Lawrence, I'm feeling so very much better. Perhaps tomorrow I'll make the climb up to my studio.”

“We have the interviews,” she reminded him.

“But not until ten, correct? There's a lot of morning light before that. Don't worry, I'll be there with bells on.”

“Don't forget to take your sleeping draught. Dr. Samuelson says it's safe now.” When the doctor had visited today, he'd prescribed the medicine to help with the pain of the stab wound. Even as Nicholas had been sketching, he'd stopped to rub his thigh.

If he was properly unconscious, it would be the simplest thing to sneak in and take the notebook, and the larger one he'd used the other day, too, if she could find it. He would have nothing to work from, which would suit Eliza to the ground. She had no intention of being immortalized like Contessa Barbara Whosis.

“You're probably right. I may have overdone it a little today. Allow me to accompany you up the stairs.” He held out an elbow, and it would have been rude to reject it.

Was he supporting her or was she supporting him? They managed to make it up the flight of stairs in tandem, Eliza willing herself not to trip. The sconces cast a dim light in the hallway between the two bedrooms, and she was anxious to get into her room without waking Sunny.

It was not an ideal situation for a governess, to share a bed with one's charge. Eliza would suggest Nicholas get a trundle for his daughter in order to sweeten the deal with her replacement.

But then if he planned to leave this house, it wouldn't matter. She had seen photographs of Raeburn Court, and likely Sunny would have to follow a bread crumb trail to find the breakfast room. The place was enormous, nearly the size of the Forsyth Palace Hotel, and in such a beautiful part of the world. The new governess and little girl would have plenty of room to roam.

But Nicholas Raeburn had only just arrived in London. How could he contemplate moving again? The newspaper notoriety would eventually die down, wouldn't it? A worldly man like Nicholas Raeburn would be bored to death in the country.

He disentangled her arm from his. “Good night, then, Miss Lawrence. Thank you for steadying me up the steps.”

“You-you're welcome.” He still stood so close. Too close.

In an instant she knew what he was about to do, but wasn't in time to stop him. Nicholas cupped her cheek, his fingers light as angels' wings against her skin. He did not close his eyes, nor could she. She saw the raised welt on his face from the shameful alarm clock assault, all the discoloration around his eye, the black knots of thread over his brow. Somehow none of his injuries made him any less compelling.

She touched his jaw, smoother now than it had been earlier in the day. They stood facing each other, barely touching, the air charged around them.