The Reluctant Governess (17 page)

He pushed her down on the backseat and more or less threw himself on top of her.

“Sorry to surprise you. Everything will come right, you'll see,” Nick said once he caught his breath after Eliza elbowed him in the gut. “Drive on, Tubby. Keep your head down, Eliza. I don't want them to recognize us.”

He thought she asked, “What is the meaning of this?” but as her face was squashed into the plush leather seat, he could have been mistaken. Despite his apology and assurances, it was like wrestling with a hedgehog. Eliza had no intention of subduing herself and had come close to unmanning him. She had a future as an acrobat if she didn't care to go back to the Evensong Agency.

“I've sent Sunny away with Mrs. Quinn. She has a sister in Islington. Sue, too. No one will find them there, and they'll be perfectly safe,” he explained, although she wouldn't understand yet. “Is the coast clear?” he asked Tubby.

“My word, you sound like a character from one of those spy books you used to read at school,” his friend replied from the front seat. “I believe you're enjoying this havey-cavey business.”

“Not hardly,” muttered Nick. “Can we sit up now?”

“You
can
, but you may not. One of those news chappies is running after us on foot. Curse this traffic. I'm not sure I can get away.”

“Try. The last thing I need is—oof.” Another elbow, this time lower.

“Get off me, you blackguard!” his hedgehog spoke, her voice as sharp as all her limbs.

That
he could definitely understand. Reluctantly, Nick rolled away. “Now, just listen, Eliza. There's a good reason for all of this.”

Her hat had come off in the melee and her gorgeous golden hair was tumbling down her shoulders. She struggled with the folds of her gray coat, sat up, and then shrieked.

Nick turned to see a strange face pressed against the window. “Damn it, Tubby! Drive!”

“I thought you said Cross was no threat,” Eliza said, pitching forward as Tubby switched gears. The reporter gave one feeble slap to the window as the car squeaked between two horse-drawn delivery vans, then lurched away. Nick looked out the rear window, but could not spot the man who'd been chasing them.

“It's not Cross I'm worried about, but Daniel Preble,” he replied, helping her back into the seat. “You remember sending the crates of paintings to him in Paris? Well, he got them. That letter, too. I received a telegram from him while you were out.”

“I don't understand. Does he want his house back?”

“Worse. Though he'll probably expect me to give it back to him as well. He's after Sunny. Oh hell, he doesn't want
her
, but the money that comes with her.”

Eliza looked at him as if he'd grown two heads, though one was more than sufficient at the moment since a headache was pounding away with dreadful efficiency. “He thinks Sunny is his daughter,” Nick said as patiently as he could. “Barbara's letter intimated as much. But I don't believe it.”

He
couldn't
believe it. Sunny was his in all the ways that mattered. He'd raised her since she was in nappies having nightmares missing her mother. Nick had arranged his whole life around the little girl—more or less. He supposed there had been some brief wicked spells in the two years he'd been a father, but they were nothing to his past, when he'd given the devil a run for his money. Was there money in hell? All the more reason for Daniel to go there directly.

A man like Daniel Preble couldn't raise Sunny. He'd fob her off on servants.

Oh God. Just as he had.

“We need to go to Islington, Tubby.”

“What? My footman's with them, Nicky. Jock's a braw fellow—they won't come to any harm. No, we're going to my house as planned. To strategize. I'll ring my solicitor. He'll know what to do.”

Nick hoped Tubby was right. The racket in his head precluded rational thought. What if one of the reporters had followed Tubby's carriage to Islington? Sunny had thought it a great lark to climb into the wicker hamper and be carried off by Tubby's footman. Mrs. Quinn and Sue had followed with their carpetbags, telling the reporters the house was being closed up and that they were wasting their time. But a few stubborn stalwarts remained lurking out front.

Nick had scarpered by way of the garden wall and snagged his trousers. He met Tubby in his car on the next block over, then waited for Eliza to return. He hadn't meant to frighten her, but he couldn't let her come back to an empty house. She would have been torn apart by the stubbornly vigilant press, too.

She was wearing a hole in her lip again. “Is it possible?” she whispered, as if Tubby weren't already privy to everything. “Could he be Sunny's natural father?”

“Anything is possible.” Nick shut his eyes, remembering his conversation with Barbara. He and Daniel had shared her favors at the relevant time; it was no secret. She'd been desperate for one of them to take the child, and there he'd been, first on the mark.

But she'd written to Daniel, too, and received no reply.

Nick had taught Sunny to speak English. Count to one hundred. Paint a recognizable cat after drawing circles and triangles. He'd promised her Scotland at Christmas, warning her they might be stuck there in the snow until spring. She'd clapped her hands and cried, “Snowmen and snowwomen!”

She'd never seen snow.

Daniel Preble could have no possible interest in an almost-five-year-old girl.

Unless it was to debauch her. Nick had heard the stories over the years but ignored them. What did he really know of Daniel, except that the man knew how to throw a fabulous party and knew everyone that mattered?

Nick had been starstruck as a lad when Daniel had taken him under his wing. He'd been a long way from the Highlands, tasting freedom and a great many other things that had been previously forbidden.

“But there's no way of knowing for sure, now that Barbara is dead. And even then—” Eliza blushed. She must have heard about Barbara's reputation.

It was true Barbara had been less than discriminate or monogamous. Nicholas had reason to know. But those days were firmly in the past for him. He had matured, had his work.

Was a father, or so he hoped. Blood and bone wasn't everything, was it?

“I don't know what she wrote in that letter. You wouldn't let me open it.”

“You were so ill. I didn't want you upset. And besides, it wasn't addressed to you.”

“Such a rule-follower. I assure you, I would have torn it to pieces—nay, eaten it if it meant we weren't in this fix. Where should we drop you?”

Her eyes widened. “Dr-drop me?”

“You don't want to come to Tubby's with me, do you? It's a bachelor gentleman's household.”

“Hm. Exactly where I've been for the better part of a week. I don't expect you brought my new hat or any of my clothes.”

Nick felt a grin coming on despite everything. “Like the hat, do you? No, I'm afraid I was in such haste, I lost my head. As soon as it's safe to go back to the house, I'll send it to you.”

“I—I can't go home just yet.” Her lips were set in a stubborn line.

“Why not? Did you argue with your mother? Lord knows, I always did, but we made up by and by.” Nick's mother's temper was legendary, but like a summer thunderstorm, the sun always came out after and sometimes there was even a rainbow.

Eliza began rolling her hair back up in haphazard fashion, searching for hairpins stuck in the loose strands. “No, it's nothing like that. My mother and I hardly ever have cross words. She's just very busy at the moment and my presence would complicate things.” She shoved her ugly hat back on and Nick wished he'd remembered the rose-pink velvet one.

“Too busy for you? I can't imagine that.”

“Well, imagine it. And I might be able to help. My previous employer was Richard Hurst. What he doesn't know about the law doesn't exist.”

Nick warred with himself. He might need all the help he could get, but approaching Hurst was not appealing. Eliza had mentioned him before, and Nick got the distinct impression the KC had been more than just an employer to her.

“We'll see. It may not amount to anything. Perhaps Daniel just wants a bribe to go away. I don't think he really wants to saddle himself with Sunny—she'd cut into his amusements. He's a very careless sort of fellow.”

“He sounds beastly.”

Nick nodded. “I suppose he is. It's taken me a while to realize it.” He took her gloved hand. “Look, I could send you to Mrs. Quinn's sister in Islington, but the flat's not much bigger than a postage stamp. They'll be hard-pressed to hide out there comfortably themselves, and the footman's there, too.”

“I can visit Sunny, can't I?”

“I wouldn't risk it. You might be followed. Once the press catches wind that I'm at Tubby's, Daniel is bound to learn of it, too. I don't know what to do with you, Eliza, and that's a fact.”

Well, he had many, many scenarios in mind, but none of them would be appropriate under Tubby's roof, nor would Eliza likely agree to them.

“You told me Sir Thomas's house is huge.”

“So it is,” Tubby piped up from behind the wheel. “Big as a barn. You can have my dead mother's room.”

“By the gods, Tubby, you're not being helpful. And a touch grisly.”

“M'mother's not actually laid out there still,” Tubby said reasonably. “She popped off ages ago. No ghosts or goblins that I know of.”

“Just act as chauffeur, please,” Nick said, wanting to keep Eliza to himself.

That proved impossible for his garrulous friend and his polite governess. For the remainder of the drive, Tubby and Eliza chatted amiably, with Tubby looking backward far too often for Nick's comfort. The traffic was atrocious at this hour. Londoners were hurrying home to tea and Nick hoped his friend would not run over any of them.

It wouldn't take long for the newspapers to twig on to the fact that Nick was at Featherstone House. Tubby had acted as his representative both on his front steps and in the courtroom. Nick would have to go back eventually and face Daniel, armed with some sort of plan.

His very worst fear was that Sunny would be dragged onto the front pages, her questionable parentage exposed for all the world to see. He knew there were already rumors, but she was an innocent little girl. There should be no such word as illegitimate. It would be a tragedy if this touched her future.

For the thousandth time, he wished he'd stayed in his cozy Italian villa. He could be strolling through the lemon grove, painting in the garden, drinking young wine. Sunny was protected there, but the urgent pleas from his brothers to come home had finally worn him down.

Nick had returned too late to be of any help to Alec; his new wife seemed to be managing him quite nicely now, and his reputation was on the mend. Nick hadn't seen Evan yet and didn't expect him to come down to London—of the three brothers, he was the one least likely to uproot himself, a Scotsman through and through. Nick prayed Evan was too busy with the distillery to read the English newspapers—his temper rivaled their mother's. He'd be the next Raeburn to find himself on the front pages.

“Here we are, ‘home again, home again, jiggity jig,'” Tubby said, pulling into the mews behind the ever-imposing Featherstone House. Tubby kept several conveyances, both motorized and horse driven, and a slew of grooms raced out to drive the car into its bay.

“Chauffeur's day off, y'know,” he confided to Eliza as he helped her out of the Pegasus. “How did I do?”

“I have no one to compare you with,” Eliza said somewhat breathlessly. “That was my first ride in an automobile.”

“And under such inauspicious circumstances, you poor girl. I'll have to get you into the country. There's nothing like a drive in the great outdoors.”

Over Nick's dead body. If Eliza was going to the country, it would be with him.

Damn. Nick wanted her gone, didn't he? They had pretty much come to that conclusion before she went to visit her mother this afternoon. He couldn't trust himself around her. And now she said she couldn't move back home. What sort of rubbish was that?

Here she was, with only the clothes on her back. Maybe Tubby's dead mother had left some dresses behind before she went to her reward, though as Nick recalled, Lady Featherstone was built along the line of a ship's prow.

He would go home tomorrow and await Daniel's arrival. Nick wasn't a coward, wasn't about to be bullied to give up his daughter. He'd saved his own correspondence from Barbara. Had a letter from her
avvocato,
too, naming him guardian. If he could put his hands on them. He still had not completely unpacked his trunks.

His paintings were due soon as well, so someone needed to open the door on Lindsey Street. As long as Sunny was tucked away, Nick knew he could face whatever Fate had in store for him.

Eliza reminded herself to keep her expression neutral, but it was difficult not to gawk. Featherstone House was as big as a palace, and Sir Thomas lived in it alone, if you didn't count the dozens of servants he employed. The furniture in the reception rooms was gilded, the paintings the size of playing fields, the chinoiserie abundant. She was afraid she might take a misstep and crash into priceless antiques, proving once and for all she was too gauche for the company she was presently keeping.

The Raeburns were rich, but Sir Thomas Featherstone was a veritable Midas, though his butler was far more formal than he was. Any man who permitted people to call him Tubby must not stand on ceremony. He was a good-looking man, with a dark moustache and close-cropped hair to match. The cut and quality of his clothing was excellent, as befitted a gentleman of his rank and fortune. Oliver would be hopelessly impressed. And jealous. Eliza wondered if he had clippings relating to Sir Thomas and decided he must. The man was an art impresario, turning up everywhere the important people were.

Nicholas seemed perfectly at ease in all this splendor, and Eliza decided to pretend she was just as comfortable. It would have been helpful if she'd been wearing her lovely new hat, but beggars couldn't be choosers. Since she'd been virtually abducted off the street, she had to make do with what she had on.

To his credit, the butler Hitchborn didn't bat an eye at his employer's mixed company. He and two footmen and a maid had delivered a massive tea tray to the wood-paneled library, although the gentlemen were drinking whiskey, Raeburn's Special Reserve, to be exact. Eliza nibbled on cress and butter sandwiches, straining to relax.

They were awaiting Sir Thomas's solicitor. Her suggestion to enlist Richard Hurst's help had been rejected, quite unfairly, in her opinion. But perhaps it was for the best—she wouldn't have to look at both of the men who were responsible for her past foolishness at the same time.

Nicholas paced the length of the room, which was considerable. His russet hair was every which way and somehow that made him look even more attractive. Seated in a leather club chair, Sir Thomas—she couldn't call him Tubby—stretched his long legs out before him.

“Do sit down, Nicky. You're making me tired,” he drawled, giving Eliza a wink. He placed his tumbler on a haphazard stack of art books that served as an end table.

Nicholas halted mid-step. “Sorry. I know I panicked this afternoon, and I'm grateful for all your help.”

“Think nothing of it.” Sir Thomas smiled. “What are friends for? And friends' footmen and coachmen, for that matter. Though I warned you years ago about Preble.”

“And to my shame, I didn't listen. I'm an idiot.”

Neither Eliza nor Sir Thomas corrected him.

“What did Mr. Preble's telegram say?” Eliza asked.

Nicholas reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the crumpled paper. His voice was wooden when he read. “‘Barbara's letter enlightening even from the grave. Returning to London immediately to discuss the little girl's future. Am sure you will want discretion as your latest amusing news has already crossed the Channel. Poor Nicky. Expect me soonest. Keep a bed warm for me.'”

“No wonder the man's bankrupt,” Sir Thomas said. “Who sends a cable like that? It must have cost a fortune.”

“But there really cannot be proof of Sunny's paternity, letter or not,” Eliza reminded him. “Unless one is monogamous. And, to speak frankly, I take it the contessa was not.”

Nicholas poured another glass of whiskey from the crystal decanter. “Sunny is the image of her mother. I can see nothing of myself in her, or Daniel.”

“Let's hope she doesn't develop Preble's beak as she grows up. Nasty sort of nose. Suits the man to a T.”

Nicholas didn't smile at Sir Thomas's attempt at humor. “I don't want the papers to catch wind of any of this. It's bad enough right now. If Daniel decides to use the press as leverage, it wouldn't surprise me. I don't care for myself, but Sunny would suffer if her background is revealed. People have long memories.”

“It won't come to that,” Sir Thomas said confidently. “If you haven't got enough cash at the ready, I'll give the villain some money to bugger off. I need my prime artist in tip-top condition—you've got the show next month. You don't need this kind of distraction.”

“I can't borrow money from you, Tubby.”

“Why not? Everyone else does. I'm an easy touch, y'know, which is why I need a business manager of Miss Lawrence's caliber. You look like a woman who can say no, and say it often.”

Fat lot he knew. Eliza had said nothing but yes since she'd met Nicholas Raeburn. “I'm flattered by your offer, Sir Thomas, but they're holding my place at the Evensong Agency.”

“Think about it anyway. When this ruckus is over. And it will be, one way or another. Perhaps I can hire an assassin to take care of Preble as he steps off the boat.”

“Sir Thomas!”

“Oh look, I've shocked her, Nicky. It's not as if the fellow merits your Christian charity, Miss Lawrence. I'd be doing humanity a service.”

Eliza almost believed he was capable of such a thing. Sir Thomas might appear to be a cheerful, somewhat rackety dilettante, but she now sensed a darker streak inside him.

“That's enough, Tubby. You'll frighten Eliza. I've done a lot of stupid things, but ordering a man's death is not one of them. My soul's in enough peril now.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, enough of the hair shirt.” Eliza had not meant to say the words aloud, but apparently she had, judging from the way the two men stared at her. She cleared her throat. “What I mean, Nicholas—that is, Mr. Raeburn—is you made plenty of mistakes in your life, but you are not a prisoner of your past. You honor your commitments. You were given the responsibility of fatherhood, and you've done your best; Sunny is a wonderful little girl. You have loyal friends like Sir Thomas, and you care about your brothers. Really, I think you're beginning to believe your own bad press.”

One more point in his favor: He had not stolen her virtue when it was right on a platter in front of him.

Sir Thomas threw back his head and laughed. “Game, set, and match, old boy. Are you quite sure you don't want to join me in my artists' cooperative venture, Miss Lawrence? I could use someone with your level head.”

“I'm already spoken for.” Eliza wondered if she'd overstepped her bounds—of course Nicholas was upset under such dire conditions. He loved Sunny, and maybe he cared just the smallest amount for Eliza. He was looking at her now as if seeing her for the first time, and foolishly she longed for her new hat again.

Before she could say anything else that might be awkward, Hitchborn announced Sir Thomas's solicitor, Mr. Coningford. She busied herself pouring tea for the man while Nicholas explained his guardianship of Sunny and the circumstances of her birth. Mr. Coningford was a quiet older gentleman who looked like he was inured to the peculiar confessions of the upper classes—his very presence had a calming influence on them all.

When Nicholas was done, he nodded. “From what you've told me, I expect money is at the heart of any negotiation with Mr. Preble. I doubt he has any real interest in the child.”

“He may want his house back, too,” Nicholas said.

“And if that is a condition for his silence, are you willing to meet it?”

“The house means nothing to me. Not if giving it up means I can keep Sunny. I've been thinking it doesn't really suit us anyway.”

This was news to Eliza. She remembered their first meeting, when Nicholas seemed so enraptured with the property and everything in it.

“Should you find another house you prefer, I will be happy to provide legal assistance with the deed transfer. It's unlikely that the dispute over your daughter's guardianship will go to court, but if it does, I can recommend an excellent barrister who has had much success in the chancery division.”

“This matter cannot be made public,” Nicholas said grimly.

“I understand your wish for privacy, and will do everything in my power to insure it. I think it best you leave Mr. Preble to me. Should he contact you again, refer him to my office.” The solicitor drew out several business cards from a chased silver case. “Say nothing to him,
nothing
—he might use your words against you. You might have Miss Lawrence here act for you.”

Nicholas scowled. “Hide behind a woman's skirts? I think not.”

If Eliza knew Nicholas, he would be mopping up the front hallway floor with Daniel Preble before the man had a chance to open his mouth. He was as tense as a coiled spring this afternoon, ready to fight for justice. If he'd been willing to take on Phil Cross over a slight acquaintance with a model, just think what he'd want to do to the man who tried to steal his child away.

“I think that's a very good idea,” Eliza said.

“I'm not paying you to think!” Nicholas flushed at his hasty words. “I'm sorry, Eliza. I'm overset. That was unpardonable. Forgive me.”

Not to mention he hadn't paid her a penny yet.

Mr. Coningford gave him a stern look. “She is your employee. All she has to do is present my card to the man when he comes to call, no more. Keep your temper in check, young man. You are in such a state that I do not trust you to do what's sensible. I've read about you in the papers, you know. Everybody has. Preble might be able to take advantage of your recent scandal. Should you threaten him, he will only have more ammunition to use against you if we are unsuccessful persuading him to relinquish any interest in the child.”

Nicholas flushed, then nodded. A court case was the last thing he would want.

“And you should get the child out of harm's way,” Mr. Coningford continued. “If necessary, send her to Scotland to your family home.”

“I think she's safe enough where she is for the time being. Daniel might look for her in Scotland.”

“That would require effort, and Preble is the laziest bastard I know. Oh, excuse my French, Miss Lawrence,” Sir Thomas said, winking at her. Nicholas gave him a filthy look.

“Have you given any thought as to what monetary amount you are prepared to give Mr. Preble?” Mr. Coningford asked.

Nick waved a hand in frustration. “Anything he wants.”

“Then it's best you let me handle the discussion. You are too emotionally involved.”

“Of course I'm emotionally involved!” Nicholas said hotly. “Sunny means the world to me! Do you have any children, Mr. Coningford?”

“Seven. And I'm not sure I'd give up my house for two or three of them,” the man said dryly. “I think it best you determine your financial limits in a realistic fashion. Are you equipped to support Mr. Preble for the rest of his life?”

“That shouldn't be too long,” Sir Thomas said. “Someone's bound to murder the blighter eventually.”

“That won't be me. Yes, I suppose.” Nicholas ran a hand through his hair. “If I offer Daniel a lump sum, he'll just run through it and ask for more.”

“He may do that in any event. Blackmailers are not pillars of society and don't often keep their word, as you know. Your life will be inextricably twined with this fellow's, so let's make sure we move carefully. Your
final
offer will be to return his house to him and provide an allowance. It may not come to that.”

Nicholas nodded. “Settle his outstanding debts, too, but he must sign away any rights to Sunny he thinks he has. Damn, I wish I knew what was in that letter.”

Eliza chewed her lip. This mess was all her fault.

“Don't give away the store and its sidewalk just yet, Mr. Raeburn. Let me see what I can do.” Mr. Coningford rose and extended his hand. Nicholas took it and shook it with a notable absence of vigor.

“Miss Lawrence, it was a pleasure to meet you. I hope I can settle all this and return your charge to you swiftly.”

“I should like that,” Eliza said, and she realized she meant it. Not just for Nicholas's sake, but because Sunny had grown very dear to her. It would be painful to leave Lindsey Street for so many reasons.

Maybe she wouldn't go.
For all her protestations about governessing, she did have a way with children—just look what she'd accomplished with Jonathan Hurst. Sunny was much less challenging. Smarter, too. She would be a remarkable young woman with Nicholas Raeburn for a father.

If he managed to keep her. He had to, he simply had to. Eliza was itching to give Daniel Preble the solicitor's card and the most supercilious stare imaginable. She'd practice in the mirror tonight.

Tonight. Goodness, where was she going to stay? Apart from the conversation in the car, she'd not been told where she would sleep tonight. And what would she sleep in? The thought of wearing Sir Thomas's late mama's nightgown was not appealing.

Certainly she could have gone home this evening. Her mother wanted Eliza to accept Dr. Samuelson as her future stepfather, and Eliza had no objection. If her mother was happy and content, that was all that mattered. But she had to stay and help Nicholas, who looked bleak as he watched the fire in Sir Thomas's library.

“I'll see you out, Coningford,” Sir Thomas said, leaving them alone.

“Can I get you anything? A sandwich? Some cake?” Eliza asked. They'd all been too keyed up to eat much of anything before Mr. Coningford's arrival.

“I'm not hungry.”

Nicholas was pale, almost as if he was sick again. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Of course I'm not all right!” Nicholas exploded. “And I don't need another lecture on how I'm feeling sorry for myself. It's Sunny I'm thinking of, Eliza. She doesn't deserve what's happening to her—what's already happened to her. My chickens are coming home to roost, and a mangier lot you'd be hard-pressed to find. Feathers are everywhere. Maybe I don't deserve Barbara's trust. Maybe I was her second choice.”