The Reluctant Governess (3 page)

“Don't let me keep you,” Miss Lawrence said, tearing her eyes away from the space just past his ear. She was still quite pink, and Nick would have striven to tease her longer were he not getting somewhat chilly. With a nod, he entered his spacious bedchamber and closed the door. A cheerful coal fire crackled in the grate, and he dropped his damp towel and stood before it. He wasn't used to the cold anymore, and it was only October. How would he deal with the winter to come?

She had seen the menu. Poor Mrs. Quinn, who without Sue's help had looked a trifle suicidal until Eliza had offered to assist arranging the platters for the gentlemen, if gentlemen they could be called. Oysters in lemon, beef consommé, sole in mussel sauce, prawns in aspic, chicken pie, lamb cutlets, three kinds of vegetables, and a fruit tart for just the four of them.

They had shouted and laughed for hours like a bunch of rowdy schoolboys, who might just as well have been served bangers and mash. Once upstairs, Eliza had finally put a pillow over her head, but between Sunny's snoring and the ribaldry downstairs, she felt quite doomed, even though the shouting had been over for some time.

She would ring up Oliver tomorrow the very first thing. As delightful as Sunny was when she wasn't snoring, Eliza yearned for her typewriter and telephone and a solid night's sleep in her mother's quiet flat.

They had given up their large rented house when her father died unexpectedly three years ago. Had he lived, better provisions for their welfare would have been made, Eliza was sure. His partner in the accounting firm had been conservative in the buyout—some might say penny-pinching. But what could one expect from a man who lived and died by numbers? The firm
had
lost business when Mr. Lawrence died, and Mr. Yates was not apt to win over too many more clients. He was nowhere near as nice as Eliza's father.

The fact that Harold Yates had asked Eliza to marry him was not really nice at all. The man was almost three times her age, and portly. One might admire the King, whom Mr. Yates resembled, but Mr. Yates was not the King, only a gray-bearded accountant with ink-stained fingers. Eliza may have been on the shelf at twenty-one, but she could not imagine those fingers anywhere on her person. She had politely declined and taken her secretarial course.

Now twenty-four, she was balancing work and caring for her fragile mother, whose health had never been robust. Mrs. Lawrence had managed well enough the eleven and a half months Eliza spent living in Mr. Hurst's household, but Eliza didn't want to spend a minute more in this hotbed of sin than she had to.

She heard nothing from the bedroom next door. Perhaps Mr. Raeburn did not snore, which would be one point in his favor. Eliza tried to think of more, and apart from the man's physical beauty, failed.

Eliza had met his brother Lord Raeburn on several occasions, and he was equally attractive, though much darker and broader. The baron sometimes hung about the office when his wife came down from Scotland to iron out the impossible, and there was a strong family resemblance. Both men were overly tall, but as far as Eliza knew, the baron did not sport an earring—diamond for tonight in Eliza's brief glimpse of him—or have a tattoo anywhere on his body. (Eliza would never dare ask Mary.)

Nicholas Raeburn's hair was a wild nest of dark auburn curls, and his skin was still golden from the Italian summer sun. She had seen
much
more than she should have. She was afraid she would have trouble erasing Nicholas Raeburn's naked torso from her mind once her life got back to normal.

Not to mention the shocking pictures that hung on the bathroom walls, where she had innocently gone to wash her face and brush her teeth before bedtime. It was one thing to paint unclothed women—all the classical artists did that—but taking photographs of them seemed far more depraved. That all of the girls appeared to be so damned happy to pose for Nicholas Raeburn was very annoying.

To have Sunny live in such a household! The poor baby. She'd lost her mother and old nurse, and was saddled with the devil himself for a father. To be fair to Nicholas Raeburn, he seemed to love the little girl in his own careless way, but what kind of upbringing would she have? Who could she marry?

Eliza swatted herself mentally. Why should Sunny have to marry anyone? The girl might find suitable employment just as Eliza had, and would have family money as a backup if she didn't. Eliza had no intention of marrying unless someone very special came along. The trouble was, she had no time to look for someone, special or not. Her job and her mother consumed all her time.

She sighed. It was never good to get philosophical in the middle of the night. Eliza would need all her wits about her in a few short hours when Sunny woke up, but sleep would not come, no matter which way she lay her head on the pillow. Eliza had lost the Battle of the Bedcovers ages ago, as Sunny was mummified, only her pert little nose poking out of the sheets. She would have to search for an extra blanket tomorrow, for she quite liked to be mummified, too.

When her mother spent a restless night, Eliza would fix warm milk with a touch of honey and cinnamon. She could do the same for herself, now being familiar with the kitchen after helping Mrs. Quinn.

Eliza was stealth itself, rolling out of bed so as not to disturb the little girl. She found her dressing gown in the dim shaft of electric light from the street and crept out of her room and down the stairs. Flickering sconces led the way—how profligate, and dangerous, it was of Mr. Raeburn to leave lights burning all night long. Eliza knew the Raeburn family was wealthy, but wasting money was not a Scottish trait, she was certain.

She paused in the hall before the double drawing room. Somewhere below there was a definitive noise—the snick of a door closing, the clatter of a walking stick tossed into the stand, a snatch of song. Drat. Nicholas Raeburn was home and one floor below.

No wonder the house had been so quiet—he'd gone out with his mates to roar someplace else. But now he was back, probably more foxed than ever, and she was barefoot in her dressing gown.

Eliza turned to flee upstairs, but was halted in her tracks by a whispered “Oh hell” and an ominous thud to the floor.

It was really none of her business if he couldn't get to bed on his own steam. Let him sleep on the front hall carpet, to be discovered by Mrs. Quinn, or poor Sue if she had sufficiently recovered from her illness. His servants were paid to care. Eliza had no notion if Mr. Raeburn even intended to pay her, although she was sure Lady Raeburn would see that she had some compensation for her sacrifice. Yes, tomorrow first thing she would ring the office and arrange for a suitable—or unsuitable—replacement.

“Argh.”

The groan wafted up the stairs, and Eliza bit a lip.

“Aieee.”

Oh drat. He sounded like an animal caught in a trap, which would only serve him right. Eliza hesitated.

“Help me, for God's sake, someone. Anyone.” He sounded as if he knew he hadn't a prayer.

Eliza knew her Christian duty. The man was drunk, possibly injured. And if he wasn't injured now, his head would be killing him tomorrow morning.
This
morning. It was nearly two o'clock of the new day already. Eliza peeked over the banister.

“I swear I'll be good. Better, anyway. I promise on Sunny's life.” Nicholas Raeburn continued to talk to the floor. He had pitched face-forward, and the only thing Eliza could see in the gloom was the back of his dark coat.

“I know I've told You that before. This time I mean it.”

Eliza snorted. Any bargain the wicked man had made with God had not been fulfilled.

“Who's there?”

Her mother had warned her about her snorting. For one thing, it wasn't ladylike, and now her contempt had revealed her presence.

“It is I, Miss Lawrence.”

Nicholas Raeburn attempted to look up but failed. “What are you doing up there?”

“I was on my way down to the kitchen for some hot milk. What are
you
doing down there?” she couldn't resist asking.

“Getting rug burn, I imagine. Could I trouble you to assist me? My legs seem to have gone out from under me. If you could just return my walking stick to me—I see I was premature to give it up.”

Eliza looked down at the mirrored hall tree in the entryway. There was a collection of walking sticks and umbrellas corralled behind an elaborate bamboo design. Mr. Raeburn had not struck her as the walking stick sort. These things were probably left by his bankrupt friend and fellow artist Mr. Preble, about whom Mrs. Quinn had few good words to say as she hustled around the kitchen this evening. Mr. Preble must be truly a villain if Nicholas Raeburn compared favorably.

“Very well.” Eliza made sure her robe was fastened securely and walked downstairs with as much dignity as she could muster. Looking over the canes, she selected one with a silver dog's head and placed it near Mr. Raeburn's hand. She had an image of herself holding out a branch to a man sinking in quicksand.

He grasped it, but his gloved hand slipped. The sconces didn't throw much light, but his glove appeared wet and dirty. It was a fine night—what mischief had he gotten into in some gutter or other?

He tried again, hand over hand, slowly dragging himself up on his knees. With a little shriek, Eliza let the stick go and jumped back.

“Don't be afraid, Miss Lawrence. You should see the other fellow.”

His face was covered in blood. Eliza saw tiny black spots dance in front of her eyes, and then nothing else.

***

“I thought
you
were supposed to be helping
me
,” Mr. Raeburn said, hovering over her. His beautiful face was discolored, but from the looks of things he'd wiped most of the blood off with his silk cravat, which dangled from one swollen hand. Eliza shut her eyes, although she supposed one could not fall into a faint again when one was already lying down. And where was she? She cracked one lid.

They were both in the ground floor morning room overlooking the back garden, though the stained glass window was black as death. Still in the middle of the night, then. He must have carried her to the sofa from the hallway. Better that than dumping her on the dining table in the next room, she supposed.

Eliza struggled up on her elbows, tasseled pillows falling to the floor. “Wh-what happened?”

He picked the pillows up and tucked them back behind her. “To me or to you? I say, it was most unfair for you to swoon and force me to pick you up. I can barely walk as it is without carting around a well-fed young woman.”

Was he implying she was fat? The bounder! “I didn't ask you to do anything!”

“No, for you conked right out, didn't you? Sheet-white, eyes rolled back in your head, a veritable textbook case. Cat definitely got your tongue and swallowed it whole. I'm sorry you can't deal with a little bit of blood.”

A little bit of blood? The man was mad. He'd looked like he'd been bathing in it, a great red river of— She swallowed hard. No more torturing herself with such an image. She was not so missish that the usual scrape or cut bothered her.

But he'd been so very, very bloody. Dried bits had mixed in with his incipient coppery beard, and she shuddered.

“Should you call a doctor?” Eliza asked when she had pulled herself together.

“Because you were so lily-livered to faint? I don't think so.”

“Not for me, you idi—I mean, for you,” she said, minding her words just a trifle too late. He raised a rusty eyebrow. There was a deep cut above it, and he winced. He'd have to do his rakish eyebrow-raising tricks with the other.

“For me? Whatever for?”

“You have been beaten to a pulp, sir,” she said repressively.

“Stabbed, too. But who's keeping track? I'll be fine with a hot bath and a hot toddy.”

“I venture to say it was drink that got you into this fix in the first place.” She was
not
going to stitch up any part of him. Let him run around London and become a pincushion.

He gave her an unashamed, crooked smile. “Would you now? Are you saying I'm a drunkard, Miss Lawrence?”

“I don't know what you are, Mr. Raeburn, and I don't plan to stay long enough to find out.”

“What about Sunny?”

“I shan't leave before the Evensong Agency secures a replacement. I wouldn't let Lady Raeburn down.”

“We don't need you anyway,” Mr. Raeburn said, folding his long body into the chair opposite. “Interfering females.”

At least he wasn't bending over her any longer, although she had no intention of prolonging this discussion with him. “You need some interference, sir,” she said, sitting up. The room spun only a little—she must have hit her head when she fell. “That poor child! What if she had come downstairs to find her papa lying half dead on the floor?”

“She probably wouldn't have fainted, for one thing,” he said imperturbably. “Sunny's got grit. And you exaggerate. I was nowhere near half dead.”

“Castaway, then.”

“I don't know why you persist in claiming I am inebriated, Miss Lawrence. I am as sober as a judge.”

Eliza took a sniff. It was true she could not smell spirits from this distance, although his dinner party had been rowdy in the extreme. “Well, you have been doing something that you ought not, and got in trouble for it. Think of your daughter, Mr. Raeburn. You have a responsibility to her. You can't go around fighting and drinking and—and wenching.”

“I don't need you to lecture me on my responsibilities. You have no idea of anything or what I've been doing. Look at you!” His face had darkened so that his bruises blended in.

Eliza felt her own color rise. “What about me?”

“You are so smug. Self-righteous. A pretty prig.”

Eliza heard the “pretty,” but the other words held more weight. “I am just as I should be, Mr. Raeburn, a respectable woman. I am not one of your n-naked models.” She checked the neckline of her dressing gown to make sure not even an inch of clavicle was showing.

His foot was twirling in an agitated manner, but his voice was ennui itself. “Don't worry. You are
completely
safe from me.”

Eliza stumbled to her feet. “I will bore you no longer, Mr. Raeburn. Good night.”

She was halfway up the stairs before she heard him laugh like a lunatic. So he was drunk after all.