The Reluctant Governess (4 page)

Damn it all. If Nick hadn't been so prideful, he could have explained what happened. But Miss Lawrence had been so disapproving in her angelic white nightgown covered by an ungodly gray wrapper and schoolgirl braids, she had made him want to be very bad.

Nick knew it was wrong to blame others for his loss of control. Lord knows, Alec and Evan had lectured him enough when they had not joined in his mischief. And he was much too old at eight and twenty to be getting into scrapes such as tonight's, but Maisie's man wanted instruction.

The fellow would not be bothering Maisie or any other woman for a while. Nick hadn't counted on the weaponry, but in the end it had been the key to get Phil Cross locked up for the foreseeable future. The attempted murder of a peer's brother was no minor offense. Nick just hoped the peer in question would be on his way to Southampton before the newspapers broke the story. Alec would read him the Riot Act and Nick wagered his new little red-headed wife would not be far behind.

How to get up the stairs? He couldn't call Miss Lawrence back and lean on her arm—she'd just as soon tear it off and beat him with it. From her perspective, he supposed he had gotten what was coming to him. He had been a bit cavalier with her today, not fully appreciative. Mrs. Quinn said as how Miss Lawrence helped in the kitchen with the dinner and made it a fun game for Sunny as well.

Nick had refused medical attention, another sign he was an idiot, just as Miss Lawrence suggested. He didn't care about his face, but the slice in his thigh was stinging like the very devil. An unlucky few inches higher and—it was clear what Phil Cross had been trying to do. Thank God Tubby had come back with a policeman in time to witness Cross abandon his knife for a gun.

Nick had been remarkably stupid tonight. He thought he could talk reason to the blighter, offer him money to stop beating the poor girl. He would be lying if he said he wasn't hoping to throw a fist or two, but he had not counted on Cross's lack of fair play. Phil Cross had certainly never heard of the Marquess of Queensberry rules, or any other rules Nick could think of. He was damned lucky he had escaped alive from his misplaced chivalry. Maisie had shrieked at him the whole time and thrown a crock of something unspeakable at him, which had cut into his forehead, too.

Well, Maisie would not be posing for his tribute to Raphael anytime soon, although he'd given her rent money for the year. He was, as it had been established, an idiot.

And his starchy governess thought him worse than that. But what did he care? She would be gone in a day or two and they could go back to being comfortable.

Nick tried to rise but his bottom seemed stuck in place in Daniel's rickety Jacobean chair.
His
rickety Jacobean chair. Nick thought the Lindsey Street furnishings rather splendid, the result of two decades' worth of artistic acquisition. It seemed almost criminal that Daniel had to be parted with it all, but one reaped what one sowed, and Daniel Preble had been a prodigious sower. Some dozen years older than his protégé, he'd been Nick's guiding star the past few years as the younger man kicked around the Continent avoiding Scotland, his late sister-in-law, and his brothers. Nick had been only too happy to help his friend out. He was generous to a fault, as tonight had proved.

Damn it all. He'd slept sitting up before, but that was not his preferred position. What he needed was a bath and brandy, and two and a half sets of stairs sets were between him and the object of his desire.

For heaven's sake. He'd climbed a minor Alp or two in his time. It was only carpeted stairs, not sheets of ice. Nick was fit, although he'd overestimated his martial skills tonight. With a grunt, he extricated himself from the antique chair and limped to the hallway. Something unpleasant slithered down his leg, but he resolutely ignored it and began to mount the steps.

He reached the first story with no incident. The floor-through double parlor was dark, but Nick could see Mrs. Quinn had tidied up the remains of the party. They'd had coffee, brandy, and cigars up here, the casement window overlooking the garden open to ventilate the room. Nick felt a blast of cold night air and detected the scent of Havana's finest. The overstuffed sofa beckoned, but he was not to be deterred.

Perhaps he'd forgo the bath. Fall into his bed fully clothed. A trickle of blood dripped onto his lashes disabusing him of that notion. He needed plasters and carbolic before poor Mrs. Quinn quit at the sight of his bloody bedding. She was only one woman, and Sue was just a child, really.

His sister-in-law ran an employment agency—maybe he could ask her to get a few dailies in to help out with the scut work. But then Nick remembered she was off to Southampton later today and some fellow named Oliver was in charge. He would mention his idea to Miss Lawrence if she was still speaking to him.

Well, here he was at his open bedroom door. Not a sound came from Sunny's room, where no doubt Miss Lawrence was lying like some shriveled martyr, missing only a spray of lilies. He stripped himself of his ruined clothes and put on his dressing gown—he did have one, contrary to Miss Lawrence's accusation, a lovely Italian striped silk that had been a gift from Barbara at the start of their affair.

Nick had been just a boy then, for all his posturing, but Barbara had taught him a great deal in the year he'd spent as her favorite. When he'd returned home, he'd been unbearably full of himself, fancying he was God's gift to women. Alec's wife Edith hadn't thought much of that claim—he'd been entirely unable to charm her, not that he had anything other than brotherly attention for her. It hadn't taken long before he was driven out of Scotland and back into Barbara's arms. The self-confidence she'd fostered influenced his work, and suddenly the world wanted a Nicholas Raeburn to hang on its drawing room wall.

He owed Barbara everything, not the least of which was the precious trust she'd given him to raise her daughter. Nick would have to be more sensible in the future, not risk his skin interfering where he clearly wasn't wanted. He couldn't imagine raising a hand to a woman, no matter how provoking she might be, but obviously Phil Cross felt differently and Maisie didn't seem to mind.

He glanced at his reflection in the mirror. No wonder Miss Lawrence had found his countenance objectionable. His left eyebrow was under assault again, oozing blood from a dent in his forehead. The area surrounding it was a virulent plum already, but his nose was where it was meant to be and he still had his teeth, so that was something.

His thigh throbbed and he examined the ragged wound. It was deep, and who knew what filth was on Cross's blade? Yes, Nick would scrub himself silly and hope for no infection.

He was very weary now, but the bath was only a few steps up on the landing. Not far. Not far at all. He could do it just by putting one foot in front of the other. Hold on to the railing for dear life, that's it. Drag himself up, for his leg was being most uncooperative again. For heaven's sake, it was only a scratch, really.

And then he tumbled back down the stairs as Miss Lawrence opened the bathroom door.

“Blast.” Right on his arse in a tangle.

She stood stunned above him, a hand covering her bee-stung lips. She had a very pretty mouth, Nick acknowledged, even if she never said anything nice with it.

“Oh! Are you all right?”

“Never better.” He pulled the robe over his lap. His fall had been graceless and Miss Lawrence was now apt to be as well-informed as anyone regarding his manly endowments.

“I—I didn't mean to startle you. I thought you were downstairs.”

“And so I was, but I wanted a bath. In my bathroom.”

She stiffened. Gad, she was like a hedgehog, all bristles and belligerence. “I was unaware that it is exclusively
your
bathroom, Mr. Raeburn. Sunny uses it as well, although I must tell you the photographic portraits on the wall are most unsuitable for a child her age. Or a person of any age.”

Nick raised a hand. “No more lectures, I beg you. I feel very odd.”

“You've had a busy night,” she said tartly.

“Yes, and it feels never-ending.” His stomach gave an uneasy lurch. Oh no, it wasn't enough that he was battered and carved up—he was reminded of his brief trip to Egypt in '01. It hadn't been brief enough—he'd been feverish and unsettled for weeks after.

By some miracle, Nick stood up and climbed up the stairs. “I'm afraid you really must step aside, Miss Lawrence.” He was going to be very, very sick.

“Of course. Enjoy your bath.”

No chance of that. He darted in and shut the door. The walls undulated, and Nick closed his eyes. There were too many faces and arms and legs. Too many breasts, not that seeing them wiggle around him was much of a hardship. Nick loved breasts, large or small—they were such marvels, soft, silky miracles, weren't they? He turned on the taps, fell to his knees in front of the toilet, then proceeded to vomit up the delightful dinner Mrs. Quinn had prepared.

There. That was somewhat better, wasn't it? Never mind the piercing headache that was electrifying his brain and the sudden chills that wracked his body.

Good Lord. The knife couldn't have been poisoned, could it? He'd heard tales of such things, but Phil Cross did not look like he had much scientific knowledge at all.

Of course, one didn't have to be brilliant to buy poison and dip a knife into it. As for that knife, it had been dipped into Cross's scuffed boot, hardly a receptacle for anything more dangerous than an odoriferous foot.

Nick hauled himself up. A bath would fix him. Lots of nice hot water to float away his troubles. He reached over to turn off the faucet. And that was his last act as he slumped to the floor.

“I believe he must have received quite a blow to his head,” Dr. Samuelson said. “Sometimes these concussions do not manifest themselves until hours after the fact. But he's got a touch of stomach bug, too, just as the servants and the little girl do. You're going to have your hands full, Miss Lawrence. Would you like me to inquire about getting one of my nurses in? I strongly advise it.”

Eliza racked her brain, trying to remember if the Evensong Agency had any nurses available. Even if they did, the agency wouldn't open for hours and her need was rather immediate. People would want some sort of breakfast soon, tea and broth at the very least.

She had awoken to poor Sunny casting up her accounts. Their trip to the bathroom had revealed a naked Nicholas Raeburn passed out on the white-tiled floor, a tub full of tepid water waiting for its occupant. Eliza had not known what to do first, besides closing her eyes and tossing a towel over his startling manhood, hoping the linen landed on the right spot.

Even with that area covered, the rest of him was all too visible. She had seen so much of him today that any mystery about him was now moot. She knew precisely where his freckles were, and that he had
no
tan lines. Good heavens. She was getting quite an education herself serving as Sunny's temporary governess.

But what to do with a naked, lightly freckled man? Thinking she might enlist Mrs. Quinn to help her, she discovered the housekeeper feverish herself, and Sue no better. Once Sunny had been settled back in bed with a basin and a cool cloth, Eliza had somehow dragged an intermittently conscious Nicholas Raeburn into his room and onto his bed.

His ruddy skin was hot, his mutterings incomprehensible. She rang her mother's doctor, knowing the number by heart. Bless him, Dr. Samuelson came immediately. He had cleaned and stitched up the ugly wounds on Mr. Raeburn's thigh and forehead, and identified several rather significant lumps on the back of the foolish man's head where he'd met with even more mischief.

“Y-yes, I'd be most grateful. I'm not really even supposed to be here.”

Dr. Samuelson smiled. “You may wish soon you weren't. Why are you, anyway? I thought you were employed by that agency doing office work. Those miracle-workers.”

“I am, and supposedly I'm working a miracle right now.” Eliza glanced at her charge's sleeping father. Damn. He would probably be too ill to interview any candidates to replace her for the next few days.

“Well, you may want to hire a cook and maid for a day or two days until the household staff recovers. My nurse cannot be expected to do everything, nor should you be.”

“Yes.” Another job for Oliver if he could get anyone to come to this house of plague. Dr. Samuelson didn't seem to think it was too serious, just debilitating enough to prevent Mrs. Quinn and Sue from carrying on with their usual activities until the fever and gastric discomfort passed. Mrs. Quinn was already chafing to get into the kitchen, but Dr. Samuelson had forbidden it.

“You'll have to wake him and march him around every so often. As much as he might like to sleep for hours, he shouldn't. No doubt he'll have double the headache, what with the fever he's got in addition to everything else. I don't envy you a bit, my dear, but I know you're up to it. You're a trooper.”

Oh, was she? Dr. Samuelson might be surprised at the light-headed feeling that had swept over her as she saw Nicholas Raeburn in all his naked glory. The nest of curls at his thighs was a bit brighter than the hair on his head, and his—

“There's no harm in settling the child in the basement with the little maid for company—it will make it easier for the nurse to keep most of her patients together,” the doctor continued, tearing her away from her recent memories. “Thank heavens this is a well-appointed modern house—two toilets plus an outdoor privy! You can manage Mr. Raeburn for a bit by yourself, can't you? I'll get someone here within the hour and you can work out the responsibilities with her.”

Could she manage Nicholas Raeburn? Could anyone?

“I'll try. Can you ring my mother and tell her it's unlikely I'll return home today? Not too early—I don't want to alarm her. I worry about her being alone.”

Dr. Samuelson nodded. “Of course. She's not as strong as you wish, but not as fragile as you think. She doesn't want to hold you back, you know.”

“Thank you. I know she's stubborn, and wants to be independent.”

“Rather like her offspring.” The doctor gave her a wink. “I'll carry the little girl belowstairs and get her settled comfortably. Make sure Mr. Raeburn takes plenty of fluid, too. But no alcohol.”

“He's had more than enough already,” Eliza muttered, pulling a chair up to the bed.

She heard Dr. Samuelson's reassuring words to Sunny as he took her downstairs. He said he would stay until one of his nurses came, claiming he was perfectly capable of making tea and toast if anyone was up to it. Eliza felt slightly nauseous herself, although she didn't think she'd been on Lindsey Street long enough to catch the household's complaint. No doubt she would, though, resulting in missed days from the office when she finally got back.

Blast. She checked the clock. It was time to give Nicholas Raeburn a poke.

Eliza laid a hand on his naked arm, covering the intricate serpent that wound its way around the man's bicep. “Mr. Raeburn, you need to wake up for a little while.”

There was no response. She shook his arm a little harder. “Please, sir. It's for your own good.”

“Go away.” His lips barely moved.

“I cannot. Dr. Samuelson has placed you in my care. A proper nurse is coming, but not until later. You have a concussion and must move about some.”

“Don't want to.”

“Mr. Raeburn, we all have to do a great many things that we don't want to do. For example, I most certainly do not want to be sitting here at your bedside.”

“Don't, then.”

“It is my Christian duty. You've suffered an accident, and are ill besides.”

His russet eyebrows met over his perfectly formed nose. “Don't talk to me as if I were an imbecile. That ghastly fake reasonable voice, the kind people use on children. I'm no child.”

“Then don't behave like one. Dr. Samuelson says you may lapse into a coma if you are not stimulated.”

“Rubbish.”

“I suppose you are a medical man now, as well as an artist, prizefighter, and raconteur.”

“Your lecturing is hurting my head.”

“Well then, do as I say and I'll be quiet as a mouse.” She fetched his virulently striped robe from the hook on the door where she had hung it after retrieving it from the bathroom. “Here. Put this on.”

Mr. Raeburn had great difficulty thrusting one muscular arm into the sleeve. “Weak as a kitten,” he muttered. “Don't tell.”

“My lips are sealed. Let me help you.”

Eliza wrestled him into the thing, averting her eyes when it came time to belt it. “Now, lean on me. Just to the window and back. I won't ask you to recite the alphabet backward or anything else too taxing.”

“Good, because no doubt I'd fail anything more complicated than putting one foot in front of the other.” Even as he said that, he stumbled, and it was all Eliza could do keep them both upright. “Did you tell me Sunny is sick as well? I can't remember.”

Sunny had been distressed to see her papa on the floor and had whimpered accordingly, but, as he'd said, did not faint. She was a sturdy little girl. However heathen Nicholas Raeburn seemed to Eliza, he had engendered great affection in his daughter. “Yes. She and Sue and Mrs. Quinn have what you have, except you have the additional ailment of a head injury. Dr. Samuelson says they all should recover in a few days. Whatever it is, it's going all around London.”

“I expect my dinner guests will succumb as well, poor devils. Welcome home, Nicky.” He didn't sound bitter, just resigned.

“Perhaps not. If you like, I can write to your friends and advise them of your difficulty. Warn them.”

“That would be kind. Thank you, Miss Lawrence.” He shuffled back toward the bed and climbed under the covers, robe and all.

He must realize that Eliza had put him to bed earlier. Perhaps she should have found him a nightshirt, but she was so anxious to tuck him under the covers that she hadn't bothered to rummage in his drawers. Nicholas Raeburn was probably not a nightshirt-wearing fellow anyhow.

She had not been in the house twenty-four hours, yet she felt on much-too-intimate terms with her employer.

“Were you, uh, expecting models in today? I should contact them as well.” The last thing she needed was nubile naked women prancing about.

Mr. Raeburn looked as if his brain hurt as he recollected, but then replied, “No, I fixed the appointment for next week, I think. Can I really not sleep? I'm very tired.”

“Dr. Samuelson was quite specific. You need to be stimulated.”

He flicked an eye at her, then stared at his swollen fists. The knuckles were grazed from his fight. What a foolish thing for a man who relied upon his hands for his livelihood to do.

“So, stimulate me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Make it worth my while to stay awake.”

Eliza felt at a sudden loss. She was not used to entertaining a man like Mr. Raeburn. She was not used to entertaining any man, period.

When she was a girl stenographer, she had of course taken orders from Mr. Hurst and his partners. No one had asked her for her opinion on anything, and that had suited her, for they might not have liked what she said. Even when she served as a governess in Mr. Hurst's home for almost a year, he'd been too preoccupied with his cases to give her so much as a look over the breakfast table, and that had suited her, too. She was not going to fall into some Jane Eyre trap, pining for her distant master, no matter how very attractive he was.

It was hard to imagine Mr. Hurst as Mr. Rochester anyhow—he was not in the petticoat line. After his wife died, he threw himself into his work with even more ferocity, making exceptions only when the welfare of his two children was in question. His daughter Penelope suffered from acute asthma and son Jonathan suffered from being a wild little boy, both conditions challenging enough for Eliza without the complication of a forbidden romance.

Not that she had thought of romance. Oh no. She was much too sensible to develop a pash for Mr. Hurst. Mostly. But it had been hard not to notice him, even if he didn't notice her.

There was his noble, intelligent forehead. His very broad shoulders, so nicely covered with impeccable suits. Even his manly beard, though she was generally opposed to facial hair. The piercing blue eyes that took in every detail, except for her. Why would a handsome, important KC have any interest in his typing governess anyway? They were worlds apart—

“I say, Miss Lawrence, you look flushed. I hope you are not coming down sick, too.”

Eliza reluctantly shook Richard Hurst out of her head. There truly was no place for him there, now or ever.

Drat.

“I am perfectly well so far.” She looked around the room. Architectural renderings of Italian villas covered the cream Morris-papered walls. Blue and white ginger jars lined the mantel. It was all rather serene and restful—no wonder he wanted to go to sleep. She suppressed a yawn. “Shall I read to you?”

“I doubt you share my taste in books. Why don't I sketch you for a little while?”

Eliza blinked. “Sketch me?”

“Fully clothed, of course. That is a damned ugly wrapper, by the way.”

Eliza had been so busy running up and down the stairs before Dr. Samuelson came she hadn't even thought to dress. She glanced down at her ancient gray woolen robe. It had belonged to her father and was still perfectly good to wear once it had been hemmed at the ankle and wrist. Eliza remembered sitting in her father's lap as he wore it reading her a story or challenging her to a mathematical puzzle before bedtime. It was nothing like Mr. Raeburn's flamboyant silk dressing gown. Eliza tried to imagine her father wearing something like it and failed.

“I'm sorry you do not care for my ensemble. I did not expect to be doing anything but sleeping at this hour,” she said sourly.

“Of course you didn't, poor lamb. What a lion's den my sister-in-law has abandoned you to. I'll have to give you a bonus.”

There had been no talk of her salary in all of the tumult after her arrival, but now was probably not time to broach the subject. She'd have to trust that Lady Raeburn would do right by her eventually. It wouldn't do to have to filch money out of the Evensong Agency's petty cash box.

Eliza's father had been a risk-adverse man and had invested far too carefully. And of course he had not planned on dying so suddenly at a relatively young age. Eliza and her mother had sufficient funds after receiving their unfair share of the accounting firm, but there was not much left over for the frivolous little extras her mother so enjoyed. Eliza liked working both for the stimulation of it and the small pleasures she could provide her mother. A novelette or silk rose for an old hat did wonders to cheer the woman up. Her arthritis limited the opportunities to wear the refurbished hat, but she knew it was tucked away in the closet waiting for one of her good days.

Her mother would not like her current occupation at all. Here Eliza was in a strange man's bedroom, both of them in nightclothes. Their chaperone was three floors below in the kitchen caring for three ill people. Eliza wished she'd had the forethought to change places with Dr. Samuelson.

She bit a lip. Would Nicholas Raeburn want to sketch the doctor with his kind wrinkled face and wild white eyebrows? She thought not.

“You're almost smiling. What's so amusing?”

“Nothing, sir. Where can I find your pad and pencil?”

Mr. Raeburn squinted in the gloom. Dr. Samuelson had been firm about keeping the lights low. “They're around here somewhere. Try the desk.”