The Reluctant Governess (8 page)

But she should. She really should. If the cut needed tending to, she'd have to call Dr. Samuelson right away.

Eliza cleared her throat, closed her eyes, and made her shocking request.

The sly puss. Nick had been subject to numerous methods of seduction, but no one had ever been so direct as to ask him to simply take his clothes off.

But he really wasn't up to anything, in any sense of the word. His head was pounding, his belly roiled, and his armpits were damp.

“Sorry, love. It seems you are a mind reader after all, but my eyes were bigger than my stomach, so to speak. I was a bit premature, although I assure you prematurity is not generally an affliction I suffer from.”

Eliza frowned at him, an expression he was familiar with from most of the governesses he'd had growing up. “What are you talking about?”

“I'm afraid I cannot perform in any manner that might suit you. Not just yet. Give me a day or two and then—”

“What—why, you ridiculous, odious man! I want to check your bandages, not anything else! If your cut is inflamed or filled with pus, we must call Dr. Samuelson back immediately.”

Well, he'd misread those signals, hadn't he? Nick wasn't usually such a cloth-head. He'd chalk up his stupidity to his optimism and call it good.

“Forgive me. I'm just slightly delirious and cannot think straight. I'm so confused.” He moaned for effect.

“You, sir, are a very bad actor. Really, did you think I wanted you to lift your nightshirt to—to—well, you know.”

She was rosy cheeked again. Really, she was adorable.

“I don't know anything right now. My head, you know. Anvils. Hammers.” He shut his eyes because it was pretty much true.

Eliza took a deep breath. “With your permission, I'll check your thigh. If you would be good enough to cover your—cover your—you know.”

He did know, and it was imperative Eliza did not judge him in his current state. With fumbling fingers, he lifted one side, making sure the bedclothes covered his privates.

“You'll have to lift your—you know. I can only see the bottom of the dressing.”

Nick lifted his bum and felt a quick tug, cool air rushing to his thigh. He shivered.

“I'm just going to peel this back a little bit,” Eliza said, sounding as if she were talking herself into marching to Pretoria on stilts. Her fingertips touched his thigh and he shivered again. She wrestled with the knot of gauze tape holding the dressing in place and was so quiet, Nick had to open his eyes. She was biting her lip again, a look of concentration on her downturned face. If she remained on Lindsey Street, she might have no lip left.

It was clear she didn't want to stay, and who could blame her? His home had turned into one of those plague houses they used to mark with an X during olden times. No entry allowed. Eliza Lawrence had been thrust into the thick of everything—sick servants, sick child, sick master—and when it came down to it, she was a complete stranger who had been forced to sit at his bedside. Every proper inch of her must be in rebellion at her current circumstances.

“I
think
it looks all right. There's some dried blood around the edges, but nothing else.” She took a deep sniff. “Smells clean, too. So your fever originates from your illness, thank goodness.”

“Wonderful. Dr. Samuelson won't be cutting off my leg, then.”

She retied the tape. “Don't be flippant, Mr. Raeburn. You are a very fortunate man.”

“So I am. And you didn't faint on me again, Miss Lawrence. I'm proud of you.”

“You should have seen yourself last night—you would have fainted, too.”

“Nay. You forget I have two brothers. We were always up to some mischief or other, and a good bit of blood was involved on numerous occasions.”

“Are you close to them, your brothers?”

Nick shrugged. “I've been away a good long while. My oldest brother Alec thinks he always knows best, so it was a treat to get out from under his thumb. Evan has a temper, though he works hard to keep it under control. He wasn't so judicious when we were growing up. I have more scars than this trifle on my thigh. You don't have siblings, I collect.”

She shook her head. “I sometimes wish I did have someone to share the burden with. Not that I'm resentful at all of my mother—she is goodness itself. Never asks for anything. But, as I said, I worry.”

“All the more reason for you to marry Tubby and manage his assets. He won't mind a mother-in-law in the attics—he's hardly ever home.”

“Then he hardly sounds like a satisfactory husband.” She sounded almost playful.

“What do you think of his idea?” Nick asked. He thought the artists' cooperative had genius possibilities. Not that he'd give up his own atelier, but he thought of the young starving fellows in garrets who could use a hot meal and some encouragement.

“Would something like that work? All those mad creative people vying for attention?”

“You've hit the nail on the head. What's needed is someone practical who would not be swayed by temperament. There would have to be lists, schedules, all sorts of bor—I mean, highly organized tasks that might appeal to you.”

“But . . .” There went that tooth into her lip again.

“But what?”

“I'm a woman.”

“And you have a penchant for stating the obvious. So?”

“While I appreciate your confidence in me after only such a short acquaintance, most people do not take women seriously. We're meant to be seen and not heard.”

Nick chuckled. “I thought that was children.”

“What's the difference? Most men of your class infantilize women. A well-bred female is not expected to tax her brain—preparing a menu is the most that can be expected. One is supposed to be helpless and rely upon the man in her life for the important things. Father. Brother. Husband. As if we're inferior in some way. It's humiliating.”

“I agree with you.”

Eliza looked surprised. “You do?”

“Of course. Why should an extra seven or eight inches make one superior?”

“Exactly. A difference in height should not matter.”

He wasn't referring to height, although he wasn't going to explain himself to her. It seemed most unfair to win life's lottery just because one had the accidental good fortune to be born a male with the necessary equipment. Things were bound to change in this new century, but not soon enough to suit Eliza Lawrence, or himself for that matter. He hoped by the time Sunny was grown, she'd have every road open to her.

“When I'm well enough, I'll send for Tubby and you two can discuss his project. He needs someone like you who won't brook any nonsense. Will speak her mind. He does tend to get carried away, but his heart's in the right place.” Nick felt the beginnings of a yawn and covered his mouth with smudgy fingers. How he craved a bath, but it wasn't to be for a while.

Wouldn't it be something if Tubby fell in love with his governess? Well, more likely in lust. Poor Tubby. His friend had an unnatural yen for discipline. Nick could easily see Eliza wearing a stern expression and wielding a crop, not that she would ever consent to such a thing.

“Shall we write those letters we talked about last night?” Eliza asked.

For a moment, Nick drew a blank, but then he remembered he was going to notify his friends he was ill and they might soon follow. He nodded and sent Eliza to the flimsy little desk in the corner for paper, pen, and ink.

“I can probably write myself, but I'll bet your handwriting's better,” Nick said, leaning back against the pillows. “Shall I dictate? One message will do for the three of them—you'll just have to copy it twice and change the names. Their addresses are in the tooled leather diary you'll find upstairs in my studio.” The pages were mostly empty, but that would soon change. “You don't mind, do you?”

“I'm a secretary. This sort of thing is my job.”

She settled back in the chair, using a book picked up from his bedside table he hoped she wouldn't open to write on. If his kiss had flustered her, the events described in the novel would give her conniption fits. But perhaps she couldn't read French.

“‘Dear Tubby'—no, make that Tom—and the next letters will be to Peter and Marcus—‘I hope this finds you well. Unfortunately, that condition may not last long. My household has come down with a mild form of influenza, which my doctor tells me can be contagious.' I say! You're not going to get sick on me, are you?”

Eliza looked up in confusion. “Is that for the letter or are you speaking to me?”

“To you, of course. Rotten luck if you do fall ill. We'll get someone to take care of
you
, don't you worry. Word of a gentleman, even if you don't think I am one. ‘Best to keep away from me for a while. All the best, Nick.' And as a postscript to Tubby, thank him for coming to my aid last night and add that I've found him the answer to his prayers.”

“Mr. Raeburn! I cannot write that.”

“Change the wording to suit yourself. You should at least listen to his plan. If you can tame Tubby, the world's your oyster.”

Eliza wrinkled her nose. “I'm afraid I don't care for shellfish.”

“What! Then you've never had a proper lobster, dipped in butter. I could show you how to open the little bug—uh, little beasts. When we were children, our mother took us to Dunoon, where we acquired quite a taste for ripping the creatures apart, as only bloodthirsty boys can do. That's a seaside town in Scotland, you know, very fashionable now but it was early days then. I hear one has to buy a ticket to walk on the promenade and show off one's bonnet.”

“That seems silly—to pay to walk about.”

“Indeed. And you'd have to have a much nicer hat than the one you wore here to compete,” Nick teased. Really, that hat was atrocious.

“There's nothing wrong with my hat,” Eliza said.

“There's nothing right with it, either. An attractive girl should not hide her light under a bushel.”

“I am not trying to attract attention, Mr. Raeburn. As I said, men pay little enough mind to women in business as it is. If I were to dress inappropriately, no one would ever hire me.”

“Well, you've got a job already, don't you? Buy yourself a pretty hat. Or maybe I'll buy one for you—I know just the thing.”

“I cannot allow you to do so.” She went on a tirade about how it was entirely improper to accept gifts from a gentleman who was not a fiancé or husband or family member, and his mind wandered.

Lord, but she was predictable. Nick would bet she'd never stepped an inch out of line her whole life. But he didn't have the energy or time to seduce her, and his eyelids were growing heavier by the second.

Somewhere downstairs a clock chimed. Nick nodded, agreeing with everything she said. When he failed to speak up for himself and his hat-buying prowess, she copied the letters and went upstairs for his appointment diary. She poked him with it when she returned to ask where he kept his stamps, rousing him from his twilight thoughts, and told him she'd post the letters first thing in the morning.

It was easier, he thought, not to fight with her. Nick may have spent his formative years arguing with his brothers and defending his ideas in artistic circles, but Eliza Lawrence had worn him right down.

Or perhaps it was the flu or the fever and all the excitement. Whatever the reason, Nick finally slipped into sleep under her watchful blue eyes, not registering the gentle closing of the door.

In his dream he was climbing the ruined castle walls in Dunoon, overlooking the Firth of Clyde. Paddle steamers chugged away in the distance, their smoke drifting up to the clouds. The old pier jutted into the water, and far below was a neat female figure in white. Nick couldn't see her face beneath the meringue confection of her hat until she lifted a lace-gloved hand and tossed it away in the wind. The sun shone on her golden head, and she raised her face to it, risking freckles. Nick wanted to sketch her against the gray-green bay, but when he reached into his pocket, he found only a broken stick and a piece of dirty string. Damn, his brothers had stolen his things again. It wasn't fair, being the youngest. Someday he'd show them . . .

Eliza had not planned to sleep late. She never did, not even after a difficult night with her mother.

So she was surprised to be shaken by a barefoot Sunny, her face still on the greenish side. For a split second Eliza did not know where she was or who this adorable child was, but then she sat bolt upright. What time was it? Bright October sunlight was streaming in the garden-facing window.

“Wake up, Miss Lawrence. Sue is blubbering, so Mrs. Quinn sent me to fetch you. There are people outside.”

“People?” she asked, frowning.

“Yes. Mrs. Quinn doesn't know what to do about them, and Papa is still sleeping.”

Eliza swung both legs out of bed and reached for her father's robe that was folded across the coverlet. “What are these people doing?”

“Shouting and knocking on all the doors.”

Eliza had been sleeping so soundly she hadn't heard a thing. “Is Mrs. Quinn afraid to open the door to them?”

“She did at first. Once. But a bunch of them tried to get past her at the tradesmen's door. She managed to shut it and smash the man's foot. And then someone climbed over the wall and is in the back garden. We can see his boots going back and forth from the basement window.” Sunny's eyes were wide and fearful.

Eliza raced to her window. Sure enough, a man was smoking below, his eyes gazing upward. She stepped back hurriedly.

“I think we should wake your father.” Maybe even call the police, but she didn't want to alarm the child any more than she was already. Nicholas Raeburn might have some idea why his house was under siege by, she was fairly sure, members of the press. They came around every time Lord and Lady Raeburn came down from Scotland and sniffed about outside the agency. There had been a huge scandal at the Forsyth Palace Hotel over some doctor and they'd been in the thick of it. All Eliza knew is that Lord Raeburn had frightened them off last time by threatening to sue. It didn't hurt that the man was built like a Highland mountain.

But that was all old news now. The baron and his wife were just a happily married couple.

Boring, as Mr. Raeburn would say.

She grabbed Sunny's hand and squeezed it. “You are a brave little girl, do you know that?”

“Papa always says so. He says I'm not to be afraid of anything. I used to scream every time I saw a spider, but spiders eat bad bugs, you know. They are our friends.”

Eliza smiled. “I'll tell you a little secret. Once when I got home late from work, there was a spider on the ceiling of my bedroom. I slept on the parlor sofa that night.”

“Silly you.”

“Yes, I am sometimes. How are you feeling, sweetheart?”

“My tummy gurgles and makes Sue laugh when she's not whinging. But Mrs. Quinn says my fever has gone down.”

“Good. Let's go see if your papa is ready to face the day.”

Eliza tapped on the door, but there was no answer. She turned the knob, and peered into the gloom. The curtains were still pulled and the blankets were on a heap on the floor. Nicholas Raeburn lay flat on his back, stark naked, one hand thrown across his face. His manhood was hard as marble and pointing heavenward.

But of course. It wouldn't be a day on Lindsey Street if Eliza did not see the man in dishabille. She was certainly getting an education on the human male form and would never have to visit a museum again to assuage her curiosity.

Eliza eased the door shut and turned to the little girl behind her. “Sunny, are you brave enough to go back downstairs by yourself? I believe your papa is still sick.”

“All right. I'll just get some books from my room. There is nothing to do downstairs.”

Tell that to poor Mrs. Quinn, Eliza thought. How the housekeeper was holding everything together under the circumstances was a wonder. But Mrs. Daughtry was due soon. Dr. Samuelson, too.

Eliza waited until Sunny trundled off with an armful of books and a ratty stuffed bear, and then cracked the door open again. Nicholas was still in the same position, his face and body pale. Eliza stepped closer and saw the beads of sweat at his temple. He must be feverish and had thrown off the blankets accordingly.

She couldn't wake him while he was so exposed, so she untangled a linen sheet from the pile on the floor and draped it gently across the lower half of his body.

“Mr. Raeburn, please wake up. We have a situation here.”

His auburn brows knit at the sound of her voice, but he didn't open his eyes.

“Nicholas!” she said sharply.

His eyes flew open. The man had exceptionally long dark copper eyelashes. Wasn't it always the way? Men were such showy peacocks.

“Yes? What is it, Miss Lawrence?” he asked, as though it was a common occurrence to receive a female while he was lying in bed.

It probably was.

“There is a slew of reporters in the street, and one enterprising fellow has trespassed into the garden. Would you know why they are here?” The implicit question was
What have you done?

“I haven't the foggiest.” Nicholas sat up, catching himself before he pitched sideways to the floor. “Damn it all. I feel wretched.”

“I'm sorry for that, but your house is under invasion. Should I ring the police, or do you expect them to arrest you if they come?”

His mouth dropped open. “What? You have very little faith in me, Miss Lawrence. Just what do you suspect?”

“I'm sure I don't know. A man like you is capable of anything.”

“There you go again! What have I ever done to make you think so little of me? And just what evil do you think I perpetrated from my bed the past twenty-four-plus hours? I haven't moved from this room except to use the lavatory.”

“You've been back in England for a week,” Eliza reminded him. She was enjoying discomfiting him, although it was very bad of her. He was still ill and looked dreadful, and she should not aggravate him.

“I wonder . . .” he trailed off. “Give me a minute, Miss Lawrence. I need to take care of . . . something.”

Was that a blush on his cheek? How modest he was all of a sudden. Did he realize she'd seen him nude again? It was becoming habitual. “Do you need me to assist you upstairs?”

“Of course not. Just fetch me my robe. Could I trouble you for a cup of coffee when I get back?”

“I'll see if Mrs. Quinn is up to it. The mob has upset her.” At this rate, Nicholas Raeburn would sink to the level of Daniel Preble in the housekeeper's eyes.

Nicholas nodded, and Eliza went downstairs. At street level, she could hear the murmuring on the steps. She peered through the stained glass panel beside the door but could see very little through the wavy colored glass.

And then there was a roar and frantic knocking.

What should she do? Eliza had no interest in being run over by a pack of jackals. If a large woman like Mrs. Quinn had difficulty holding them at bay, Eliza didn't trust her own strength.

“Please, let me in! It's Mrs. Daughtry! Get back, young man, before I hit you with my handbag! I am a trained nurse, and I know where to hurt a man!”

Eliza slid the chain from its lock, took a deep breath, and opened the door a few inches. A flash exploded from a tripod camera on the sidewalk, and there was the incessant click of at least a dozen Brownie box cameras.

Eliza blinked. It was indeed Mrs. Daughtry, who gave her a wild-eyed look and shoved herself into the hall. The nurse slammed someone's fingers in the front door behind her, resulting in a yelp and a quick retreat.

“What on earth is going on outside?” Eliza asked, refastening the chain before someone else was foolish enough to try to gain entry. There were numerous walking sticks in the hall that could be put to good use.

“This.” Mrs. Daughtry thrust a stack of newspapers at Eliza. “It seems our Mr. Raeburn has attracted the attention of the yellow press.”

Eliza took the papers and read the top headline. “
Baron's Brother in Brawl Over Brazen Bawd.
Hm. Someone is overfond of alliteration.” She flipped to the next edition. “
Mad Artist Almost Murdered Over Model.
Model Mayhem.
Goodness. More of the same.” Each issue was more lurid than the next. Some of the front pages were illustrated; surely Nicholas's copper curls were not so cherubic. A few had a photograph of a nude young woman, black bars strategically covering her body. Talk about brazen! “Life study taken by Naughty Nicky!” was the caption. Eliza declined to read that one aloud.

After a brief perusal of some of the articles, she saw that Baron Raeburn's past scandals had been dredged up. There were even wedding photographs of him with his first wife, and another of him towering over Mary Evensong on the day of their marriage. Eliza had seen the latter on Lady Raeburn's desk.

“Oh dear. Mary won't like this at all.” Fortunately she was on a steamship somewhere in the Atlantic, far away from gutter gossip.

Mrs. Daughtry cleared her throat. “I'm afraid I can't stay,” she said. “Mr. Daughtry would not approve me working in such a household.”

Hang Mr. Daughtry. Eliza had taken the man in dislike without ever meeting him.

“You've tended to Mr. Raeburn's injuries! You know he was an innocent victim in all this.”

“Was he? That's not what the papers are saying.” Mrs. Daughtry took a quick look up the stairs and lowered her voice. “The woman in that scandalous picture claims Mr. Raeburn had her common-law husband falsely imprisoned. That the poor man was only defending their household against Mr. Raeburn's drunken assault. That he and his rich friend Sir Tippy or Tuppy Something entered uninvited and bribed the police with false charges.”

“What rubbish. You spent the whole day with him yesterday. Does he seem like the sort of man who would take advantage of his position?”

Like he did last night, when he dragged Eliza off her chair to kiss her until she saw stars and couldn't breathe?

“He was half out of his head with fever most of the time, so what do I know? I tried to reach Dr. Samuelson, but he must be out making house calls. No, I'm leaving, and I thought it only fair that I explain myself to you. I'll check on those belowstairs, but then I must go.”

Eliza wasn't going to stand in the front hall arguing where any nosy reporter with his ear to the door could hear them. “Suit yourself. I'm sure Dr. Samuelson can find a replacement for you.”

Mrs. Daughtry gave her a dubious look and followed her downstairs to the kitchen. Mr. Raeburn had asked for coffee, and coffee he would get. He'd need some stimulation once he read all those horrible newspapers.

Mrs. Quinn sat near the stove with Sunny snuggled in her lap. The little girl was sucking her thumb, a dreadful habit, but Eliza wouldn't be here long enough to cure her of it.

“Don't get up. You both look so cozy. I'm just going to get Mr. Raeburn some breakfast,” Eliza said. “He'll figure out what to do with the reporters outside.” She clutched the newspapers to her chest and poured the coffee into an ironstone mug one-handed, uncertain of Sunny's reading ability. The child did not need to know what was being said about her father.

“How are my patients this morning?” the nurse asked in a false-bright voice.

“Mrs. Quinn thinks Sue is faking,” Sunny said, wiggling in the housekeeper's lap. “That she is a—is a shirter.”

“That's shirker, dear. Miss Lawrence, the master takes one sugar and a little cream. I can bring up some toast and a soft-boiled egg for both of you once Sunny and I finish this story.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Quinn. You are a treasure.” Eliza looked pointedly at Mrs. Daughtry, who seemed oblivious of Eliza's opinion of her own qualifications.

She left the woman opening her carryall to find her thermometer and stepped upstairs carefully with the hot liquid and newspapers. She would kill for a cup of tea, but that would have to wait.

Nicholas Raeburn was propped up against his pillows, wearing his nightshirt, thank goodness. His lower legs were really rather shapely.

Eliza tossed the news sheets in his lap. “You are famous, Mr. Raeburn. Or should I say infamous? What do you plan to do now?”