War Chest: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 5 (11 page)

“Ruth Carter, a governess,” she managed. “I’m a distant relative, and I came to help with the babies until the new nursery maid arrives.” She said the whole sentence in a rush. Should she leave? She’d assumed the duke’s visitor was a local person, or a passing guest, not this vision of perfection. He intimidated her as Marcus had not.

She had her hand on the doorknob when he said, “No! Do stay.”

She turned, lowering her gaze. “I dine with the duke when he has no guests. I’m sorry, I didn’t hear he had someone staying. I should have asked.” Recalling the footman’s smile as she entered, she guessed the information was kept from her. The new servants resented her, and some suspected her of being more than a governess, even though she assumed no airs and wanted no special attention.

Warmth filled her mind, like reassurance, but it swept through like nothing she ever experienced before. “More than that, I think,” he said gently.

“No, indeed!” Indignation replaced the warmth.

“I did not mean that. Come and sit. Let me find you a glass of sherry, or canary wine if you prefer. What would you like?”

Before she knew it, she was sitting on the wide sofa and he was at the sideboard, perusing the bottles.

“Anything,” she said. She did not usually drink before dinner. “Thank you, sir.”

He brought her a glass of madeira, which happened to be her favourite pre-dinner drink, although she had not drunk one for some time. This was very good. She sipped, wishing for a little more courage.

He took brandy. Instead of sitting at a respectable distance, he sat next to her, resting his arm on the back of the sofa. He made no pretence about studying her, but watched her as he spoke to her. As a result, her tension rose exponentially, and she sat, clutching the stem of her glass, trying to breathe normally.

The comte did not have the same effect on her as the duke, but she doubted few people could. “You came here thinking you would find grown children?” he asked.

If she answered him directly, he would force her into a lie. She resented that, and refused to go along with his questions. “I came thinking there was a place for me here.”

“Very good.” He sipped his brandy. “How do you find working here?”

The question made her smile. “I am hardly likely to disparage my employer, am I?” She did not mean her words to be quite so sharp, but they were out now.

“Indeed not.”

She couldn’t like his smile, as if he knew everything about her. They’d only just met, so it was likely a superior attitude. As he was an aristocrat and she was a mere governess he had the right, but she still could not like it. “You like living here?”

“Yes, sir, of course.”

“There’s no ‘of course’ about it. However, not every employer would entertain his governess for dinner, relative or not. Governesses have a particularly hard time of it, I’ve always thought. Not part of the servants belowstairs, and yet too lowly for the family. Is this your first post, Miss—Carter?”

She didn’t like the delicate pause before her name, either. “Yes, sir.”

“How can that be?”

She was tiring of his incessant questions. She took another sip before she spoke, allowing her irritation a chance to subside. “I was at home before. My parents wished me to take care of my sisters’ children, so I thought why should I not be paid for my work?”

His smile lit his eyes. They gleamed. “Why not indeed? You’re a perspicacious young woman, ma’am, and I compliment you for it.”

Forcing herself to remain steady and looking at him, she smiled. “He wanted me to help him with the children.” It was her turn to ask questions. “I was also told the children are not his. He merely agreed to take them under his care.”

“You expect me to comment on that?”

“If you wish to, sir.” Why not? She would not reveal any secrets.

“I think I do. I am a friend and colleague of Marcus, and I have reason to know they are not of his get.”

“Does society know?”

“Society has been informed. However, society will believe what it wants to.” Idly he swung the quizzing-glass that hung from his waist. The lens caught the lights from the candles set in the gilded sconces on the walls, a gentle, golden light with the occasional sharper glint.

The door opened. Ruth took a hasty swallow of madeira as Marcus came in. Although not as resplendent as the comte, he was, to her eyes, a more handsome, dashing figure, in his dark blue evening coat and white waistcoat. Despite his appearance, the comte exuded power, but in a more menacing, less masculine way. Marcus was all male, from his powerful shoulders to his black-clad feet. Ruth suppressed her strong urge to spring up and go to him.

D’Argento arched a brow. “I met your mysterious governess, Marcus.”

“As I see.” Marcus glanced at her, as if to reassure himself of her presence. He scanned her briefly before motioning with his arm. “The footman tells me the meal is laid out. Are you ready to go through?”

She rose then, as gracefully as she could manage, and laid her hand on the comte’s arm when he extended it. Afraid of disturbing his perfect appearance, she barely touched him. When Marcus opened the double doors leading to the dining room, she swept through, imagining herself, for once, the grand lady, instead of the perpetual spinster.

She sat next to Marcus and across from the comte. The leaves had been taken out of the table, so they were relatively intimate, and since Marcus preferred to dine in the smaller of the dining rooms, they were easy enough. A few extra removes were served during the two courses, and the dishes were more elaborate, but Ruth still did not partake of much.

She would prefer a tray in her room. The men spoke of society affairs and mutual acquaintances, but their exquisite politeness meant they never left Ruth out of the conversation. They would have been far more comfortable on their own. Ruth would not withdraw to the drawing room afterwards, or even to the library, but would make her way to her room where she would spend the evening doing something useful. The twins should have new clothes soon, as in the way of infants they were growing at a spectacular rate. She could make lists of what they would need in the coming months and continue the inventory of what she was putting away. That would occupy her enough to prevent her mind dwelling on the two men and what they were discussing.

They would hardly talk about her. Why should they?

Ruth found herself joining in parts of the conversation, when the men touched on a topic she knew something about. They listened gravely, and did not interrupt or gainsay her. She found that part refreshing. At home her father frequently declared that women’s minds were not fashioned to discuss anything that happened outside the home, and her mother, disappointingly, agreed with him. Even after Rhea disrupted the family’s tranquillity, they returned to their old habits.

These two men might have been treating her like an equal, which was wrong on two points. She could not help but enjoy the illusion they regarded her as such. It must surely be an illusion. Their manners would demand nothing else.

However, she learned much of life in London, and what comte was doing there. “The club is proving a great success on all counts,” he said. “We are attracting the kind of people we are looking for, and society is recovering from the shock of having lodgings for women as well as men.”

“How can that be, sir?” she asked, intrigued by the snippet. “Should women not live in the home?”

“What if they have none? What if they are merely visiting? Or they do not wish their town houses opened when on a fleeting visit? Not every woman visiting the capital wants to hire a complete residence. Last year several ladies graced us with their presence. They occupy their own rooms at the club, so they need not mingle with the men should they not wish it. I thought society would have a collective apoplexy, and it is true certain portions of it continue to disparage us, but we are still successful.”

“Not least of which is Amidei’s wish to provide a place respectable women can come without fear of molestation,” Marcus added. “It is in St. James’s, close to the palace, so it is not an address of which anyone may feel ashamed.” He gave her that smile that said he was sharing with her alone, the one she fondly imagined meant he took pleasure in her company. “Although Amidei is slandered for his choice to take an active part in the business.”

“Why should I not?” the comte demanded. “It is my money, after all.”

“Ah, but would you go down your own mines?” Marcus said.

“Why not?” Fire flashed in those pale eyes. “How can I expect someone else to go there if I would not do it myself?”

“That’s very forward thinking of you, sir,” she said. Picking up her wine glass, she took a fortifying sip of the rich red burgundy served with the second course. She’d taken enough to eat, but for appearance’s sake, she picked at what was left on her plate.

She should find her presence here awkward, but she did not. Unused to having her opinions sought or valued, this was a novelty, but one she enjoyed. The idea of a club open to members of both sexes was stimulating enough, but more, they were forcing society to accept it.

The servants efficiently cleared the table, removing the cloth before setting an elegant dessert there and changing the wines to a crisp white. Ruth took some fruit and sipped her wine while listening to the men talk politics and their personal affairs.

From this she learned the comte, while speaking excellent English with only the faintest lilt of an accent, owed his title and his origin to Italy, and he appeared to be in possession of bottomless wealth. She learned they were old friends, but not where they met. That they welcomed her opinions on the matters they discussed. Either they tailored their conversation to include her or she knew more than she’d imagined, merely by a perusal of the newspapers. They vouchsafed scurrilous information about members of society she didn’t know if she should believe. They teased her until the clock chimed nine.

Shocked that such a length of time should have passed, Ruth got to her feet. “I will leave you gentlemen alone,” she said, and curtseyed. “Thank you for a most interesting evening.”

She turned to leave the room, but stopped dead at the comte’s next words. “Please don’t go, Miss Simpson. The night is young.”

Forcing a polite smile to her face, she turned back. “I fear you mistake, sir. I am Miss Carter.”

Meeting her eyes with his all-too perceptive silver ones, the comte said, “I think not.”

The floor opened up under her feet. She stared at her hands, which she’d folded neatly in front of her. Her fingers were trembling. Unable to remain standing, she took her chair once more, head bowed.

Her hands shook as she clasped them together. “When would you like me to leave?” She had lost. As she thought that, her heart plummeted even more. The boys, the duke––she had lost them all.

When had the duke become so necessary to her? How had he worked his way inside her head, her mind? The children, yes, they were her flesh and blood. But him too?

She lifted her head. “When did you know?” She addressed Marcus, not d’Argento.

Marcus stared at her, eyes wide, mouth grim. “I did not, until just now. I won’t ask you how you knew, Amidei.”

“I did what you should have done,” his friend said softly.

Neither Marcus nor Ruth looked at him. Now she met Marcus’s accusatory gaze, she could not look away. “I’m sorry.” It didn’t sound like enough. She had inveigled her way into the household under false pretences. For all he knew she might have intended to spirit the babies away. He trusted her.

“What relation are you to Rhea?”

Ruth wet her lips. “I’m her sister.” Her voice came out as a thready pretence of its usual firm tones.

Marcus bit his lower lip. “I see. What made you come here?”

“I wanted to make sure the babies were well. They are, I am convinced of it.”

D’Argento entered the fray, his voice breaking into the tension strung like a rope between Marcus and Ruth. “You did not come to seek revenge? Or to play mama?”

Ruth shook her head, tears pricking her eyes. “My parents didn’t want to know anything about the babies. They are my nephews. I needed to know they were well looked after. That’s all, I swear.”

Marcus asked the next question. “Then why not come as Ruth Simpson and merely ask?”

She gripped her hands even more tightly together. “I thought you might not answer me, or throw me out on my ear.” She caught her breath on a sob and continued while she still could. “If you do, I cannot blame you. My parents wouldn’t acknowledge the boys existed, much less care for them. As far as they are concerned, Rhea made a rash mistake and was dead to them. They could not cope with a daughter who dragged the family’s reputation down.”

“I see. Did you intend to take the children back to Cumbria?” D’Argento asked.

She almost laughed. How could she do that? “No, sir. I have no means of my own, and my parents will not entertain them in the house.” It was a relief to turn her head and meet the cold, incisive gaze of the Italian. He was looking at her as if she had crawled out of the nearest gutter, but that was better than the hurt she sensed in Marcus.

“I trusted you,” Marcus said. Already his voice had chilled.

“I know. I am fully aware I didn’t deserve your trust. When I arrived, I thought you an ogre.”

D’Argento’s sharp laugh felt like a slap across the face. “You’re not far wrong, at that. Lyndhurst has done some interesting things, but he has not yet left babies to die, at least not to my knowledge.” He turned his head to address Marcus. Ruth had the strong feeling of ceasing to exist. “Have you?”

“You know I have not.” For the first time since she admitted her true identity, a note of emotion entered Marcus’s voice. A shame the emotion was anger, but it was better than the empty chill sweeping through Ruth like a winter wind. “I knew you forged your character references, but I trusted you when you said you were seeking an independent life.”

“It was true!” she cried, finding the description still fit her. “It still is. I cannot return home. I don’t know if my parents would receive me.” Despite her efforts to hold them back, two fat tears spilled from her eyes and rolled down her face. Snatching up a napkin, she dabbed the tracks, but she would not stop, not yet. Once she left this room she would be lost, empty.