by Darcy Burke
“I shall pray that his marriage knows more happiness than either of ours.”
Val stepped toward the desk, his gaze dark. “Was your marriage unhappy?”
Yes, but she wasn’t going to say so. “I only meant that we lost our spouses rather quickly. That’s not a very happy ending.”
He stared at her a moment, his eyes intent, before his shoulders relaxed and the tension in his jaw released. Had his marriage been unhappy? She recalled his reaction when she’d first mentioned the death of his wife and longed to ask but didn’t dare. Those were intimacies they mustn’t indulge.
“I’ll see you to your room.” He turned to go, then hesitated and pivoted back toward her. “Will you be leaving with Lord and Lady Barkley when their town house is ready?”
“Presumably. He said I could stay as long as necessary, but Lady Barkley strongly suggested I would be able to find something within a fortnight. I took that to mean that I should be gone from their household by then.” Perhaps Isabelle’s outrage and hurt were also behind her interpretation, but whatever the reason, she planned to exit their household as soon as possible. She’d use her savings to rent lodgings if she had to.
Val’s mouth turned down, and his eyes narrowed. “They won’t expel you if you don’t have a new situation.”
“No, I can’t imagine they would.” That had been true until today. Until she’d seen the triumph in Lady Barkley’s eyes. Then Isabelle had known that the woman wanted Isabelle gone.
“You are welcome to stay here as long as you need.”
She stared at him. “And that wouldn’t cause a scandal.” Her wry tone nearly made him smile.
“I’m sure I can come up with a reason for needing an exceptionally intelligent woman on my staff. Perhaps I’ll hire you as my secretary.”
“Don’t you already have a secretary?”
“I do, but surely I can justify two.” He winked at her, and her heart fluttered. For a brief moment, she was tempted to let him take care of her, to fix the wrongs in her world.
But she wouldn’t. If she’d learned anything, it was that there was just one person who could be counted on to take care of her: herself.
Chapter 7
“Eastleigh!”
Tonight, Val merely raised his hand in greeting before depositing himself between Cole and Cole’s soon-to-be-relative, Thad Middleton. When Doyle brought him his tankard, Val swallowed the contents, then wordlessly handed the empty tankard back to him.
“I haven’t seen you drink an ale like that since Oxford.” Though Cole’s tone was heavy with humor, Val detected the edge of concern.
“Suffice it to say I am dealing with issues I haven’t had since Oxford.”
Cole’s brows lifted for a brief moment before he sipped his beer. Then he rose from his chair. “Pardon us for a bit, Middleton, Eastleigh and I have some Wicked Duke business to discuss.” He looked at Val and inclined his head toward the private salon.
Val got up and followed him to the corner table, accepting his refilled tankard from Doyle along the way.
“Now what’s wrong?” Cole asked as soon as he was seated.
“Barkley hired a new governess to replace Isabelle.”
Cole winced. “That’s bloody awkward. He couldn’t have waited until he was out of your house?”
“Apparently not. As you can imagine, we are full to the brim with all of them and the staff they traveled with. Isabelle is now ensconced in a guest room next to my chamber.” Val peered at Cole over the rim of his mug before he took a drink.
“That sounds…convenient.”
“It was that or cram the new governess into her tiny room along with her. What would have been uncomfortable in a normal circumstance would then have been utterly disagreeable. Can you imagine having to share a closet-sized chamber with the person who’d stolen your job?”
“I presume she didn’t steal it—”
Val glowered at him and was satisfied when Cole didn’t finish his ridiculous and unnecessary observation.
“You are quite upset by this,” Cole said.
“Shouldn’t I be? Isabelle is the smartest woman I know. If there’s a better governess out there, on second thought, no, there isn’t a better governess out there. There are just different kinds. So she doesn’t play an instrument or teach them other…lady stuff. Barkley could have hired this new governess in addition to Isabelle.”
“Have you pointed that out to him?”
Val snapped his gaze to Cole’s. “No. Should I?” He waved a hand. “Never mind. It’s probably curious enough that I am lodging her in a guest room. If I speak to Barkley on her behalf, I am confident she would not appreciate it. As it was, I had to force her to move into the guest room, and if she hadn’t been faced with having to share with her replacement, I’m not sure she would have agreed.”
“Force her? I hope you’re not being an arrogant ass.”
“I am not. I am simply trying to help a friend in need.”
“A friend. Who is sleeping in the chamber next door. Are you going to behave yourself?”
“I must. She’s made it clear she is not interested in resurrecting the past. She is completely focused on finding new employment. You know everyone—who is in need of a governess?”
Cole cupped his hands around his mug. “Just to clarify, one that doesn’t teach, what was it you said—lady stuff?”
“Will that be a terrible hindrance?”
Cole shrugged. “What do I know of it? I’ll see what I can find out.”
Someone yelled “Eastleigh” from the main salon, and it was followed by a chorus of laughter. Both Val and Cole turned their heads in that direction.
“Is someone impersonating you?” Cole asked. “It sounds like you just came in, but they all know you’re back here.”
“Let’s investigate.” Val stood, and Cole followed him back to the main salon.
“Eastleigh.” Middleton waved them over, and they took the seats they’d recently vacated.
“Jack has just come from Brooks’s with some news.”
Jack sat next to Cole, his tankard already in front of him. “You know I don’t truck in gossip or follow the foolish wagers at White’s. However, I was at a meeting at Brooks’s when I heard mention of a new wager and felt certain you would want to know.” He looked straight at Val. “Now that Colehaven is to be wed, you are apparently the most sought-after bachelor of the Season. Someone wagered you will be next to wed.”
“Who would take that bet?” Middleton asked. “The wagerer is an imbecile.”
“At last count, there are at least a dozen wagers.” Jack cast a sympathetic eye toward Val. “You will undoubtedly be besieged at the very next Society event you attend.”
“It’s to be a sport, then.” Middleton shook his head. “Barbarous.”
“I determined it was better to warn you,” Jack said.
“Thank you?” Val contemplated a trip to Scotland. Or perhaps India. Maybe Australia. Yes, living with convicts might be preferable to the circus he was about to be subjected to.
“You may never attend a Society event again,” Cole murmured. “But you’re not missing my wedding or the breakfast.”
Of course he wouldn’t. “I’ll come in disguise.”
Cole grinned. “Please do. That would amuse Diana greatly.”
“It would not amuse my grandmother. None of this will.”
“Has she given up on pressuring you to wed again?” Cole asked.
“Not at all. In fact, she’s redoubled her efforts. But you know how she is about notoriety. She won’t like it, and I pity the gentlemen who placed those wagers if they are ever in Grandmama’s vicinity.”
Cole shivered. “Indeed.” He took a drink of beer as the conversation around them moved to other topics. Keeping his voice low, he said, “You do plan to marry again, don’t you? I realize we’ve never definitively discussed it, but given the title and your responsibilities—”
“You’re really going to
lecture me about ducal responsibilities?”
“There’s no call to be obnoxious. I know this is a sensitive subject, as it should be. My apologies.”
“No need to apologize,” Val muttered. Because Cole was right. Again. Val did have responsibilities, which meant he had to marry again. The mere thought of it turned his blood to ice and made his insides swirl with nausea.
Logically, he knew the likelihood of him marrying another woman like Louisa was nearly impossible. But sometimes logic was overpowered by base emotions like fear and self-doubt. He’d chosen Louisa of his own free will. And it had been the worst mistake of his life.
Would he marry again? Yes, right about when the gates of Hell were coated with ice.
If yesterday’s lessons had been challenging due to the girls’ excitement about their impending shopping trip, today’s were positively painful. Between the awkwardness of Isabelle sharing her duties with Miss Shipley and the girls’ overwhelming sadness and anger—Beatrice was more sad, while Caroline was petulant with anger—it was a truly excruciating way to spend a morning.
After lessons in science and Latin, during which Miss Shipley was unable to keep up with either, Isabelle turned the teaching over to the older woman, who introduced both girls to wielding a needle. They removed from the table to a seating arrangement near the hearth, where a cozy fire heated the large room.
Seated in a chair angled toward a settee on which Isabelle sat between the girls, Miss Shipley opened a basket and pulled out three embroidery hoops fitted with fabric. After passing one each to Beatrice and Caroline, she returned to the basket and withdrew needles and thread. She looked to Isabelle. “I’m afraid I don’t have a fourth hoop.”
“That’s quite all right,” Isabelle said, feeling relieved. Perhaps she could excuse herself from this lesson entirely.
Caroline crossed her arms over her chest and sent Miss Shipley a mutinous glare. “I don’t want to embroider.” On second thought, Isabelle decided she should stay.
“Perhaps you can just watch today,” Miss Shipley said kindly.
Isabelle felt sorry for the woman. None of this was her fault. She’d been hired to do a job, and she was simply trying to do it.
“I’ll try it,” Isabelle said, hoping to bolster Miss Shipley’s confidence and show Caroline that embroidery wasn’t so bad.
Ten minutes and several stab wounds later, Isabelle revised her opinion. Embroidery had clearly been created by the devil himself. She could mend a tear or sew a button, but jabbing a needle into fabric for the purpose of creating a design was clearly beyond her.
Miss Shipley unraveled the second knot Isabelle had created and handed the hoop back to her. “Just take it slow. Once you master a single stitch, the rest will fall into place.”
Right now, mastering a single stitch seemed as achievable as sitting in the House of Lords. Still, Isabelle would persist. It was important for the girls to know they shouldn’t give up in the face of adversity. Or killer needles.
“I did it!” Beatrice exclaimed, presenting her row of perfect stitches to Isabelle.
Smiling, Isabelle glanced toward the new governess, who looked over at them with something akin to envy. “Show Miss Shipley,” Isabelle told Beatrice.
Beatrice presented her embroidery to Miss Shipley, but had lost some of the ebullience she’d displayed a moment ago. It was going to take time for them to welcome the new woman into their lives. Isabelle only hoped Miss Shipley would be patient. So far, she believed that would be the case.
Turning to Caroline, who was seated beside her, Isabelle asked if she wanted to try.
Caroline shook her head. “No. Embroidery is boring. And dangerous. Your finger is still bleeding.”
Isabelle looked down and saw there was now a small red dot on the fabric. She winced and sent an apologetic look toward Miss Shipley.
“How are things going this morning?” Lady Barkley swept into the library and glided to stand between Miss Shipley’s chair and the settee. “Embroidery lessons, how splendid.” As she looked over the settee, she frowned. “Why aren’t you sewing, Caroline?”
“I don’t want to.” Caroline didn’t even try to erase the bitterness from her tone.
“Caroline, you will cease that attitude this instant.” Lady Barkley turned her attention toward Miss Shipley. “Why is Mrs. Cortland sewing and Caroline is not?”
Miss Shipley stared up at the baroness and seemed to have difficulty forming words. Isabelle jumped to the rescue. “When Caroline demonstrated her reluctance to try it, I thought I would show her how pleasing it could be.”
“Only you didn’t because you keep making knots, and you’ve bled all over it.” Tears swam in Caroline’s eyes, and Isabelle had to stop herself from wrapping the girl in a tight hug. She would’ve done it if Lady Barkley wasn’t standing there staring at them in stern disapproval.
“It looks as though I’ve come at just the right time to suggest a walk. Come, girls, your hats and gloves are in the hall.” Lady Barkley pursed her lips at Isabelle, her gaze lingering on the bloodstained handkerchief in her lap. “Perhaps you should stay and work on your needle skills.”
Torn between wanting to spend as much time with Beatrice and Caroline as possible and relief at not having to suffer Lady Barkley—when had the woman become her enemy?—Isabelle succumbed to relief. “I’ll do that, thank you.”
“Should I come too?” Miss Shipley asked.
Lady Barkley looked at the new governess as if she were daft. “Of course.”
Miss Shipley stood with alacrity, and Beatrice followed suit. She cast Isabelle a sad look that squeezed her heart.
Lady Barkley delivered her youngest an expectant stare. “Caroline?”
Rising with great reluctance, Caroline pushed out a frustrated breath. Isabelle gave the girl’s hand a squeeze and offered an encouraging smile. Still looking dejected, Caroline marched from the room.
As soon as they were gone, Isabelle set her ruined embroidery on Miss Shipley’s basket. She had no intention of working on needlepoint when she needed to find a job.
Instead, she went up to her room, a beautifully decorated chamber with a four-poster bed, an armoire and a dresser, a wide, warm hearth, and the best part: a desk. She would draft more inquiries today.
As she traversed the gallery toward her chamber, she encountered Lord Barkley, who greeted her with a warm smile, as if he hadn’t just turned her world upside down the day before. “You didn’t accompany Lady Barkley and the girls on their walk?”
“No, that’s Miss Shipley’s duty now,” she said coolly.
He winced. “Damn me. I regret how all this happened. I didn’t realize Lady Barkley was going to arrive with a new governess in tow.”
“You weren’t aware she was going to hire someone to replace me?”
“She’s been threatening it for some time—interviewed several candidates—but I admit I didn’t think she’d actually do it. You’re quite accomplished, and the girls adore you.” He glanced beyond her along the gallery and lowered his voice. “In truth, I am trying to convince Lady Barkley to keep you on. Why can’t the girls have two governesses? It only makes sense.”
Yes, it did, but given the animosity Lady Barkley now freely showed toward Isabelle, it seemed sense might not emerge the victor. “I do appreciate your support, my lord.”
He took her hand in his. “You shall always have it. It is not just the girls who will be bereft by your departure.” He ran his thumb along the back of her hand, and though it was a slight movement, it changed everything. What he said next only confirmed her fear. “It would be my pleasure to ensure you are well cared for.”
That was a proposition. Had he always felt that way about her? Had Lady Barkley realized it and decided to replace Isabelle? She felt sick.
Snapping her hand away from his, she resisted the urge to wipe it on her apron. “I have always cared for myself, my lord, and will continue to do so. My welfare is no longer your concern.”
How could she stay for the remainder of the fortnight? It was already torture to be with the girls, seeing their sadness and knowing their time together was finite. Now it would also be torture knowing Lord Barkley looked at her in a different light, and that Lady Barkley likely knew it.
What a tangle!
She had to find a job—any job—immediately. There had to be something she could do, even temporarily. She had always cared for herself, and she would continue to do so.
Armed with resolve and courage, she grabbed her things and went in search of freedom.
Chapter 8
It became evident that Isabelle should have dedicated far more time and enthusiasm toward needlework. If she had, she might have obtained employment in a millinery shop sewing hats or stitching dresses for a modiste. Instead, she found herself standing at the back door of a tavern that was apparently in dire need of a barmaid. The pie seller at the end of the street had pointed Isabelle in this direction after she’d inquired about any jobs in the area.
Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the door. After several moments with no answer, she lifted her hand to knock again just as the portal opened.
“Delivery?” the woman asked, wiping her hands on her apron.
“I’m inquiring about a position for a barmaid,” Isabelle said, thinking she’d never imagined herself saying those words. But desperation called for drastic measures.
The woman, who seemed about Isabelle’s thirty years, looked her up and down. “Do you have experience?”
“Er, no.” Isabelle thought of how the dowager would have cringed at her vocalization, but then decided her speech would pale compared to her situation, which would have horrified Val’s grandmother.
