“He has enough to worry over regarding his experiments without me adding more.” The viscount frowned as he studied her. “Did he say anything that upset you?”
“Not at all. He told me quite a bit about electromagnetism.”
“One of his favorite topics.”
“Does he have many?”
“More than I can count. He finds the unusual interesting, and his ability to understand the mechanics behind machines is unique. He invented several devices that speed the manufacturing process and keep workers safer.”
“That’s amazing.” She couldn’t imagine doing something of the sort.
“Yes, but at other times simple things elude him.” He shook his head.
“Isn’t that to be expected?” His brow furrowed as if he didn’t understand, so she continued, “Your father’s mind works differently than ours. If his thoughts are pondering such complicated matters, how can he be expected to remember to put on shoes instead of slippers, especially if slippers are more comfortable?”
The viscount’s chuckle sent the quivers dancing anew. “I suppose I never thought of it quite like that.”
She shrugged. “It isn’t so different compared to when we have a problem. Thinking of other things, especially commonplace ones, is difficult.”
“Hmm.”
“His behavior doesn’t mean he isn’t concerned about your welfare. At least, that’s my experience, not that my minor problems compare to what occupies his mind.”
He gently tapped her temple, his touch catching her breath. “From what little I know about you, your thoughts aren’t minor. They are as important as anyone else’s.”
“That’s kind of you to say.” His remark pleased her. Her aunt had belittled her so often in the last two years that she tended to discount her thoughts and opinions.
“Where was your last position?”
Fear spiked through Amelia, sending her thoughts racing. “I-I was actually at the academy, assisting there.” She drew an uneasy breath, hoping he believed her even as she wished she had the courage to tell him the truth. But how could she take the risk of losing not only this moment but the moments to come? She suddenly realized Ronald and Charlotte and the earl were only part of why she wanted to stay.
“My mother died when I was twelve,” he said. “so I appreciate what you went through having lost your father. Losing a parent isn’t easy at a young age.”
She felt undeserving of the sympathy in his eyes when she was deceiving him. If she wanted to hold tight to her lie, she had to keep her distance from this man. Sharing intimate feelings were to be avoided. But part of her longed for a connection with him no matter how temporary. If she could help to mend his relationship with his father, all the better.
“My father wasn’t very good with money, not that we ever had much,” she offered. “Our life was simple but became much more difficult with his death. My mother is a vicar’s daughter and has few skills.” She clenched her teeth to keep from sharing how frightening it had been to be without enough food. Her mother had refused to allow her to seek work in a factory or as a seamstress. But when her stomach had cramped with hunger, she’d considered far less worthy occupations. “My aunt helped us on occasion.”
She swallowed against the anger that surfaced when she thought about her aunt. Aunt Beasley had never married and had seemed to think her sister’s choice of a husband was a terrible one. Her father may not have been good with finances, but he had been a delightful person and an excellent father.
It had taken some convincing on her mother’s part to get Aunt Beasley to consider Amelia as a student. Amelia still remembered the day she’d arrived at the academy. She’d been filled with pride and relief at the thought of being trained as a governess.
When her aunt had escorted her up to the servant’s quarters, Amelia still hadn’t realized her intent. Not until she’d been handed her a maid’s uniform and a dust rag had the truth sunk in. She blinked away the memories and the horrible embarrassment at what her aunt had called a misunderstanding.
“You must’ve missed your mother as well,” she said now, anxious to turn the conversation away from herself.
“Very much so. I’m certain it was worse for Margaret as she’d just had her debut. Luckily, a friend of ours, the Countess of Westering took Margaret under her wing and helped to find her a husband. I researched his family and thought he would be a good match.”
To think of a young boy worrying about whether his sister was marrying the right man showed just how little he could count on his father.
“I wanted to make certain Margaret had a good home,” he added.
“Her marrying left you to care for your father.” She could almost picture the viscount as a young lad with the weight of responsibility on his shoulders.
He smiled, his gaze moving over her face. She could only hope he couldn’t read her thoughts. “Much like you watching over your mother.”
To think they had that in common, even if their situations were so different, warmed something deep inside her.
“You are a puzzle.”
She looked up in alarm. “I’m just a governess.” That was all she’d wanted for so long. The idea that she was something else—or something more—hadn’t occurred to her.
“I think there is far more to you than that. I look forward to learning more.”
Amelia’s mouth went dry at his words—they’d felt like a promise.
Chapter Five
“To a close observer [...] at all great horseracing meetings, nothing is so remarkable as the child-like reliance with which the general public intrusts its bettings to the keeping of the “professionals,” who there swarm in attendance.”
~The Seven Curses of London
The next day, Christopher paused at the entrance of Newmarket, surprised at the size of the crowd that had already gathered. He held a sporting paper, much like many of the other racegoers, but wasn’t certain what to look for among its pages or among those in attendance.
Edward had purchased a ticket for a race here shortly before his death. Christopher didn’t know if following in Edward’s steps would provide any helpful information, but neither would sitting at home wondering about it.
Three days ago, he’d located the address Edward had jotted down that had been among the papers Millstone had sent. The Boar’s Head Tavern was a public house on the outskirts of the East End. The tavern had been filled with some unsavory characters. However, other than feeling out of place, he hadn’t noted anything of interest that connected it to Edward.
If only he knew who or what he was looking for and had more time to investigate. Already the clock was ticking. Though the blackmailer had yet to give a deadline, Christopher knew that would be forthcoming.
Having Miss Tippin with the children reassured him, but her dependability had yet to be tested. He couldn’t risk being away from home for long periods until he knew the children were in good hands. His father had been on his best behavior since her arrival, but Christopher knew that wouldn’t last.
Something about the new governess appealed to him. If he were honest, he’d admit several things about her caught his notice. She might have a cautious soul, but she was also intelligent, kind, and...attractive. He shouldn’t have noticed, yet how could he not? Those large blue eyes of hers full of secrets, her heart-shaped face, not to mention her gentle spirit—all of it intrigued him. He must be lonelier than he realized if he was having such thoughts.
All that truly mattered was that the children were responding well to her and that her methods of teaching were effective. He’d been alarmed to hear she’d been assisting at the academy rather than serving as a governess in her previous position. Perhaps it would be wise to request daily updates as to how the children were progressing and what she was teaching them until he was certain he could rely on her. He hadn’t done so with the previous governesses which in hindsight had been a costly mistake. This time, he’d keep a close eye on things to make cert
ain he could trust her.
Once he knew all was well with Charlotte and Ronald, he could spend more time trying to identify the blackmailer. Today’s outing would be brief, which was all the more reason to make it effective.
He walked slowly across the grass toward the betting enclosure, studying the people. All sorts were in attendance—young and old, working class and well-to-do, and everything in between. Had the blackmailer seen Edward here? Had Edward done something untoward to catch his notice? If so, what?
“Beaumont.”
Christopher turned to see Viscount Rutland, a friend from his university days, approach and reached out to shake his hand. “Enjoying a day at the races?”
“It’s a fine day for it. Do you have your eye on a horse?” Rutland asked with a smile. His dark hair was clipped short as always. His hazel eyes held a keen intelligence.
Christopher glanced at the sporting paper in his hand. “I haven’t had a chance to study the contenders yet. What of you?”
Rutland’s gaze swept the crowd. “I’m here on business actually.”
“Oh?” Christopher couldn’t contain his curiosity as he knew Rutland worked for the Intelligence Office. “A government matter?”
Rutland nodded. “We’ve uncovered a new scheme which seems to be making its way into the ton. If you intend to place wagers at the races or other venues, I’d advise you to keep your wits about you.”
“That sounds ominous.” Christopher waited, hoping Rutland would say more.
“We received word from two different lords who’ve gotten in over their heads with some seedy characters. The threats being made shouldn’t be taken lightly.”
“What sort of threats?” Though tempted to confide the details of the blackmail letter, Christopher couldn’t. He trusted Rutland, but he’d given his word to Millstone to keep the matter a secret. That didn’t mean he wasn’t willing to listen to whatever Rutland shared.
Rutland glanced around as if to discern whether they were being watched. Christopher supposed a man in his position always had to be on guard. Rutland gestured for them to walk, his leisurely pace suggesting they had nothing more on their minds than enjoying the races.
“I received word of your whereabouts two days ago.”
Christopher nearly halted in surprise. “Since when are my movements of interest to the Intelligence Office?”
“It isn’t you, but rather The Boar’s Head Tavern, that’s of interest to my office.”
“Obviously, my skills of observation are lacking. I didn’t notice anyone who looked out of place.” Were his skills so lacking? Everyone he’d studied had appeared to be regular customers. A few had a dark edge that could sometimes be seen at some of the less popular gaming hells. He hadn’t noted anything else. How was he going to resolve this if he’d failed at the tavern?
“May I ask what you were doing there?” Rutland raised a brow.
Christopher silently cursed his promise to Millstone. Having Rutland’s assistance would be advantageous. But the marquess had been adamant. Christopher intended to try to change Millstone’s mind next time they met, but for now, he had to skate around the truth.
“I played a few hands of cards as well as several dice games.” Christopher’s intent had been to watch the proceedings but sitting at the bar alone had drawn too much interest. When he’d shown his willingness to gamble away his money, his welcome had changed from frigid to lukewarm. “The dealer was holding cards, and the dice were switched once or twice.”
While he was no expert at such things, an observant person more interested in watching than playing and drinking would be able to tell. Three young bucks had arrived when he was about to take his leave, already three sheets to the wind despite the early hour. He supposed they thought themselves quite daring to be frequenting such a place. Christopher had left them to their fate with the hope they learned from the experience.
“Cheating at games of chance is the least of the problems there.” Rutland halted and leveled a steady stare. “Do take care, Beaumont. I wouldn’t want to have your body fished out of the Thames.”
“That bad, eh?” He shook his head. “I don’t believe I will be returning to that particular establishment.”
Rutland nodded. “Wise of you. Trouble arose there less than a week ago, leaving a man severely injured.” He paused. “I certainly wouldn’t ask questions of those who work there.”
Christopher hadn’t bothered to ask many once his initial inquiries had been met with hostility. “Did you happen to hear of Gideon de Wolfe’s efforts in a tavern of the same ilk?”
“The police shared a few of the details with us. If they had done so earlier it would’ve helped, but communication between departments is not what it should be.”
Christopher nodded. “I suppose every department thinks they know best.”
“Some of those in positions of authority have their own agendas. They don’t understand the intricacies of major criminal activity.”
“Major? Why make money in just one area when you can run scams in several?”
“Quite.” Rutland sighed. “There are days when it’s enough to make you want to give up this business.”
Christopher patted his shoulder. “The rest of us appreciate your efforts to keep our world safe.”
“That task has become more difficult of late.” Rutland shook his head. “Gambling in general has gotten out of hand. That has brought new criminals into the game.”
“Is there anyone in particular I should be on the watch for?”
Rutland’s gaze narrowed as he studied Christopher. “That almost sounds as if you’re making inquiries of your own.”
Christopher only smiled. “And if I am?”
“Then I would warn you to take care. These men are making significant profits. They won’t allow anyone to get in their way, even if he’s a member of the nobility.” The seriousness of Rutland’s expression lent weight to his words. “If you discover anything interesting, I would very much like to hear about it. But caution is key.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Rutland pulled a watch from his waistcoat pocket and checked the time. “I must be going, but I look forward to speaking with you soon.”
They said goodbye, and Christopher watched Rutland move toward the track.
Continuing to walk at a leisurely pace so he could better observe, he decided to watch the betting enclosure first. Once he drew near, he paused, examining the crowd even as he pretended to study the record of each horse noted in the paper.
Several people crowded around one man who stood just outside the enclosure. He wore a brown bowler hat and a tweed suit with buttons near to bursting over his stomach. From what Christopher overheard, he provided analysis on the merits of different horses in exchange for a fee, which he promptly pocketed. Why sell the information if he knew anything of significance? Why not just place his own wager?
When the man completed a conversation and those listening moved into the betting enclosure to place their wager, Christopher approached. “Do you have any suggestions on the upcoming race?”
“That depends,” the man said as he tucked his thumb into his pocket, his assessing gaze sweeping over Christopher from head to toe. “My opinion don’t come cheap.”
“How do you gather your information?”
The man smiled, but it was far from friendly. “I was raised in the racing community. I’ve spent hours following the wins and losses of the horses and their jockeys.”
“Interesting.” While nothing was wrong with what the man said, the situation didn’t feel right. That was reason enough for Christopher to want more details. “How long have you been selling your opinion?”
“Long enough,” was the man’s only answer. He glanced over Christopher’s shoulder at a man who stood waiting. “Here now, if you don’t have need of my services, others do. Off with the likes of you.”
Christopher moved aside and watched as another man requested advice on the upcoming r
ace. He didn’t know what it was about the man that triggered concern, but since it was the only clue he had at the moment, he intended to find out.
~*~
Malcolm Connolly kept a close eye on the man in the fancy suit, wishing he’d find someone else to bother. The man’s presence made Malcolm and his customers uneasy.
The service Malcolm offered was not the sort of which the police approved. Lucky for him, the bookmakers did. He increased their business significantly by giving enough information to those interested in placing bets to do so, regardless of whether they knew a horse’s mane from its tail. They studied the sporting sheet as if it had all the answers, as if they could analyze the information and know which horse would win. The sight always made him chuckle.
Malcolm had been raised around the tracks. As the son of a trainer, he’d forgotten more about horses than most people would ever know. But he had no interest in following in his father’s footsteps. The hard work came with long hours and little pay. Significant money only came if the horse succeeded regardless of the amount of work invested. The owner of the horse had control, not the trainer. Even after putting time and effort into a horse to train it to run like the wind on the track, the owner could send it to be trained elsewhere, leaving nothing but an unpaid account.
His father might have chosen that life because of a love of horses, but Malcolm had been kicked one too many times. After watching the inexperienced betters at the track an idea had taken hold.
Several years ago, he’d offered advice on how to place a bet as well as on which horse to wager to a man who’d stared at the sporting sheet until his eyes crossed. Malcolm shared a few of the factors to which he should pay particular attention. Not surprisingly, the horse he’d recommended had won. The man had been grateful enough to pay Malcolm from his winnings, and an idea for a business had been born.
Malcolm never placed any wagers. In his opinion, gambling was merely jubilation at the idea of winning that warred with the fear of losing. He’d chosen to replace the thrill of those emotions with one he preferred—taking people’s money.
Gambling for the Governess: A Victorian Romance (The Seven Curses of London Book 9) Page 6
