When a Duke Loves a Governess

by Olivia Drake

  Guy regarded her, sitting on the ottoman, her hands folded in her lap. Despite her prim posture, her eyes held a keen worry that touched him deeply. She’d been largely silent since he had placated Marbury with that hint of a possible betrothal, and he’d feared he’d gone too far. More than that, though, it disturbed him to hear her say the shooting was no accident. Unlike his aunt, Tessa had too much common sense to engage in flights of fancy.

  “I must concur,” Marbury said. “Your grandpapa had three sons who all died in their prime. A grandson, too, who was ahead of you in the succession.”

  Lady Victor ticked them off on her fingers. “The eldest, Lord Fenwick, drowned in a freak accident three years ago, along with his son Charles, when their yacht capsized off the Isle of Wight. Then the second son, Lord Nigel—your papa, Carlin—contracted a deadly digestive illness. It came on him so suddenly there was naught the doctors could do to save him. And the third son, my dear husband, Lord Victor, was slain by highwaymen.”

  “Don’t forget, old Carlin himself was discovered dead of a heart seizure in his bed last year,” Marbury added grimly. “He was in vigorous health, too. I was inclined to call it all misfortune, but after today, one must wonder.”

  To consider the deaths laid out in a pattern greatly troubled Guy. Annabelle he discounted, for she had died of childbed fever, but the others, all his close blood relatives, had succumbed in ways that could have been random fate … or murders that had been cleverly planned to arouse no suspicion.

  A chill infiltrated him. He felt witless for not having put two and two together before now. But the deaths had been spaced at the rate of one per year, not close enough to raise questions. Besides, he hadn’t been present here in England to have noticed any irregularities. He’d been sailing the world with little contact from home.

  If his family were being targeted, who could have a reason to do so? Someone with a grudge, someone who’d felt wronged and wanted revenge? His grandfather had been a stern tyrant, especially in the House of Lords. But surely revenge based on a political quarrel would be aimed only at him, not at his entire family.

  Frustrated, Guy turned to his secretary, who was standing discreetly by the wall, a slight frown on his brow. “You’ve worked in this house for over a decade, Banfield. What have you to say on this matter?”

  The man slowly shook his head. “This has taken me quite by surprise, Your Grace. I never imagined there was anything nefarious about these unfortunate deaths. However, there is something we have all forgotten. That is the stolen diaries.”

  “Yes, I heard you’d been burglarized, Carlin,” Marbury said with a sharp glance at Guy. “Has the culprit been caught?”

  “No,” Guy said curtly. “I’m sure it was someone who attended my lecture and wanted the pirate’s treasure map. But go on, Banfield.”

  “My point,” the secretary said, “is that I cannot think it a coincidence that the theft and the shooting occurred only a week apart. There must be a connection. I would suggest something else is going on, something unrelated to the deaths of these family members. Perhaps today was meant as a warning, Your Grace, to stop you from asking questions about who stole your notebooks.”

  Guy welcomed the theory. It was certainly a more palatable explanation than imagining a killer picking off his family members one by one. “The thief must know by now that the map isn’t in the notebooks. So what purpose would it serve to kill me?”

  Banfield considered for a moment. “The perpetrator may be hoping to procure the remainder of your papers upon your death. After all, what use could such things be to your heir? Mr. Edgar has no real interest in leaving England on a treasure hunt, and he would gladly sell the map to the highest bidder.”

  John Symonton, Guy recalled, had already petitioned him for the papers to be donated to the Bullock Museum—and Symonton had not been pleased by Guy’s refusal. “I take your point. Then the relevant question is, who among the attendees at the lecture would have known that I’d be at Astley’s today?”

  “Oddly enough, I know of one,” Banfield said rather grimly. “On my return from purchasing the tickets four days ago, I chanced to encounter Lord Haviland on the street. We exchanged a few pleasantries, and I mentioned to him the purpose of my errand.”

  That news gave Guy a nasty jolt. He’d written his friend off as a suspect after learning from Tessa that the earl had departed by way of the garden gate after the lecture. “Would anyone else have heard of my plans?”

  “Oh, my dear boy,” Lady Victor said in a tragical tone, “I hope I may not be the one who endangered you. The other day when I was entertaining some ladies, they remarked on how lovely it is that you’ve finally been reunited with Sophy, and I said that you were taking her to the circus for her birthday. But I am very certain that none of my friends would shoot you!”

  “Of course not,” Guy said, hard-pressed not to sound impatient. “But they may have told someone else, so pray give me their names.”

  “There was Lady Jersey, Mrs. Ludington, Mrs. Youngblood”—she paused to tap her chin—”oh, and Lady Churchford.”

  That last name snared Guy’s attention. Lord Churchford had expressed a keen interest in funding an expedition to find the gold. Although he was too stout a man to have ridden a pony, he could have hired someone else to do his dirty work.

  “That clutch of biddies likely gossiped to others, too,” Marbury pointed out. “In the space of twenty-four hours, the entire ton could have learned you were attending the performance today.”

  There was no topic of greater interest to chattering ladies than the doings of a bachelor duke. Little did they know, however, he had his sights set on one woman. His gaze sought the cameo loveliness of Tessa’s face. She looked far too somber, and he longed to see the lively sparkle back in her eyes, the enchanting smile on her lips again. But as attentive as she’d been to him today, he knew she must be seething about that betrothal ruse. And ironically, he found her independent spirit to be a part of her charm.

  “Well, I don’t believe for an instant that this has anything to do with the stolen diaries,” Lady Victor declared. “Let us not call it the Carlin Curse, but the Carlin Killer! And he may well be after all of us.” She clutched at his hand. “I implore you, Guy, find out who is behind this. I’ve a dreadful fear for you … and for my dearest Eddie.”

  He gently extracted himself from her clawlike grip. As much as the soreness in his arm made him want to snap at her, he kept his voice even. “I’ll do my best, Aunt. Now perhaps Miss James will be kind enough to escort you back to your chamber.”

  Tessa frowned slightly, her gaze flashing to his. It was clear that she had a few pithy comments to utter to him in private, but in his current state of strain, he would as soon postpone their inevitable quarrel. Thankfully, she arose without a word and offered Lady Victor her assistance.

  As they started toward the door, Marbury reached out to catch Tessa’s hand. “I shall return soon, my dear, so that Carlin and I can discuss your nuptials.”

  “Nuptials?” Lady Victor inquired.

  “Indeed, I am most happy to say that Carlin has requested my permission to pay his addresses to Tessa. He and my granddaughter will soon be betrothed.”

  Lady Victor lifted the small vinaigrette flask to her nose. “Betrothed … to my nephew? Miss James?”

  Banfield, too, gave a start of surprise. More important, though, Tessa had that rebellious glint in her beautiful blue eyes again. Guy groaned inwardly, wishing Marbury had kept his mouth shut.

  “Nothing has been settled,” Guy stated, his stern gaze sweeping the small gathering. “I trust I can rely upon everyone here to remain silent on the matter.”

  “A wise notion,” Marbury agreed. “And until such time as the announcement is put in the papers, it would be best for Tessa to live in my house, to spruce up her wardrobe and to introduce her to a few select members of society. I hope I may call on you to help with that, Lady Victor.”

  “I’d be hon
ored, my lord. But oh, this news has my head spinning. Perhaps Miss James will be good enough to explain how it all came about. It seems I have been kept very much in the dark!”

  Leaning on Tessa’s arm, his aunt went out of the bedchamber. Banfield also departed, as did Marbury, leaving Guy alone to sort through his tangled thoughts.

  Rubbing his brow, he knew he’d sunk deeper into the suds with Tessa. Now she would be forced to enlighten Aunt Delia. Tessa would be grilled on her relationship with him and quizzed on her fictitious life in Canada—and she would resent him all the more for landing her in such an awkward spot.

  Yet as troubling as that situation might be, it was the least of his worries.

  He leaned back on the chaise and strove to ignore his throbbing arm. The shooting today had been no fluke. For whatever reason, someone had deliberately attempted to murder him. It unnerved him to think that Tessa or Sophy might have moved in the way of that bullet.

  Finding the gunman had to be his top priority. He must dig deeper, discover the whereabouts of suspects like Churchford and Symonton when the incident had occurred. In addition, he must take a closer look at all who had attended that lecture. And he must not discount the possibility, either, that today’s attack was related to the other deaths in his family.

  That would certainly broaden the scope of his investigation.

  Yet his morbid reflections kept returning to one man in particular. Had it been Haviland, his old friend, behind the jester’s mask? Had the earl’s addiction to gambling driven him to take such a drastic step to acquire the treasure map? It was time to discover the full extent of Haviland’s debts.

  * * *

  The following morning, Tessa headed downstairs in answer to a summons from the duke. She had left Sophy in high spirits, happy to abandon her arithmetic lesson in favor of playing circus with Winnie. Tessa’s spirits were high, too, from an eagerness to release her simmering anger at him.

  She was still seething at his audacity in duping her grandfather into believing an engagement was imminent. Carlin had placed her in an untenable position, forcing her to fob off Lady Victor yesterday with a promise to confide in her later. Tessa had been greatly tempted to return to the ducal suite the previous evening to confront him. Only a thought for propriety and compassion for his injury had stopped her.

  But today he surely would be improved, and she needn’t suffer the slightest reluctance about giving him a piece of her mind. He had to tell her grandfather the truth—and swiftly. Today, if possible, before Lord Marbury concocted more plans to pave her path into society.

  Tessa paused outside the library and marshaled her thoughts. One thing was certain, Carlin must not be permitted to orchestrate her future. Not even if he played the charmer, buttering her up with compliments and flattery and melting looks. His purpose was to cajole her into accepting the marriage offer that he viewed as his gentlemanly duty.

  Braced for battle, she stepped into the sunlit library. The shelves of tooled-leather books looked as appealing as they had on that glorious night when Carlin had kissed her here for the first time. As duchess, she could devote her life to the pleasure of reading all of these works. The thought held her transfixed, and only with effort did Tessa drag her mind back to reality.

  She wanted to be a hatmaker, not a lady of leisure.

  The duke was seated by the window, his frowning attention focused on the newspaper he was perusing. Daylight gleamed on his raven-dark hair and put his harshly handsome features into sharp relief. He wore a loose jacket in a dark bottle green rather than a tight-fitting coat that would have been difficult to don over a bulky bandage. With his left arm in a sling, he cut a dashing figure, and her wayward heart lurched, beset by a rush of longing.

  She clamped down a rise of warmth and glided purposefully toward him. “Good morning, Carlin. I hope you’re feeling well today. No fever, I trust?”

  He looked up to observe her approach. Rather than the suave smile and alluring eyes that she’d prepared herself to resist, his mouth formed a thin line, and his gaze held a steely glint that nearly made her falter. “I was considerably better,” he said coolly, “until I saw this.”

  Tessa took the newspaper that he thrust at her. With a quiver of shock, she recognized it as the tabloid where Orrin worked as a typesetter. Her gaze widened on the front-page article with the headline emblazoned at the top in large letters: THE CARLIN CURSE.

  Drained of stamina, she wilted into a chair. A swift reading of the piece confirmed her worst fears. It related a luridly embellished tale of the Duke of Carlin being shot at Astley’s Amphitheatre, then went on to describe in sensationalist detail the deaths of other family members. It concluded with flowery, overwrought speculation that the present duke was the current victim of the curse and might not be long for this world.

  The byline identified the reporter as Orrin Nesbitt.

  Her stomach knotted, she lifted her stark eyes to Carlin’s face and was shaken by the iciness there. “Oh, no.”

  “Is that all you have to say? I should think you’d be scrambling to convince me of your innocence in the publication of this disgraceful piece.”

  “My w-what?”

  The duke snatched the paper from her and flung it onto a nearby table. “Don’t prevaricate, Tessa. You must have run to Nesbitt yesterday after you left my bedchamber. There’s no way he could have thought up the name of this ridiculous curse on his own. You had to have passed the story on to him.”

  The unwarranted attack helped to rally her wits. “I most certainly did not. I haven’t had any contact with Orrin in a week.”

  “Then what explanation can you offer for this outrageous article being penned by your friend?”

  “I … I recall mentioning the curse to him that morning you saw us outside in the garden. It was just a silly, offhand comment, though. I never meant for him to write about it. In fact, since he hoped to become a reporter, I expressly ordered him to forget he ever heard me say it. Believe me, I’d have stopped him had I known.”

  Sunk in misery, she reflected on the extent to which Orrin had disregarded her request. He must have begun researching the article immediately, for he couldn’t have gathered so many facts about the duke’s family history since just yesterday. Then he’d added the Astley’s event and used the breaking news to convince the publisher to print the story.

  How could he have betrayed her like this? Of course, there was his wish to increase his income in order to marry her. Apparently her refusal hadn’t deterred him from that course. No matter what their class, she reflected bitterly, men did as they pleased without regard for a woman’s wishes.

  Carlin sprang to his feet and prowled the library. “It’s too late to stop the scandal. No doubt this edition has been distributed all over London. As head of this family, I have a duty to uphold our name. But now we will become a laughingstock, the object of gossip and speculation in every drawing room and club across the city. My aunt won’t be able to hold up her head.”

  Tessa rather thought Lady Victor with her taste for gloom would enjoy the notoriety but refrained from saying so since Carlin looked so grim-faced. “I know how distasteful you find this, and I’m truly sorry. Please believe I would never have encouraged Orrin to write such a story.”

  The duke’s eyes narrowed on her in a speculative stare. “You say Nesbitt aspired to become a journalist. A piece of rubbish like this could launch his career. That makes me wonder if he made his own news.”

  “Pardon?” She snatched up the paper to scan it again. “The prose is certainly overblown, but the basic facts appear to be true.”

  “You mistake my point. I’m suggesting that he may have garbed himself as a jester and taken that shot himself.”

  His conjecture rocked her to the core. “Carlin, you surely can’t think so. Orrin would never harm a flea. And how would he have known where we were going, anyway?”

  “He could have discovered it the same way he nosed out all the other family secrets.
By chatting up the servants in the stables or in the kitchen. You may be sure I’ll instruct Roebuck to have a word with my staff about tattling to strangers.” The duke came closer to tower over her. “This proves Nesbitt isn’t your friend, Tessa. You don’t know him as well as you thought.”

  Tilting her head back to view Carlin, Tessa detected a hint of heat in his glacial gaze. Despite her distraught state, it thrilled her to think that a man of his rank could be jealous of a common workman. She was tempted to spite him by singing Orrin’s praises, but since she was also angry at Orrin, she deemed it wiser to abandon the notion.

  “It’s absurd to imagine that Orrin shot you,” she said. “And besides, I doubt the ton reads this rag, anyway. It’s sold to the masses on street corners. There may be little scandal at all.”

  “My aunt subscribes to this rag. That’s why Roebuck delivered it to me at once.”

  Tessa cringed to think the damage might be more widespread than she’d wanted to believe. Carlin prided himself on duty and honor. She regretted having caused him trouble, however unintentionally, at a time when he’d suffered a gunshot wound and still hadn’t recovered his diaries.

  Perhaps it was best to distract him with another possible suspect.

  “Speaking of your aunt, there’s something I must tell you.” At his inquiring frown, Tessa went on, “I was in Lady Victor’s bedchamber a few weeks ago when she was about to take her nap. As she was falling asleep, she seemed unhappy that you’d returned from your trip. She said that if you had died on the voyage, then her son would have become duke. Do you suppose she could have been repeating what she’d heard from him?”

  Carlin stared as if she’d gone mad. “Good God. I hope you’re not suggesting that Edgar is trying to murder me.”

  “Why not? It’s only logical, since he’s next in line to inherit your title.”

  His mouth tight, the duke resumed pacing. “It isn’t logical in the least. My cousin is too sports-mad to covet the responsibilities of the dukedom. I can’t even coax him to learn the ropes of the estate he inherited. His mind is too preoccupied with boxing and horse racing.”