by Olivia Drake
“And what would I do for you in return?”
“Why, you must charm Miss Linton, of course, so that she dreams of you and not Rothwell.”
“Ah, but you forget that it’s the young heiress I wish to charm.”
“Wherever Miss Linton is, the duke’s sister will also be nearby. If you can win the trust of the governess, she will be lulled into believing Lady Gwendolyn is safe with you. I will provide the circumstances, and the rest is up to you.”
At that moment, Finchley shuffled into the saloon. The old butler turned a jaundiced gaze on the card players. “Someone rang?”
“Bring us a quantity of your best brandy,” Pettibone called over his shoulder. “And champagne for the ladies.”
“I fancy a dish of strawberries as well,” Sally Chalmers added.
“No strawberries,” Finchley said almost gloatingly. “Perhaps Mrs. Beech might’ve procured some from the greengrocer had we been warned in advance of your arrival. Can’t expect her to perform miracles.”
While the butler was offering his unsolicited opinions, Elise leaned closer to Ambrose to murmur, “Have we an agreement, then?”
His blue eyes gleamed. “I’ve always liked playing the long shot. We haven’t more than a few days, though.”
“Then don your coat, for the game is about to begin.”
With that, Elise hastened to catch the butler on his way out the door.
* * *
After leaving the duke’s study, Abby decided to make a detour to the conservatory rather than head directly upstairs to join Valerie and Lady Gwendolyn. She was too restless to face her duties just yet. The rainstorm would have driven Lady Hester indoors this afternoon, and Abby had a few questions to ask of Max’s aunt.
Rothwell’s aunt, she corrected herself. She rejected any semblance of friendship with him even though her thoughts were still in a tangle from that kiss. It had been wild and wonderful … and deeply disturbing. For many years she had repressed her memories of him, keeping busy fulfilling the needs of her family. But now his embrace had caused an undeniable awakening within her. It had stirred sensations and longings that were best left buried.
Yet she wasn’t so naïve as to imagine that Rothwell had any true interest in her. No. The man was a rogue extraordinaire who used his considerable charm and sensual talents to secure whatever he wanted from women.
And what he’d wanted from her was silence.
It had taken only a few moments after leaving his study for that realization to strike Abby. The timing of his kiss could not have been more telling. She had been in the midst of relating the contents of her missing letters to him, how she ought not have quarreled with him because he had been grieving for his mother.
He had chosen that moment to kiss Abby.
Fifteen years ago, he had done the same thing.
Back then, on the day of his mother’s funeral, Abby had encouraged him to share his sorrow with her. But he hadn’t wanted to talk at all. Instead, he’d drawn her down onto the grass and into his fervent embrace.
He had never liked to discuss his family. Not even when she herself had shared many a tale about her brothers and sisters, her parents, her nieces and nephews. She had told him everything, both good and bad, humorous and painful. In turn, he had spoken only of the servants at Rothwell Court. His reticence about his private life had frustrated her. Now she burned to find out the source of it, once and for all.
Entering the humid warmth of the conservatory, Abby suffered a moment’s misgiving. She was now the governess and he was the duke. She ought not to be probing into matters above her station.
But her curiosity proved too strong to resist.
The splatter of the rain on the glass roof masked the sound of her footsteps. An occasional flash of lightning lit the dark clouds. Heading along a path marked by slate tiles, she peered through the dense green foliage. The tall palms and exotic flowers created the illusion of being lost in a jungle.
She reached the area where Lady Hester often worked, but the woman wasn’t there. A rough table held a stack of clay pots, a pair of soiled gardening gloves, and an abandoned trowel. Nearby stood a wheelbarrow containing a mound of black loam.
Venturing onward, she passed a large leafy bush and found Rothwell’s aunt seated on a wooden bench in front of the glass wall, sipping from a mug and contentedly watching the rain. Upon seeing Abby, her pudgy face brightened with a smile. She patted the place beside her. “Ah, Miss Linton, what a pleasant surprise! Do come and join me.”
Abby sketched a curtsy, then sat down on the bench. “I hope I’m not disturbing you, my lady.”
“Oh, not at all! Might I offer you a cup of tea? I’ve brewed a pot on my spirit lamp.” Lady Hester sprang up to fetch a mug from a table half hidden behind a rhododendron bush. “Sugar? I fear I’ve no cream.”
“Just a little crumble, thank you.”
Swathed in a leaf-green gown that bore smudges of dirt on the skirt, Lady Hester bustled back and handed over the warm mug. She also brought a square tin, placing it in between them on the bench. “I’ve raspberry biscuits, too. Cook is kind enough to send me a batch every morning.” She cheerfully patted her stout middle. “Though I fear I partake of a few too many.”
“I’m glad to see you smiling despite the storm keeping you indoors.”
“Oh, I don’t mind rain a bit! I was just thinking about how happy the trees and plants must be to have a nice, long drink.”
They exchanged pleasantries, then Abby said, “I wanted to speak to you about Miss Herrington, since you mentioned her yesterday.”
“How strange that you should bring up her name! You see, I went for a walk this morning, searching for wild thyme. The pink flowers smell especially marvelous early in the day, and I was hoping to uproot a few clumps and grow them in the greenhouse—”
“Er—how does this concern Miss Herrington?”
Lady Hester laughed. “I was just about to tell you that I spied her in the woods on the east end of the estate, though I don’t believe she saw me. She was in the company of a local man, a Mr. Babcock. I do hope he isn’t leading her astray, for he has been most kind in the past, allowing me to hunt for marsh orchids along the riverbank on his property. There is a rare variety that I’m hoping to find, you see.”
Before Lady Hester could veer off on another tangent, Abby said quickly, “You’ll be pleased to know that Miss Herrington is now Mrs. Babcock. I have it from Rothwell that they married in secret and have just returned from their honeymoon. They are to make an announcement soon, but until then, we are obliged to keep mum.”
“My gracious! I knew I recognized the look of a woman in love.” She peered owlishly at Abby as if searching for some sign in her face, too.
Discomfited, Abby shifted her gaze outside to the drenched landscape while she sipped her tea. She hoped to goodness that her appearance betrayed nothing of the passionate kiss that she and Rothwell had shared. She was certainly not in love. Far from it!
She quickly changed the topic. “I imagine you’ve wandered every square inch of this estate. You’ve lived your entire life here, have you not?”
“Indeed! Ah, the grasslands and the water meadows and the forests, all with their many delights of flora and fauna. I especially enjoy the changing of the seasons, watching tiny plants grow and mature.” She reached over to pat Abby’s arm. “But why am I telling you this? You grew up nearby, too, so you know how beautiful it is.”
“Yes, I loved to roam the woods on my family’s property. May I make a confession? When I was a girl, and the old duke and duchess were in residence, I would sometimes sneak onto Rothwell land whenever there were balls just so that I could hear the lovely music.”
A misty melancholy touched Lady Hester’s face as she glanced out at the rain. “Cordelia did enjoy entertaining large parties, often with fifty guests or more. The rooms were full of laughter and conviviality … at least for a time.”
“I never had the honor of meeting
the duchess,” Abby said. “Though once when I was a child I saw her clad in an elegant sky-blue gown, riding through the village on a white horse. With her blond hair and delicate form, I fancied her to be a fairy princess.”
“As did Bertrand when first they met, only look how mistaken he was. Such a tragedy! I did try to warn him…” Lady Hester blinked, glancing over at Abby as if just recalling her presence. “Oh, fiddle, here I am blathering about the past when I ought to be fertilizing my moth orchids. It is necessary once a week to keep them in bloom, and I’m already a day overdue. You will excuse me, won’t you?”
She hopped up from the bench, and Abby had no choice but to set down her mug and take her leave. It was clear that Lady Hester would offer no more insights. Strange that, for she had seemed in a reminiscing mood.
As did Bertrand when first they met, only look how mistaken he was. Such a tragedy! I did try to warn him …
Bertrand had been the name of Max’s father, Abby recalled. Why had Lady Hester said he had been mistaken about the duchess? Was the tragedy her untimely death? And about what had Lady Hester tried to warn him?
Heading upstairs, Abby felt as if she’d been given a tantalizing glimpse into the past, only to have the curtains closed in her face. More than ever, she had the distinct impression that all had not been well within the walls of this grand house. There must have been some sort of strife between the old duke and duchess. If only Max would have confided in her!
Ah well, it was time for her to don the mantle of governess again. She had abandoned her duties for more than an hour already. Heaven only knew into what sort of mischief Valerie might have lured Lady Gwendolyn. And the kittens! Abby had forgotten all about them. She could only hope they had not climbed the draperies or shredded the silk coverlet on the bed.
But when she opened the door and stepped through the antechamber into the large white-and-gold bedchamber, it was to discover the rooms were uninhabited. Their shawls and bonnets were strewn on the bed, but both girls—and the kittens—had vanished.
Chapter 12
Abby made a quick search of the nearby bedchambers. The floor was deserted, for Rothwell’s guests were housed in the west wing. Hastening back downstairs, she tried to think of where the girls might have gone. Had they taken the kittens to the stable in accordance with the duke’s command?
Surely not in the midst of a downpour.
She pursed her lips. What if they’d encountered Rothwell’s dissolute friends? He had expressly ordered Abby to keep his sister sequestered in this area of the house. Although Lady Gwendolyn was too well mannered to disobey, Valerie was another story. Abby’s niece had always been a lively sort, prone to seeking out adventure, especially when she had a younger accomplice who looked to her for guidance.
This was all Abby’s fault. She ought not to have made a detour to the conservatory and pried into private matters that were none of her concern.
Reaching the bottom of the marble steps, she hurried past the newel post and spied reinforcements halfway down the long corridor. Mrs. Jeffries and Finchley stood with their gray heads together in whispered conversation. Neither appeared to be happy; the housekeeper had a sour expression on her bony features and the butler’s grizzled brows clashed in a frown.
Mrs. Jeffries turned, the ring of keys jangling at her waist. “Miss Abby, thank goodness you’re here. There is a terrible situation! Finchley and I are at our wit’s end.”
“It could’ve been avoided,” Finchley groused, “if I’d had the sense to lead that Jezebel up to the garret and lock her in. Thought of it too late, more’s the pity.”
Abby didn’t even have to ask to whom he referred. “Why would you take Lady Desmond to the attic?”
“She bade me show her to Lady Gwen’s rooms, that’s why. I refused, but the bit o’ muslin claimed to have an urgent message from the master meant for his sister’s ears alone. Then, when I led her upstairs, she pushed right past me and slammed the door in my face. Nearly snapped off my nose!” He rubbed the sharp beak as if to make certain it was still there.
“But I was just upstairs and Lady Gwendolyn wasn’t anywhere to be found—nor was Miss Perkins.”
“’Tis what I was about to tell you,” the butler went on. “I skulked in the passage, and not five minutes later, Lady Trollop came prancing out with both young misses following like ducklings, one of ’em toting a basket.”
“The kittens,” Abby said. “They’re from Mr. Beech’s farm.”
“Eh? Well, I followed the lot of ’em downstairs and they went into the Turkish Saloon where there’s all manner of card playing and gambling in progress. I would’ve stood guard by the door, but they ordered me out.” He shook a knobby finger. “That lot has an orgy planned, you mark my words!”
“Where is His Grace? Surely he can be depended upon to protect his sister from harm.”
“He rang for his valet, so he must’ve gone upstairs to change from his riding clothes,” Finchley said. “Meanwhile, only the good Lord God knows what is happening in that den of iniquity!”
“The strumpet sent me away, too, when I offered to chaperone,” Mrs. Jeffries added, fairly quivering with outrage. “Oh, Miss Abby, I fear that our sweet Lady Gwen will be caught in the snares of one of those brutal ravishers!”
Abby hoped the situation was not quite that dire, though her insides were knotted with worry. Both girls were far too young and inexperienced to be left unguarded in the company of worldly-wise aristocrats of dubious moral character. Especially when one of them was Rothwell’s current mistress.
“Pray show me there at once,” she said, a militant expression on her face. “I vow, they will not dare to eject me.”
Gripping her skirts, she followed the old butler through a maze of corridors until he delivered her to a great arched doorway. From inside came the trill of girlish merriment mingled with the unmistakable voices of Rothwell’s guests, though she could not quite make out their words. She gave Finchley a reassuring nod before proceeding into the room.
Her anxious gaze swept the large chamber with its gold brocade wallpaper, the crimson Turkish rugs, and the rich gilt furnishings. Spotting the small party of people gathered near one of a pair of fireplaces, she schooled her face into an expression of cool civility and marched toward the group.
Lady Desmond was the first to see her. Clad in dainty, blossom-pink muslin, she was standing a little apart from the others as if she’d been watching the doorway. “Ah, Miss Linton. Do come and join us.”
The friendly invitation made Abby instantly wary. What mischief was Rothwell’s paramour up to now? On the two other occasions they’d met, yesterday in the library and this morning in the picture gallery, the woman had been nothing short of snooty.
Then Abby’s attention was drawn to the scene in front of the hearth. Lady Gwendolyn and Valerie knelt on the floor, laughing at the antics of the kittens. Opposite them, Lord Ambrose crouched on one knee. He had tied a string to a feathered shuttlecock and slowly dragged it along the rug for the tiny felines to stalk. The gray ball of fluff was the first to pounce, batting at the shuttlecock while the caramel tabby attacked from the other side. The resulting battle sent the girls into gales of giggles.
“Little Graybeard wins again,” Lord Pettibone crowed, as he and Mrs. Chalmers watched from a nearby chaise. “He has pluck, just as I predicted.”
Valerie glanced up, her face glowing. “Look, Aunt Abby! Aren’t they just the most precious little creatures? Lord Ambrose has fashioned a toy for them to play with.”
“It was very clever of him,” Lady Gwendolyn said. She looked especially charming today in her peach gown, with her soft chestnut curls and large, dove-gray eyes. She stole a shy glance at the handsome rake, who regarded her with entirely too much interest.
Mindful of her subordinate status, Abby curtsied to the group even though she was seething inside. A nearby table held a deck of scattered cards as if a game had been interrupted. “I’m sorry if the girls have intrud
ed on your pastimes. They really oughtn’t to have come here.”
“Nonsense,” Lord Pettibone drawled, holding up his quizzing glass to observe the felines playing on the rug. “We have been very entertained by the match. I’ve already won eleven guineas from Mrs. Chalmers in guessing which kitten would strike first. The gray has more spirit.”
“The tabby has more heart,” Mrs. Chalmers said, her brown eyes sparkling with laughter. “Look at how fiercely she fights.”
“There, you see, the girls aren’t troubling us in the least,” Lady Desmond purred. “It has been quite pleasant to have two such lovely additions to our party. That’s why I invited them to join us.”
The woman’s brashness incensed Abby. “If I might have a word, my lady.”
They stepped a short distance away while the others cheered on the kittens, and Abby said in an undertone, “You ought never to have brought them here, Lady Desmond. Surely you’re aware that it’s highly improper for underage girls to be present when there is gambling going on!”
“Nonsense, we’re only having a bit of lighthearted fun. The strict rules of London drawing rooms needn’t apply in the country, anyway.”
“I must beg to differ. His Grace specifically told me to keep his sister cloistered from his guests. Had he wished for Lady Gwendolyn to meet you and the others, he would have arranged the introductions himself.”
Lady Desmond arched a delicate brow, a trace of cunning on her face. “A pity you weren’t around, then, to pass along his warning. If I may say, I was terribly distressed to discover that Lady Gwendolyn and your niece had been left to their own devices, without the governess anywhere to be found. Where exactly were you, Miss Linton?”
Under the scrutiny of those green-gold eyes, Abby had to fight the rise of a blush. Did Lady Desmond know about that kiss? Had she guessed?
Surely not.
It seemed likely, though, that Lord Ambrose had mentioned seeing Abby and Rothwell going into the study. If Lady Desmond was the jealous sort, perhaps she intended to make trouble for Abby by pinning the blame for this fiasco on her.
