Charlotte Louise Dolan

by Three Lords for Lady Anne

  Tipping his hat at her, he finally moved away, and as if in a trance, she continued in the opposite direction. She stopped in front of the next shop window and stared at the dusty apothecary jars with as much interest as if they were the latest bonnets from Paris. Then, unable to refrain any longer, she looked over her shoulder and saw the tall man still standing in front of the tobacconist’s shop, watching her.

  If she were of a romantic disposition rather than having a practical turn of mind, she would say that his hair was black as midnight, that his eyes were a rich mahogany, like dark Jamaican rum ... and that she had met the man intended for her since the world first began turning ... that the fates had decreed she would meet him on this street at this time, and that he would be a part of her life from this moment forward.

  But unlike other young women in these modern times, she had not had her head stuffed full of such silly dreams. Instead, she’d had the inestimable good fortune to spend a few short years at Aunt Sidonia’s side, which had cured her forever of the desire to throw herself into the arms of a man—to give control of her own life into the hands of a husband.

  No, she was definitely too practical for such romantic nonsense. Risking a glance at the stranger again, she saw he was still watching her intently.

  That he was a London man, she could not doubt from the cut of his jacket, although there was nothing of the dandy about him. Just thinking how ridiculous a man his size would look decked out in frills and furbelows made a smile creep out onto her face, which she realized only when he smiled back at her.

  This time she was the first to turn away. She fully intended to continue on down the street, but after only a few steps, curiosity to know what he was doing—to find out if he was still looking at her—pulled her to a stop in front of the second shop. Yes, he was still watching her.

  * * * *

  She was the most magnificent woman Bronson had ever encountered. Tall enough that he could converse with her without getting a crick in his neck, she also had lustrous brown hair and clear blue eyes. But it was not her beauty that attracted him. It was the intelligence, the humor, and the kindness in her eyes that he found so appealing—and so unexpected. Plus something else he had not yet identified.

  For a moment he had been terrified by the fear that she might just be passing through town, but he was reassured when he noticed she was wearing a royal blue riding habit. Dressed like that, she could not have journeyed too far. Surely someone in town must know her—must be able to introduce him to her properly.

  That was the last rational thought he had—at the insistence of his body, he ceased thinking and allowed himself merely to feel ... to admire ... to appreciate ... to enjoy. He could not tear his gaze away from hers—her blue eyes were like a magnet, pulling him back to her. He could still vaguely hear the sound of the traffic, but it was virtually blotted out by the beating of his own heart.

  Helpless to resist, he took a step toward her, trying to shake off a hand that was clutching his arm.

  The hand refused to release him, and the voice that had been a minor irritation gradually became understandable words.

  “Lord Leatham, please, I must speak with you.”

  Looking down at the woman who was clutching his arm, he knew at once who she had to be, namely the errant Miss Hemsworth. He could even see how she might successfully pass herself off as a governess, while still having the kind of looks that would attract a man like Trussell. For himself, he thought her a bit too fleshy, too overblown, and her prettiness was already beginning to fade.

  “Please, Lord Leatham, I must talk to you. The landlord at the Red Stag told me you were in town. It is about Creighton Trussell. I realize he is no relation of yours, but as he is uncle to your wards—”

  He gripped the woman’s arms, not caring if he was leaving bruises. “I have no intention of listening to your excuses. As far as I am concerned, you and Trussell are equally guilty, and I want you out of town—no, out of this county—immediately. On the next stage, if possible.”

  She cringed away from him, still whining piteously at him. “But I have no money—”

  He released her, then pulled out a handful of gold coins and flung them at her feet. “That will be enough to get you to London, after which you can peddle your wares in Covent Garden, where such as you belong.”

  The woman made no move to pick up the coins, but covered her face with her hands and began to weep.

  “Don’t talk to my mother that way. You’re making her cry.”

  A little scrap of a boy kicked Bronson in the shins. It was not hard enough to hurt, but it was enough to startle him out of his fury.” Mother?” he repeated in a stunned voice. No one had said anything to him about the governess having a child.

  * * * *

  Anne no longer had the slightest interest in staring at the tall man. No matter how magnificent his physique, he had proven to have feet of clay. And to think, he had even started to follow her before the other woman had detained him. Although the woman had spoken to him calmly, the man had responded by berating her, by shaking her even, reducing her finally to tears. Then he had shoved her away from him, only to have the boy come to her defense.

  Turning her back on the pathetic tableau none of the other passers-by seemed to have noticed, Anne started walking briskly on up the street.

  There was really only one way to interpret the scene she had just seen. Although dressed as a gentleman, the man clearly did not know the first thing about honor, and the woman had to be his cast-off mistress.

  She must be, because otherwise, however harshly he might have spoken to her, he would not have touched her person. The way he had grabbed her arms denoted a degree of intimacy between the two of them that could not be explained away.

  She gritted her teeth in an effort not to call curses down upon his head. Why, oh why could he not have been as wonderful as he had seemed at first?

  “Men are useless encumbrances,” Aunt Sidonia’s words echoed in Anne’s ears. “When you need them most, they will fail you. Put your trust in yourself, not in a man.”

  For a moment, overcome by nothing more than his sheer size, Anne had imagined she had found a man she could count on, who would not fail her. How laughable she would seem if her aunt could see her now. Taken in by a pair of broad shoulders and kind eyes. Kind eyes? There was no kindness in that man. He was the worst sort of male who walked the face of the earth—a user and discarder of women.

  So why did she feel so much pain? Why were her eyes even now filling with tears? She was not by nature a watering-pot. She had, in fact, always agreed with Aunt Sidonia that women who used tears to get their own way were silly widgeons, not worthy of the slightest respect.

  Taking a handkerchief out of her reticule, Anne surreptitiously dried her cheeks, hoping no passers-by had seen her momentary loss of composure.

  It was not pain; it could not be. It had to be sympathy for the poor woman, that was all it must be. It was definitely not disillusionment that the tall man had shown himself to be an irresponsible cad.

  She could not be crying over him, because he had never been who she had thought he was—never! So she could not now feel as if he had betrayed her. The fact that she would never even see the bounder again was something she should be rejoicing in, not weeping over.

  So why was a stray tear still sliding down her cheek? And why was there such a lump in her throat that she doubted she could even speak? And why was there such an ache in her chest that she felt as if her heart were breaking?

  * * * *

  The woman grabbed the boy and held him protectively in her arms, as if afraid Bronson would strike him back. “Come away, Adrian, come away.”

  “Wait!” Bronson again caught her arm, but this time he held it more gently, although still too firmly for her to pull away. Something was not right here. Something did not make sense. “What is your name?”

  The woman was weeping too much to speak, so the boy answered for her. “Her name is M
artha Miller and she is my mother.” The boy drew himself up to his full height, reminding Bronson of a banty rooster. “And you, my lord, are no gentleman. Gentlemen do not make ladies cry.”

  Bronson was stunned speechless. Martha Miller. Not Anne Hemsworth. He had mistakenly accused a stranger of the most vile conduct, and then had ordered her to—

  He cursed himself for his rashness. Was he the man who had frequently been praised for his ability to react calmly during any crisis? The only thing he had managed to do correctly during this contretemps was to keep his voice down, so that none of the passers-by had heard his accusations.

  “Please, madame. Please forgive me. I mistook you for someone else entirely. I apologize for the things I said. They were not meant for you. I ask your pardon, and I will listen to whatever you have to tell me about Creighton Trussell.”

  It was a good ten minutes before he was able to find out from her that she was the daughter of a vicar just over the border in Cornwall, and that Trussell had seduced her while promising her marriage. But when she had told Trussell she was with child, he had laughed in her face and abandoned her immediately.

  Her father had, of course, thrown her out, and she had been forced to support herself and her son by becoming a servant. But the old woman she had cooked for had died recently, and the heir had wasted no time in ordering her and her misbegotten son out of the house.

  Miss Miller, however, was not asking for charity or even for simple justice. She just needed assistance in finding another job.

  Thoroughly humbled, Bronson bent down and picked up the coins he had thrown in the dust. “I can only offer you my profound apologies, madame. I mistook you for someone else, but that is no excuse for the things I said to you. If you will consent to take this money, I shall do my best to find you honorable employment as soon as possible.”

  After more persuading, this time aided by the boy, who looked enough like the twins that Bronson saw no reason to doubt the woman was telling the truth, she finally accepted the money.

  “Where are you staying?” he asked her.

  “I had not thought that far in advance. I was trying to get to Wylington Manor, because I heard that Creighton was in residence, and he is so seldom there. But when they told me in the Red Stag that you were in town, I thought to approach you instead. I suppose I can stay there.”

  “I will tell the landlord to send me the bill, and I shall do my best to find you employment before the week is out.”

  “Oh, thank you, thank you.”

  To his dismay, the woman threw herself down on her knees, and seizing his hand, began to kiss it.

  When he finally got her calmed down and she set off with her son for the inn, Bronson turned and looked back up the street. In his imagination, he could still see the unknown lady standing there looking at him, still feel the incredible pull to go to her.

  She was no longer there, of course, which did not surprise him in view of the way he had just acted. He, who never explained his actions to anyone, now felt a compulsion to find the tall, beautiful lady with the magnetic blue eyes and explain everything to her—not just about Trussell’s mistress, but about all of it.

  He wanted to tell her his suspicions about Trussell, to tell her about the runner’s report on the governess’s background. He wanted to tell her the whole story about Demetrius being jilted. He wanted to see her smile again—hear her laugh—he wanted to laugh with her.

  What was surprising was that no matter how he covered the town, up one street and down the next, peering into each shop window, always scanning the crowds, he could not catch even a glimpse of her.

  Finally it grew late and he knew he must abandon his search, or he would finish his ride home in darkness. Returning to the Red Stag, he inquired of the landlord, who informed him the governess had collected her horse and departed hours ago.

  The governess. It was, in a way, her fault that he had lost the unknown lady. For Bronson, that thought, coming as it did at the end of a very long day, seemed sufficient justification for transporting Miss Hemsworth to Australia, even without her other various and assorted crimes.

  Chapter Six

  “We translated two extra chapters of Cicero while you were gone,” Andrew said.

  “Without even being asked,” Anthony added.

  “And we had the cook fix clotted cream especially for you.” Andrew looked at her appealingly, but Anne did not return his smile.

  Sitting at the table in the schoolroom, Anne continued to drink her tea and eat what was obviously a peace offering from the twins. She did not, however, say a single word to ease the twins’ consciences. Her tacit disapproval of their earlier actions had its effect: Neither of the twins had touched his pasties or saffron cakes, and they were both letting their own tea grow cold.

  Finally Andrew said, “We are sorry that we sent you into town without telling you Uncle Bronson was coming.”

  “But it was not really a mean thing to do. We just did it to try to help you,” Anthony added. “We thought if we told him about Uncle Creighton first, before he had a chance to fire you, then maybe he would believe us and not send you away.”

  “And we never actually lied. We never told you anything that was not true.”

  Anne looked directly at the twins for the first time since she had arrived at the house to find the servants in a turmoil over Lord Leatham’s arrival. She had been doubly shocked to discover that he had been expected, and that no one had bothered to inform her of that fact.

  “I have only one question.” At least she now had their undivided attention. “You say that you did not lie to me. Did you at any time, however, suspect that you might be tricking me by what you were not telling me? Or did you in your hearts, in fact, actually know that you were deceiving me, no matter how you managed to justify it to yourselves?”

  There was a long silence while the twins looked at each other, then back at her. “Yes,” they said in mournful unison. “We knew.”

  Anne continued to eat her clotted cream, but it might as well have been cold porridge, for all the enjoyment she derived from it.

  “Does this mean you will never trust us again?” Andrew asked.

  “Like the broken egg can’t be put back together again?” Anthony added.

  “I do not know,” Anne replied honestly. “Do you plan to be trustworthy or devious? Will I still have to guard against the things you do not say? Do you plan to be honest with yourselves, or do you plan to come up with excuses and justifications to do things you know in your heart are wrong?” It was the surreptitious sniffle that got to her the most, although she was not sure which twin had lost control to that extent.

  “We promise that you can trust us in the future,” Andrew said.

  “Please forgive us—please!” Anthony entreated.

  “Very well, I forgive you, but that is not to say you shall go unpunished. For your deliberate deceitfulness, you may spend the rest of the day in your room.”

  One would have thought she had offered them a special treat, the way they thanked her. Then, after hugging and kissing her, their normal hearty appetites reasserted themselves, and they cheerfully gobbled up the food remaining on the tea tray.

  Watching them eat, she realized how much she would miss them. Their attempts to help had been inspired by affection, of that she had no doubt. It was unfortunate that their efforts had been in vain, but Anne knew enough about the role governesses and companions played to realize that Lord Leatham would take Trussell’s word over hers any day. Virtually every governess she knew who had the slightest pretension to beauty—and indeed many who could honestly only be described as quite, quite plain—had a story to tell about a “gentleman” in the household accosting her.

  It mattered not if the gentleman were twenty or seventy, the results were the same. The lady of the household was either jealous or protective, depending on her relationship with the “gentleman,” and the governess/companion invariably lost her position.

  Well,
now she had her own story to tell, Anne thought with a smile, and although being thrown out on her ear was not to be desired, Mrs. Wiggins was adept at minimizing the repercussions of such a blot on a governess’s record. This dismissal would, therefore, not unduly affect Anne’s chances of obtaining another satisfactory position.

  It was the twins who would suffer, especially Anthony. Having finally given their trust to an adult, they would be devastated when she was sent away. On the other hand, considering the total indifference of their guardian, she did not think such an argument would carry weight with Lord Leatham.

  But life was as it was, and wishing did not alter circumstances. There was nothing for it but to start packing.

  Rising to her feet she headed for the door, where she paused. The most shocking thought had occurred to her. Patrick, the head groom, had said Lord Leatham had gone into Tavistock looking for her.... There was that man she had been attracted to in town.... No, he could not have been Lord Least-in-Sight!

  But then again, the man in town, now that she thought about it, could be said to bear a resemblance to the boys, especially the shape of the eyes....

  The mere idea that the tall man—that user and discarder of women—could be Lord Leatham was so appalling, she did not even wish to know for sure if, by some wild chance, her suspicions were correct. Admitting her own cowardice, she reached for the door handle.

  But, on the other hand, how could she endure wondering if it were true? Just the mere possibility that they could be one and the same man—just the thought of such an unmitigated disaster—the very idea would torment her until she knew for sure. Turning back, she asked the twins one last question. “How tall is your Uncle Bronson?”

  “Oh, tall. Really, really tall.”

  “‘Bout the tallest person in the whole world, probably.”

  As quickly as possible, Anne made her way to her room, her thoughts in such a turmoil, she was shaking all over. She should have known the minute he grabbed that woman’s arms—on the street, right out in public view—she should have known he was Lord Leatham, whose low opinion of women was unequaled, that much she had learned from the twins.