The Duke's Governess in Disguise

by Claudia Stone

  There was, she knew, no way that she could refuse the duke's request—not with Sally standing by the open door, nor Mr Harley hovering in the corner. The whole house would know in seconds, if she were to do something as bold as refusing the duke's innocent request.

  "Take the children back, Sally," she instructed with a brave smile, "I shall follow you shortly."

  Uncertain of what was expected of her, Emily walked the ten or so paces back to where Hemsworth was seated and stood nervously before him.

  "Sit down, Miss Smith," Hemsworth instructed, with a rather wicked smile, "You're making me feel like my old masters at Eton, standing there like that."

  Emily silently complied, placing herself on the chair farthest from the duke, her back poker-straight and her posture rigid. This did not go unnoticed by the duke, who scowled a little at her obvious discomfort.

  "Harley," he called to the waiting valet, "Can you take that bandage away to be laundered, it seems to be upsetting Miss Smith's sensibilities."

  The valet swooped down and gingerly picked up the blood-stained handkerchief, which the duke had thoughtlessly discarded on the low table, and left the room.

  Once the door had clicked shut behind him, Hemsworth leaned forward in his seat, his eyes holding her gaze firmly.

  "I wish to sincerely apologise for my behaviour last night," he said, his voice low and rather urgent. "I cannot stand the thought that you might leave the children because of it."

  There it was again, Emily thought sadly, the assertion that the only people who truly wanted her in Hemsworth House were the children.

  "I shall stay, until month's end," she replied, reasoning that now was the time to let the duke know that her presence was not permanent. Though London and Ava had slipped from her mind somewhat since her arrival, the kiss that she and Hemsworth had shared had only served to remind her that she was not who she was purporting to be. Their stolen, scandalous embrace had offered her a valid excuse to leave, and she intended to take it—despite the clawing guilt she felt at abandoning Cressida and James.

  "You cannot leave."

  Hemsworth's voice was harsh; whether with emotion or actual pain, Emily could not tell. His handsome face was dark and unreadable, and he scowled at her from his seat.

  "I know that you are used to people obeying your every order," Emily replied, more tartly than was strictly necessary, "But you cannot expect me to stay after what happened last night, it would not be proper. I shall stay a few weeks more, until you have found a replacement, and then I shall be on my way."

  "On your way back where?"

  Dash it; Emily had not been expecting that question.

  "I will return to London, until I find a new position," she replied blithely with a shrug, "It should not be too difficult."

  "And will you stay with one of your three brothers?" Hemsworth questioned, raising a cool eyebrow.

  Emily flushed; drat the man, he had an excellent memory. Why could he not be like other members of the aristocracy, who paid no heed to their servants?

  "Perhaps," she shrugged again, "I have not thought that far ahead."

  "I won't allow it."

  Emily blinked at his autocratic tone; who was he to think he could forbid her to do anything?

  "I cannot allow you to return to London, when you seem to have no home or family to return to," Hemsworth continued on, unaware of Emily's annoyance. "It is obvious that you come from a genteel background, though given that your three male relatives have been unable to provide for you, I assume that your family's fortunes have fallen somewhat in recent years. If I cannot be guaranteed of your safety, then you cannot reasonably assume that I would allow you to leave my protection."

  A giddy laugh escaped Emily, before she could quell it. Goodness, what a high-handed hypocrite he was!

  "And what exactly does remaining under your protection entail, your Grace?" she asked coolly. Did he think that she would accept an offer to become his mistress?

  As it was, Hemsworth had no time to make her an offer, illicit or otherwise, for Harley returned with a cheerful smile. Hemsworth scowled at his reappearance, but composed himself somewhat.

  "I need you to do something for me," he said, abruptly changing the subject.

  His tone was deadly serious, and Emily sat up attentively.

  "The fire last night was started deliberately," Hemsworth said, "If it was not for Harley I would certainly have perished, for the door was locked from the outside."

  "Gracious," Emily could not hide her surprise, "Who would do such a thing?"

  "I'm afraid," Hemsworth frowned and shifted in his seat, "That the main suspect at the moment, is the children's brother."

  "Fabrizio?"

  Something clicked in Emily's mind, as the duke lay out his suspicions. Fabrizio had been heard arguing with Miss Gretchen before her death and the scullery-maid had heard her saying "I thought I gave him enough". It had made no sense to Emily at the time, but now that Fabrizio's character had been cast in doubt, she began to link all the sinister occurrences she had learned of together.

  Emily hastily explained to the duke about the Italian's supposed relationship with Miss Gretchen, James' attacks of illness, and the argument that the scullery maid had overheard.

  "Is it possible that Fabrizio had somehow coerced Miss Gretchen into feeding James arsenic?" Emily wondered aloud, as she finished speaking.

  "It's possible that Miss Gretchen was hired specifically for that purpose," Hemsworth replied, his eyes narrowed in thought. "I have been unable to contact her family since her death, so it is entirely plausible that the name she was working under was not her own."

  The tips of Emily's ears turned rather red at this; what were the chances that two governesses in a row had been lying about their true identities?

  "Why did you not tell me of your suspicions before?"

  There was no note of accusation in Hemsworth's voice, but his words felt like one to Emily, who was internally berating herself for having ignored her original suspicions.

  "I did not connect James' bouts of illness with anyone in particular until you mentioned Fabrizio," she offered apologetically, "And then, when he had no more attacks, I quite forgot about it."

  She hung her head in shame at this, for inwardly she knew that it was her growing attraction to the duke that had distracted her. Her feelings for Hemsworth had led her to forget her obligations to her charges, her new-found sister in London, not to mention her own morals!

  "Never fear," Hemsworth was polite, "He was in no immediate danger, given that Miss Gretchen was no longer with us."

  The question of the governess' death now hung, unanswered, in the air. It would be reasonable enough to suggest that Fabrizio might have had a hand in the young woman's demise, but Emily was far too overwrought to suggest it. She could tell, just from the cold, calculating look in the duke's eyes, that Hemsworth too had realised it.

  "You may go," he said, resting back into the cushions of the chair, his face wearing an expression of exhaustion. "Please keep a very close eye on the children, until I have managed to locate their brother."

  "Yes, your Grace," Emily replied, standing from her seat and offering him a curtsy.

  He waved a hand dismissively and she left, her heart racing within her chest. The revelation that Fabrizio might somehow wish to harm his brother and sister sat uncomfortable with her; the young man that she had met had been rude and rather obnoxious, but he had appeared to adore his younger siblings.

  Appearances could be deceptive, she reminded herself, as she raced back to the nursery to check on Cressida and James—just look at her own situation. Outwardly she portrayed herself as a calm and competent governess, whilst really she was nothing but a liar and a fraud.

  And a foolish one at that, she thought, for though Hemsworth had been most high-handed and domineering in his dealings with her, she had still felt a deep longing for him. Only a fool would love a duke, and if that was the case, she was the greatest fo
ol of all.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  12

  By Sunday Rob had recovered well enough to go for an early morning ride. He whiled away a few hours before noon, racing his mount across the lush fields of his estate, before turning back for home.

  The vigorous exercise had scorched his lungs, which were still rather delicate, but the pain was good, for it distracted him from his thoughts. And, if ever a man needed distracting from the inner workings of his mind, it was Robert.

  Fabrizio, of course, was the chief of his concerns, but dealing with Fabrizio—once he was found—was a far easier prospect to contemplate than dealing with Miss Smith. The governess had admirably held her nerve in the face of Rob's indelicate assertion that he was in charge of protecting her. At the time, he had sensed, in the far recesses of his mind, that he was overstepping the line, but the prospect of the governess returning to London alone had awoken a primal protectiveness that he had not known he was capable of.

  This sense of protectiveness had rendered his other capabilities—namely reasoned thinking and manners—mute, and he knew that he had ended up sounding like an oafish boor. Worse, Miss Smith was not so innocent that she did not understand what a male member of the ton meant, when he said that he wished to take a woman under his protection. The look of disgust on her face had been enough for Rob to know that suggesting any kind of arrangement with the proud governess, would earn him a swift kick in a rather unmentionable place.

  What other options does she have? he thought as he guided his horse into the stable's cobble-locked courtyard. The life of a governess was a sad and lonely one, spent living at the mercy of her employer's kindness. If Miss Smith were to become Rob's mistress, she would have everything her heart desired.

  She's not the type of woman who would desire the life of a mistress, a bored voice in his head reminded him. Therein lay the crux of his problem; Miss Smith would rather a life on the streets of London, than a life as a kept-woman. This pride and strength of character was part of the reason that Rob was so attracted to her. No one had ever dared to speak to him in the manner that she had, or to so wilfully defy him—it had been extremely alluring.

  "Ahem. Afternoon, your Grace."

  The voice of one of the grooms jolted Robert from his thoughts and he realised, with some embarrassment, that he had been sitting atop his mount, staring vacantly into space for some minutes.

  "Good day," Rob replied, as he dismounted, handing the reins to the young lad. "Have someone look at the tiles on the roof of the stables, will you? They're in complete disrepair."

  "Yes, your Grace," the groom stammered, startled at Rob's brusque, commanding tone. The poor boy quickly led the horse away, to stable it before he no doubt rushed to attend to the roof tiles—which, as far as Rob knew, were in perfect, working order.

  Irritated with himself, Rob strode across the yard to the house, letting himself in through the kitchen door.

  "Your Grace," Mrs Ilford, dressed in a bonnet and her Sunday-best, looked up with shock as he entered. "What are you doing in here?"

  "Can a man not enter his own kitchen?" he groused, though a sharp look from Mrs Ilford soon silenced him.

  "What's going on here?" he continued, for the scullery maids were all lined up in a row before the housekeeper.

  "I am assigning the girls tasks to complete, whilst I am at Sunday service," Mrs Ilford replied. "I know you might not think it, but dinner doesn't just magically appear on the table, your Grace. I need to make sure that all my vegetables are prepped, for when I get back from church. I would stay and do it myself, but God must come before even your stomach."

  "But not before the Vicar's," Rob heard one of the girls whisper, which sent the rest into fits of giggles.

  Mrs Ilford ignored the barb, though her face had turned as red as her hat. Rob, who had grown up with Mrs Ilford and knew her moods perhaps better than anyone, swiftly left before the housekeeper erupted. His foul temper was legendary, but little did the masses know that he was merely a protégé, and that Mrs Ilford was the grand-master of throwing tantrums.

  Rob then made his way from the kitchen, through the grand entrance hall and up the three flights of stairs to the nursery. He had rather thought that the children might enjoy a walk by the riverside, given what a glorious day it was, but when he arrived, he found their rooms empty.

  "They're gone into the village, your Grace," the nursery maid told him, "Miss Smith wanted to take them to church."

  "Hopefully this time they won't burn the place down," Rob replied dourly, irritated that his plans had been scuppered. A walk in the long grass, with the sun on his back, as he and Miss Smith watched the children had seemed a most pleasant idea. Now all that he was left to look forward to was an afternoon spent attending to his correspondence.

  He had just settled at his desk with a glass of brandy, fully intent on reading a report from the manager of one of his estates in Norfolk, when a knock on the library door disturbed him.

  "Mr Dunstable, your Grace," Mr Brown said, leading young David inside.

  Dunstable was as impeccably dressed as always, though his hair was rather longer than Robert thought was decent. Young men were slaves to changing fashions, he knew, but one had to maintain standards.

  "David," he called, "Good to see you."

  "Your Grace," David nodded politely, but remained standing by the door, "I thought I would call upon the children, but I am told they're not at home?"

  "They're at church, they should return shortly. Care for a drink while you wait?"

  "No, thank you," the young man shook his head and offered Robert a charming smile, "I might ride into the village and see if I can catch them on their way home. I'll be away again at Highfield, so I shan't see them for some time."

  "You're working too hard, my boy," Robert replied with a laugh, "You've just come back from there."

  "I'm afraid that work is the plight of every second son, your Grace," Dunstable gave him a quick grin and then left, leaving Rob to get back to the dull task of reading about expected tillage yields for the autumn. Once that odious task was complete, he set about shuffling through the other letters upon his desk, pausing as he came to one which was sealed with the Bellmont crest.

  What on earth was the Duke of Bellmont writing to him about? They had little dealings with each other, bar politely nodding at one another when they chanced to meet in town.

  Curious, Rob broke the seal with his letter knife, and had just scanned the first few lines of Bellmont's missive, when another knock on the door interrupted him.

  "What is it now?" he called.

  "Beg your pardon, your Grace," Mr Brown said, as he opened the door, "But you said to call if there was any news on Signor Piraino."

  "Has he been found?" Rob stood up from the desk, still clutching Bellmont's letter. He had dispatched Mr Hargreaves to London along with two of Rob's burliest footmen, under the instruction that they should spare no expense in finding the murderous knave. Was it possible that they were returning so soon with their prey?

  "He has not been found, your Grace," Mr Brown replied hesitantly, "He has just arrived of his own accord."

  "The audacity," Rob muttered, before sweeping from the library and out into the entrance hall.

  He found Fabrizio in one of the alcoves, preening himself before a gilt mirror. The young man was meticulously tucking a strand of hair back into place, when he caught sight of Rob's reflection and turned.

  "Your Grace," he called, with a wide smile, "I have returned."

  "Come back to finish off the job, eh?" Rob snarled, grabbing the young man by the lapels of his coat and slamming him against the wall. Fabrizio's face was such a comical mix of shock and indignation, that at any other time Rob would have laughed. Anger, however, consumed all his senses, so he did not even crack a smile. What fuelled Rob's fury was not that the young man had tried to kill him, but that he had plotted to harm his own brother.

  "What is the meaning of this?" Fabrizio g
asped, struggling against Rob's iron-grip. He still held the letter from Bellmont in his fist and he could see that the ink was staining the salmon pink velvet of Fabrizio's lapel.

  "Do you need me to spell it out for you?" Rob growled, his grip so tight that his knuckles had turned white. "You tried to murder me by setting my bedchamber on fire. You plotted to grievously harm your brother alongside Miss Gretchen, debilitating him so that you could take charge of his inheritance indefinitely. Then you killed her when she refused to aid your plan any further."

  "I did no such thing!"

  Fabrizio let loose a stream of what Rob assumed to be Italian curses, his proud face contorted in a sneer. When Fabrizio finally finished, rather breathless after an impressive, uninterrupted flow of expletives, Rob spoke again.

  "You cannot pretend that you are innocent," Rob countered, "Not when someone came into my own bedchamber and attempted to murder me, only half an hour after you left, and on the same day that I threatened to retain guardianship of the children. An act that would leave you without control of James' fortune."

  "You lie," Fabrizio retorted, his anger at the accusations most apparent. On his face he wore a look of revulsion, that would have almost been convincing had Rob not known that there were numerous facts which implicated him. "I don't even know where your bedchamber is—how could I have set it on fire?"

  As defences went, it was a rather weak one, Rob thought, noting wryly that Fabrizio seemed to have inadvertently admitted that the only thing that would prevent him from carrying out an arson attack on Rob was a poor sense of direction.

  "There are witnesses who overheard you arguing with Miss Gretchen," Rob continued, quietly noting the worried look which crossed the boy's face at this news.

  "Who?"

  "One of the scullery maids," Rob replied, "And another maid saw you both canoodling in a hallway. Do you deny it?"

  "I do not deny the canoodling," a soft smirk quirked the corners of Fabrizio's mouth, "I cannot help that Miss Gretchen—like so many other women—was overcome with attraction for me. But we shared just a few kisses, I did not argue with her even once, and I most definitely did not kill her. Take me to this scullery maid—if she wishes to lie about me, she may do so to my face."