A Temporary Governess

by Blaise Kilgallen

  Alex's gaze remained locked with the earl's.

  I recognize suspicion in his eyes. The question is, what does he plan to do about it, I wonder?

  * * * *

  Standing in the upstairs hallway, Graves heard a series of loud male grunts coming from the Countess of Devon's bedchamber before he rapped hard on the door. He was inured of such noises in his position as major domo, but normally such liaisons rarely took place in the afternoon hours. At least, not here.

  "Forgive me, Lady Ponsonsby,” the butler called in a stentorian voice that carried through the thick wood. “The Earl of Devon has arrived and is below stairs. He wishes you to meet with him as soon as possible. He also asks that you pack up and be ready to leave with him."

  A rustle of bedclothes, muffled voices, and a thud of boot heels landed upon the floor inside the room. Sounds permeated through the portal to the butler's hearing. He had an instantaneous conjecture about who was behind that door with the countess. Mr. Black had better take himself out of there rather rapidly, Graves thought.

  Inside, Freddy donned the items of clothing he tore off in the heat of coitus, although he never removed his boots or his breeches.

  "Freddy, damn you!” the countess hissed at him. “If I am in trouble, you are also in trouble! Now get out of here until I learn what is going on. How did the old geezer know where I am?"

  "The earl is probably wise to us and is suspicious. I believe he knows more than we think. How long did you expect to carry on this charade? And, by the by, were you not told to stay in London until he returned from Scotland?"

  "I would go berserk in Town if you weren't there, love. Besides, you had already left for the Priory without telling me about the house party, you cruel bastard."

  "I only did what I was told—which was not to bring you with me."

  "I shall punish you badly, Freddy, if you ever do anything like that again!” she growled deep in her throat. “Now hurry! Get out!"

  Freddy wrapped his cravat hurriedly around his throat, tying it in a lopsided knot. He brushed his hair behind his ears, and headed out of the countess's bedchamber toward his own room.

  Somewhat panic stricken, Georgie screeched for her lady's maid whom she was certain had taken a catnap in the small dressing room adjacent to her bedchamber. “Tilden! Tillie, damn you! Get in here!"

  Sleepy-eyed, her newest lady's maid arrived all atwitter. She was the fourth lady's maid Georgianna dismissed during the past year. Each of them knew too much about her carnal doings, so as punishment, the countess sent them away without writing a character reference.

  "The earl is here, Tillie. He is below stairs. You are to pack up my belongings and yours immediately.” Georgie threw a frantic look around the room. “But first, bring me the rose taffeta, then help me dress. My coif needs fixing, too. Something simple. Now hurry!” She railed at the maid who was trembling beneath the countess's unexpected tirade. “Why are you standing there looking at me like a dunce? Hurry up and do what I say, you nodcock!"

  The young woman scurried around like a mouse chased by a cat to do the countess's bidding. A half hour later, Georgie closed the door to her assigned sleeping quarters. She passed Clarissa in the hallway near the central landing. Recalling Freddy's pursuit of the chit, she looked through the governess as if she were nothing but a pane of glass.

  Gathering her wits, slowly Georgianna made a composed descent down the wide staircase to the main floor of the Priory. Graves waited below in the foyer to escort the countess to her grim-faced husband.

  The unexpected scene played out within minutes inside the elegant reception room. The earl ranted at Georgie in no certain terms. “If you are to remain in my good graces,” he told her, “you are to be at my beck and call from this day forward."

  It may have been his age or his normal crankiness, but the earl did not seem to care a whit if Alex or his servants heard what he demanded of his youngish wife.

  He continued. “If you do not behave, you will be denied access to all of the ton's festivities, m'dear. You will need my permission to leave London whether I am in residence or not.” His last words were sneers, but then the earl unexpectedly added, “Billings is to escort you whenever you go about in Town."

  That bit of punishment had Georgianna smiling inwardly. Little did the earl know that his trusted footman and she had been playing carnal games daily while her husband was in Scotland—and while Freddy and Alex were out of Town.

  Georgie had almost choked on the rest of the earl's commands. However, aiming a curled lip at Alex Warner, who stood silently listening to the earl's rant, Georgianna acquiesced because she must. She was certain the marquess had a hand in this nasty turn of events. Whatever plans she and Freddy had cooked up were now in deep trouble. She would have to be on her best behavior if she wished to be kept in the style she currently enjoyed. At least for awhile. Even Freddy may have to go—sent elsewhere. She would hate that, since he had been so available when she needed fast sex. Right now, however, her main concerns were on her own selfish plight, first and foremost.

  The earl barked out more of his commands, reminding Georgie he had hired men to follow her time and time again. Therefore, she should never be sure if someone was spying on her. He warned her not to step one foot out of line, because then he would cut off her allowance.

  "Next thing you know, m'dear, you will be out on the street with only the clothes on your back. P'haps then you could return to your former profession, eh?” The Earl of Devon's final barb convinced the countess that he meant what he said.

  A very subdued Lady Georgianna Ponsonsby mounted the metal steps to the luxurious traveling coach, helped onboard by her young maid, and followed by the Earl of Devon. The driver gave the team of horses the office and they trotted down the drive and across the bridge on their way back to London.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The Priory, with its family of servants, resumed normal activities disrupted by the house party and its daily demands. The rooms where the Regent and his large entourage stayed were dusted and polished, inspected by the housekeeper to make sure nothing was left behind, then covered by Holland covers again.

  Returning to her schoolroom chores at last, Beth knocked on Clarissa's door, carrying a breakfast tray. She was bubbling over when Clarissa bid her enter. The maid giggled and regaled the governess with how she and Lily had watched the antics of the marquess's score of masqueraded guests.

  "'Twere all new to Lily, Miss Marrick. Ye see, the girl is only ten and six, so her eyes all but bugged out of her head when she saw the get-ups some of the ladies and gents had on—or off.” Beth giggled louder and rolled her eyes. “Oh! But then ye were at the ball, were ye not, with Mr. DeLand?"

  Clarissa, dressed in one of her old gowns with a tiny tear in the skirt, her hair pulled back in a chignon, just nodded at the maid, and started walking toward the schoolroom.

  Beth followed her, then placed the tray on the large table. Then she stood back and eagerly asked, “Tell me. Did ye enjoy yerself as well, Miss Marrick?"

  "I dare say, Beth,” Clarissa murmured, “it was a new experience for me, too. So I know how Lily must have felt."

  Beth giggled some more. “And did ye get to dance with Mr. DeLand?"

  "Uh, well, not with him, Beth."

  "Then with who?” she persisted.

  "I believe it was with Your Lordship."

  "Ye danced with the marquess?” The little maid's eyes lit up like beeswax candles. “Argh! I must've missed it then.” She cocked her head to one side. “I did not see much of His Lordship at the ball, now I recollect."

  Not wishing to be pressured about more of the maid's curiosity, Clarissa changed the topic. “I did not stay long, Beth. I, uh, was rather tired. It had been a long day, so I came up to bed early.” Which was a falsehood, but she would proclaim its truth to anyone who asked.

  Just then, there was a loud squawk from the birdcage.

  Beth jumped. “Oh my! The little blue bugge
r, startled me,” the maid exclaimed, her brow puckered by a tiny frown. “But ‘tis best I get on with me work then, miss. Mrs. Pritchett will be callin’ for me soon enough.” Beth hummed softly as she plied her dust rag around the schoolroom.

  * * * *

  Two mornings after the masquerade ball, Beatrice badgered Clarissa to go out riding before she began lessons. Clarissa had not slept well for several nights, but she knew she must pull herself together. There were only a few more days left at the Priory. Therefore, it was a pleasant morning when the pair headed toward the racecourse.

  "Will you let me race you today?” the girl asked, a twinkle in her eyes. “I know Snowy will win today, I just know it."

  Clarissa would have preferred a slow, meandering outing, her mind still wrapped around a few devastating incidents. She really did not feel up to racing, but, of course, she would acquiesce. It was probably one of the last times she would get to ride Glory. “I shall give you a head start, Beatrice, but do be careful, please. Your father would be quite displeased should anything happen to you."

  "I told you my father never worries about me, Miss Clarissa. He does not even know I am alive.” With that blunt statement, Beatrice kicked Snowy into a fast trot before pulling up a short distance ahead of Clarissa who sat on Glory.

  The girl's words had brought Clarissa up short. She heard most of Beatrice's scandalous history from Daniel, but surely the girl did not know she was a bastard and that her sire was someone other than the marquess, did she?

  As Clarissa watched, Beatrice waved her arm, a signal to start the contest. The girl tapped her pony's shoulder with a crop, and Snowy spurted ahead on the racecourse. Clarissa was not ready, but Glory was. He leapt into action from under her, and the race began. Clarissa tightened the reins and held him back from chasing after Beatrice and Snowy too closely.

  It was then Clarissa heard hoof beats thundering behind her. She swung her head around. The marquess on Thunder was on the course and gaining on her and Glory. The two horses were almost side by side when the accident exploded in front of them. Snowy stumbled badly, almost fell, but instantaneously recovered somehow. It was not the case for Beatrice. She tumbled headlong from the pony's back, landing hard on the track. She lay still, unmoving, like a pile of unclaimed rags stained by brownish dew from the turf.

  Within seconds, the marquess leapt off Thunder and knelt beside his unwanted child.

  Clarissa arrived a few seconds behind Alex. She slid off her saddle and dropped to her knees beside him and his daughter.

  "She is unconscious,” he said, glancing at Clarissa. His words were taut, spoken under restrained pressure. “She is breathing, and her pulse is rapid. I have no idea how badly she is injured. We must get her back to the Priory immediately. Can you help?"

  "Of course. What do you need me to do?"

  "Stay with her. I am going for help. Rather than move her, I will order a cart to take her to the Priory and send for a physician.” Alex jumped back on Thunder and galloped toward the Priory.

  * * * *

  Beatrice's accident caused all manner of servants scurrying about to get her settled and into her bed. Mrs. Pritchett was the worse. She fluttered around the child aimlessly, as if unsure what to do next. “Oh dear! Nothing like this happened while I was nursemaid and companion to Lady Beatrice. I saw nothing more than a case of childhood measles or a heavy cold. Tell me what I can do to help the dear child."

  It was up to Clarissa to take charge.

  She noticed that the girl's eyes never opened from the time she landed on the course to the time she was put into her bed. She removed the girl's riding garb as gently as possible, then simply left her in a chemise and did not attempt to wrestle her into nightclothes. A bloody scrape and a large lump marred Beatrice's forehead. Tenderly, Clarissa wiped it with a wet cloth to remove the dirt. Beatrice had whimpered a few times, but Clarissa heard nothing from her in the past half hour.

  The marquess waited below for the arrival of Doctor Tremayne. It was two hours before he showed up in his gig. He was a man in middle years with a paunch, a moustache, and bristly sideburns. When he asked to examine Beatrice, he chased everyone but Clarissa out of the room.

  Clarissa still wore her riding clothes. The voluminous skirt was cumbersome to move about in. She found a wide ribbon in Beatrice's wardrobe. Tucking the hem up, she tied it around her waist and out of her way. A view of dark cotton stockings clad in half boots had been exposed, but that was the least of her worries. Propriety be damned, she thought silently.

  With Clarissa watching, Doctor Tremayne gently rotated the girl's thin, limp extremities, then examined the rest of Beatrice's eight-year-old body.

  "I see bruises, but they will heal. Lady Beatrice damaged her right wrist, however. I shall need to splint it. Has she come awake at all since the fall?"

  "No,” Clarissa said. “Your Ladyship moaned several times, but she has not opened her eyes to my knowledge."

  "I expect she has been concussed, so I am concerned about her head injury. We must determine how she is when she awakens. Meanwhile, I will treat the scrape and do what I must to straighten the wrist. I will also leave some laudanum to relieve the pain."

  * * * *

  After the doctor had done what he could for Beatrice, he left the room to speak with the marquess. Alex was with Freddy in his study, a glass of brandy gripped in each man's hand.

  Both men rose when Graves knocked and announced Doctor Tremayne.

  "Your Lordship,” the physician began. “I have good news for you—and some troubling news."

  Alex waited, listening but not responding.

  "Perhaps you should spill your good news first, doctor,” Freddy said, bridging the silent gap in conversation.

  "Harumph! Yes, of course,” Doctor Tremayne said, halting in front of the marquess. “Your daughter has broken a bone in her wrist. I have splinted it. Her recovery will take several weeks to mend, and she will have little or no use of that arm in the meantime. I understand she fell from her pony. Is that true?"

  Alex nodded.

  "Well, no horseback riding for her, of course, until I declare her wrist is stable again."

  "The pony stumbled. A fall like that could happen to any female rider who uses a sidesaddle,” Alex commented, his voice low, his forehead pinched into a frown.

  Freddy's eyebrows rose, surprised at the strained sound in Alex's voice. The marquess appeared filled with parental concern. Freddy was sure he never heard that much feeling from Alex about his daughter before.

  "Is that the good news, or the bad news?” Freddy jumped in and prodded the doctor further.

  "What bothers me is that the girl has yet to open her eyes or communicate,” Dr. Tremayne said. “I believe she may have concussed her brain. That is the bad news."

  Freddy added a new response when Alex did not respond. “I have seen such things happen during battles when a man takes a blow to the head. Sometimes it takes a day or even longer for a fellow to come round. What more can you tell us, doctor?"

  "I must wait to see when she wakes. I will know more then.” Tremayne blinked up at the marquess who made no further comment about his daughter's injury.

  "Your Lordship, please send for me absolutely no later than tomorrow morning if she is still comatose. Until then, I have done what I can."

  Alex answered him this time. “Yes. Yes, of course, Doctor Tremayne. Thank you for coming."

  The physician turned and made his exit.

  At that, Alex drained his brandy glass and said to Freddy, “I will return shortly. I must speak to Miss Marrick.” Alex left the room on the heels of the portly physician.

  Chapter Thirty

  Mrs. Pritchett was better composed when she asked to sit with Beatrice and watch over her while Clarissa went to change out of her riding habit. Slipping out of her clothes and into a wrapper, Clarissa heard a solid knock on the door from the hallway.

  "Who is there?” she asked, easing toward the bedside table
where the pistol lay.

  "Alex Warner. I wish to speak with you, Miss Marrick."

  Alex is outside in the hallway? But I am not dressed—

  "Now, Miss Marrick, if you please,” he said, his tone demanding.

  Clarissa quickly shoved the unloaded pistol into a pocket of her wrapper and went to the door. She realized her door was not locked. She must have been in a state of confusion this morning. Anyone could have walked in without needing a key.

  "Your Lordship, I am not properly dressed...” she began.

  But Alex had already nudged the door open and swiftly moved inside, closing it behind him. Not realizing he'd find her in dishabille, he was also struck again by her innocent beauty. Her hair was down about her shoulders. Beatrice's fall and subsequent rescue had probably uncoiled her chignon, when she was taking care of her. Alex itched to rake fingers through the soft strands, smell the fresh perfume against his nostrils again. He saw the wrapper she donned was less than elegant, but then, being a governess, she was not wealthy. Most likely, she did not own the fashionable wardrobe so many of his lady friends wore in order to tempt him into their boudoirs. To his mind, Clarissa Marrick needed none of those enhancements. Alex's desire stirred almost immediately, even when he saw her in the tacky dressing gown. He came here to talk about Beatrice's accident, but now other ideas took hold.

  "I came...” he started to say. Then he stopped, words caught in his throat. “Uh, what I meant to say is that Mr. Griggs advised me today that you are planning to leave the Priory in another day or two. Is that correct?"

  Clarissa clutched the front of her wrapper, closing it tightly around her, and stepping back from the marquess as he stalked farther into the room. “Y-yes. My month as Beatrice's governess is almost up, my lord. I was not told if Mr. Griggs has found someone to replace me or Miss Hornsby."

  "It is my fault that he has not done so."