by M. C. Beaton
“And there, if I am not mistaken, are the ones who thought up this scheme,” the viscount said.
“Perhaps he coerced them,” Jean protested. “They look so innocent….”
And then Amanda opened her eyes. Jean had removed her cap, and her red hair tumbled about her shoulders. Amanda’s sleepy eyes widened in surprise as they focused on Jean, and then became filled with such a look of pure hate that Jean took a step back.
“Go outside,” the viscount said to Jean. “Go quickly. I do not want you or that soft heart of yours anywhere near them.”
Jean stumbled outside and sat down on the grass wearily.
She heard the viscount call something, and several of the men went into the caravan.
Her head felt heavy, and she realized she was deathly tired. She lay down on the grass. Let the viscount cope with it all. It was too much for her. She closed her eyes and fell fast asleep.
The viscount gave orders that the girls were to be bound and confined in the caravan under guard until the lawyer had left. Basil was to be put with them. As soon as he was shot of the lawyer, then caravan and prisoners were to be pulled to the castle.
The men were warned that the girls would probably try every trick in the book to escape.
The viscount shook Jean awake. “On your feet, Miss Morrison. I will escort you home.”
Jean rose and stumbled. He put a strong arm around her waist. Holding her close, he led her through the woods, one of the cottagers striding ahead with a blazing torch to light the way.
“I hope he knows where he is going,” Jean said.
“His name is Connan. He knows these woods.”
“Where is your horse?” he asked.
“I walked,” Jean said. “I saw you moving off, so I slipped out of the castle and joined those on foot.”
“No wonder you are exhausted. My hunter can bear both of us.” He threw her up into the saddle and then mounted behind her. “Riding astride and in breeches, Miss Morrison,” he mocked. “Fie for shame.”
Jean sat silently, conscious of his arm around her waist, thinking that she must give up expecting life to be like books. In a book it would not have been tame Basil but some real villain. The viscount would have been overcome by her courage and fortitude. Riding through this beautiful moonlit night, he would have whispered endearments in her ear, not mocked her in that infuriatingly frivolous way of his. Nor would he suddenly spur his horse so that they were speeding through the silent countryside instead of ambling romantically under the moon.
Outside the castle he dismounted and held up his arms, and she slid down wearily into them. “First,” he said, smiling down at her, his eyes glittering in the moonlight, “and before I speak to you further, I have to deal with more important matters.”
“Such as?”
“I must rub down my horse. Poor old Harry is sweating like a pig. Wait for me in the drawing room.”
She went wearily up to her room, thinking inconsequently that he did not think of her as a lady. No gentleman ever talked about sweat in front of a lady.
Betty was waiting for her, and as soon as she had silently helped Jean to wash and change into a gown, Mrs. Moody scratched at the door, begging to be told the news. Jean told the housekeeper to go to the drawing room, and by the time she had joined her there, Dredwort and the other members of the staff who had not joined in the hunt were waiting anxiously.
Jean told them all what had happened, and then, turning to Betty, said, “Mr. Broome will expect to see the girls in the morning. Have them washed and dressed and downstairs by eight, and make sure you wake me first!”
The viscount arrived and the servants filed out, leaving Jean alone with him.
“As soon as the lawyer has gone,” he said abruptly, “I am dealing with Basil and then getting that precious pair on the road to Bath to that special seminary.” He held up his hand, seeing she was about to speak. “No, Miss Morrison, you are not going with us. They will trick you again or do their best to. Now, as to your future.”
Jean clasped her hands in front of her and gazed at him, her eyes wide. “I am much indebted to you. You have endured more perils than any respectable governess should expect to suffer. I shall make you a generous allowance and give you a good dowry. I have an aunt in London, Lady Baxter, who is kind and gentle. I shall write to her on my return and ask her if she will chaperone you during a London Season. It should be easy for you to find a husband.”
Color rose in Jean’s cheeks. “Thank you,” she said faintly. She should be so grateful to him, but inside, a little childlike voice was wailing that she did not want to leave him.
“So you have one more ordeal. We must all act out our parts at breakfast until Mr. Broome leaves. Then I would advise you to sleep as much as you can. Handle my letters and bills. Connan—the man who led us back—his wife is poorly. Ride over and see if she needs the attention of the physician. Mr. Peterman, the agent, will take any orders from you. The men are to go ahead with the work on clearing the gardens at the back. Stewart will be arriving soon with plans for the landscaping but probably not until after my return. I know now Amanda and Clarissa thought up the ransom scheme and lured Basil into it. He is too stupid to have thought up such a thing himself. In return for his perfidy, he will sign a statement renouncing any possible claim to the estates.”
“What will become of the Courtney girls after their stay at the seminary is finished?” Jean asked.
“At the moment, I neither know nor care. Go to bed, Miss Morrison.”
But he did not rise or kiss her hand. He stayed slumped in his chair as she sadly left the room.
Chapter 8
THE VISCOUNT ARRIVED at the seminary on the outskirts of Bath three days later. Amanda and Clarissa had enlivened the journey by begging and pleading, cajoling and crying, and had finally settled for sulky abuse. They said loudly that he was getting rid of them only so that he could take his pleasure with his whore, Jean Morrison.
He left them in his carriage under guard while he went into the seminary to talk to the principal. He was taken aback. She was a roly-poly, jolly woman wearing a purple silk dress and a huge starched cap. Her voice was somewhat coarse. He knew her to be a Mrs. Davey, but that was all he knew about her.
Her study was ornamented with pretty, spindly furniture and a quantity of bric-a-brac. A long window looked out onto a pleasant garden. He noticed that the window was not barred, and wondered how this woman could keep such a villainous pair as Amanda and Clarissa Courtney incarcerated, or, in fact, do anything with them.
After welcoming him, Mrs. Davey said, “You are lucky we have room for two more, my lord. I knew from your letter that you were contemplating placing your wards with us, but you did not warn us of when you were coming or if you were coming.”
“I must warn you that my wards are criminals,” the viscount said. He settled back and told Mrs. Davey of their smuggling and of their subsequent attempt to appear to have been abducted.
She nodded placidly when he had finished. “Are they virgins?”
He looked at her in surprise. “They are fifteen years.”
“And there are younger prostitutes than that on the streets of London, as you very well know, my lord.”
“I do not know if they are virgins or not,” he said. He eyed her doubtfully. “This seems a pleasant place, Mrs. Davey, not what I expected. Perhaps you do not realize that Amanda and Clarissa should really be in prison.”
A neat servant brought in a tray of tea and cakes, curtsied, and left.
Mrs. Davey poured tea. Then she took out a squat gin bottle and calmly topped up her teacup with a shot before holding the bottle out enquiringly to the viscount, who refused.
“You know my fees?” Mrs. Davey asked.
“Yes.”
“So … very expensive, ain’t they?”
“I noticed that.”
“Well, the reason they are expensive is that I produce successes here. If I did not, no one would send
their girls to me. All of them should be in prison, but they come from genteel families who hope to save them. I profit. Bring ’em in and let me have a look at them.”
The viscount went out and returned with Amanda and Clarissa. Mrs. Davey added more gin to her cup and stared at them. She shrugged her fat shoulders. “Nothing out of the common way. Leave them with me, my lord. You will receive quarterly reports. No, I beg of you, do not look so worried. I can cope with anything.”
When the viscount had left, Mrs. Davey, still staring at the two girls, rang the bell on the table beside her and told the maid who answered its summons to fetch Mrs. Grimshaw.
Mrs. Grimshaw turned out to be a tough, wiry, middle-aged woman with a sharp, knowing face. She looked more like a male horse trader than a female schoolmistress.
“Got two new ’uns,” Mrs. Davey said. She looked at Clarissa. “Name?”
“Clarissa,” she mumbled.
“So the one with the eyebrows must be Amanda. Right, Mrs. Grimshaw, Clarissa looks the softer one. She’s to start work in the dairy and keep her at it for a year. The other one, Amanda, is to start work in the carpentry shop right away.”
“This is slave labor,” Amanda cried. “We are not peasants.”
“No, lovey. Just be thankful you ain’t on the treadmill in prison, where you belong. You’re the ringleader. I’ve met your sort before … many times. You will not be able to communicate with your sister at all, at any time. Now, get to work.”
“Shan’t!” Amanda shouted.
Mrs. Grimshaw twisted Amanda’s arm up her back and marched her from the room. Clarissa cast Mrs. Davey a terrified look and hurried after her sister.
Mrs. Davey poured more gin into what was left of the mixture in her cup and sank back with a satisfied sigh. Nothing like decent, honest work to bring her young ladies up to the mark and to make a good profit. Her cheeses were already selling well, there was a steady demand for the chairs and tables produced by the carpentry shop, the weaving shed was doing fine business, and the school farm was prosperous. Only the most hardened of the girls were put to farm labor, and Mrs. Davey did not consider Amanda and Clarissa anything particularly bad, just tiresome and naughty.
A few days later Jean Morrison found she had the delicate task of entertaining Lord and Lady Pemberton and their daughters, Letitia and Ann, delicate because although she was running the household, her position was still that of governess.
Letitia had persuaded her parents to make the call. She said it was ridiculous that such an eligible bachelor should be left unchallenged.
But when they arrived, Dredwort told them that Lord Hunterdon was not at home. Lady Pemberton said crossly that they would like some refreshment before their return journey, and Dredwort ushered them into the Green Saloon and then went to inform Jean of their arrival.
As soon as she entered and began to supervise the serving of tea and cakes, Jean realized her mistake. She should not have joined them. Lady Pemberton was glaring at Jean’s pretty gown and uncapped hair and demanding to know where the Misses Courtney were. Jean had no intention of telling them about the seminary. She merely said quietly that they were visiting relatives of the viscount.
“Shouldn’t you be in the schoolroom?” Letitia demanded waspishly.
“Not when I have no one to teach. What is it, Dredwort?”
“The agent, Mr. Peterman, has called, miss, and wishes to consult you about the work in the gardens, and Mr. Connan has ridden over to thank you for sending the physician to his wife. She is improving rapidly.”
“Thank you, Dredwort. Good day, my lord, my lady, ladies. If there is anything further you require, please ring the bell.”
The Pembertons looked at each other in consternation when she had left. “She is behaving like the mistress of this house,” Lady Pemberton cried. “Has Hunterdon lost his wits?”
As if on cue, the gentleman in question entered the room. The viscount had returned.
“You must excuse my clothes,” he said after the initial courtesies were over. “I am just returned from Bath.”
“And I must inform you of something,” Lady Pemberton said. “That Scotch governess is going on here as if she is mistress of this house and estates, and the servants appear to treat her as such.”
“I left her in charge.”
“How odd!” Lady Pemberton bridled.
Lord Pemberton shot her a warning look as if to say that she would not further her daughters’ chances with the viscount if she questioned his domestic arrangements, however odd they might seem. He began to talk of mutual acquaintances and of the prospects of good hunting weather to come.
The viscount half listened, wishing they would all go away. There was so much to do. Besides, he wanted to tell Miss Morrison about the seminary. He wanted to look at Miss Morrison again. He had thought of her a great deal on the road back. His comfortable feeling that he had secured her future for her was waning fast as he approached Trelawney. He tried to imagine Jean at her social debut, at Almack’s, say, dancing the waltz and trying discreetly to attract the attentions of some suitable man. Then he had a sudden vision of going up to that suitable man and punching him on the nose for daring to put his arm around Jean Morrison’s slender waist.
And it was a slender waist, he thought dreamily. And her eyes were fascinating, green and clever, like a cat’s.
He suddenly realized all the Pembertons were staring at him. “My husband was asking you for the second time whether you plan to be in London for the next Season?” Lady Pemberton said.
He looked at her rather stupidly. Next Season. He could dance with Miss Morrison himself. That would be fun. But dammit, he had her here, under his nose. Could she be his? He felt a great feeling of relief wash over him and half closed his eyes. The horrible girls were gone. Trelawney was all peace and serenity. And he could have Jean Morrison to himself.
“Go away,” he said loudly.
Lady Pemberton rose with a rustle of taffeta. “You will never hear from us again, my lord,” she said. “I think you are quite mad.”
“Yes, yes,” he snapped. He beat them to the door, opened it, and darted up the stairs.
She wasn’t in her room. She wasn’t in the drawing room. Where!
He ran downstairs again as the Pembertons were making their stately exit. “Where is she?” he shouted to Dredwort.
“At the back of the house with Mr. Peterman, my lord.”
The viscount shot out of the door. The Pembertons stared after him. Lady Pemberton saw Dredwort standing with a smile on his face. She curled an imperative finger. “Come here, my man, I have a few questions I wish to ask you about your master.”
But Dredwort listened at doors and Dredwort had heard what Lady Pemberton had said in the Green Saloon about his master being mad. He carefully placed one thumb on his nose and wriggled the rest of his fingers in her direction. Then, patting his new glass wig with a complacent hand, he stalked down the stairs to tell Mrs. Moody that the champagne should be put on ice in preparation for the announcement of my lord’s forthcoming marriage.
He found her standing with Mr. Peterman. Men were cutting down and hauling away briars and bushes. “I think the summerhouse should be left standing,” he heard Jean say. “Perhaps Mr. Stewart, the landscape gardener, might want it to remain. My lord! You are returned.”
“Walk with me a little, Miss Morrison,” he said. “Mr. Peterman, I shall see you presently.”
He held out his arm, and Jean hesitatingly laid her fingertips on it as he led her down the now-cleared walk toward the beach.
Her light dress fluttered against her body. The wind from the sea was cold. She shivered slightly. “I unfortunately acted as hostess to the Pembertons,” she said, glancing up at him and thinking miserably that he looked handsomer than ever. He had endured a tiring journey and yet he was impeccably dressed in blue coat, doeskin breeches, and top boots.
“Why unfortunately?”
“They considered it an impertinen
ce.”
“Boring family. Any family who can suffer Basil for any length of time must be boring.” They reached the beach. “Are you cold?” he asked.
“A little. When Dredwort told me that Mr. Peterman wanted to see me, I was so glad to escape that I ran straight out of the house.”
He stopped and took off his coat and put it around her shoulders. “Better?”
“Thank you, my lord, but I can quite easily return and find a shawl.”
“Never mind. Let me tell you about the seminary.” Jean listened as he described Mrs. Davey.
“Are you sure she can cope?” Jean asked anxiously.
“Strangely enough, I feel sure she can.” The air was full of the sound of the restless sea. Waves crashed on the beach and the wind whipped through Jean’s red hair, scattering bone pins onto the sand.
“I cannot help feeling sorry for them.” Jean stared out to sea. “Life would have been better for them if their mother had not died. Their father, with his greed and his cruelty, was no example. A little love in their upbringing would have done wonders.”
“You are too softhearted, my governess.”
“Perhaps. Never having really known any love myself, I am perhaps oversympathetic.”
“I would give you love.”
Jean clutched his coat tighter around her shoulders. The wind whipped a strand of red hair across her lips, and he gently pulled it away. She looked up at him, her eyes filled with a mixture of misery and disgust.
He wanted her as his mistress.
She half turned away. “I do not want your love, my lord. I assume now your offer of allowance and dowry was a sham.”
“No, by God, it wasn’t,” he said, suddenly furious with disappointment and longing. “The offer still stands. If you wish to be wife to some other man, you may do so gladly and with my blessing.”
He walked away from her, back toward the castle, his shirtsleeves flapping against his arms.
