The Extraordinary Tale of the Rebellious Governess: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Linfield, Emma

  A second servant arrived on the heels of the first. “Miss Brent,” she said, “His Grace wishes to see you in his private chambers.”

  “I am on my way. Thank you.”

  Henrietta took her by the hand, her small face smiling, bright and eager. “Can we play again later, Luce?”

  “I must see to your brother, sweetling,” Lucretia replied, cupping the little girl’s chin. “Perhaps tomorrow.”

  “Very well.”

  Henrietta skipped her way to supper, Rosemary following in her wake. Though short on sleep, Lucretia looked forward to sitting with His Grace, watching over him as he slept through the night. If the Duke does not mind, perhaps Mr. Kirkwood might teach me basic healing and nursing skills. Nodding politely to the servants she passed, she made her way up the staircase to the Duke’s opulent chambers. Smoothing her skirts, she knocked on the broad door. Martin answered it, and permitted her to enter with a small bow. Voices emerged from the Duke’s bedchamber, and she hesitated, uncertain if she should interrupt.

  “His Grace is expecting you, Miss Brent,” Martin said, extending his arm in an inviting gesture toward the room.

  “But – perhaps I should wait until they are finished.”

  “I am sorry, but His Grace instructed me to conduct you to him the moment you arrived.”

  Giving in, Lucretia followed him across the ante-chamber to the bedroom, where the Duke lay propped up on his pillows. His face appeared less haggard than the previous day, his green eyes brighter, though his dark hair still tumbled untidily over his forehead. Mr. Kirkwood and James both sat near the bed, and all stopped speaking when Martin paused at the door.

  “Miss Brent has arrived, Your Grace.”

  “Send her in, please. And fetch another chair for her.”

  Lucretia entered the room and dipped into a low curtsey.

  “Miss Brent.”

  “Your Grace.”

  “Do come in, Miss Brent, join us, please. I want you to hear what James has to say.”

  Lucretia offered small curtsies to Mr. Kirkwood and James, then accepted the seat Martin brought into the room for her. As she adjusted her skirt, she could not help but wonder how she became a part of the Duke’s most trusted inner circle. A London orphan is now an advisor to one of the highest peers in the realm. Who could have imagined that?

  The remains of the Duke’s meal sat on a nearby table, reminding her that her lunch was several hours behind her. The odor of ale drifted from the silver chased cup in His Grace’s hand, his smile for her appeared warm and kind. The curtains had been pulled back to permit the sunlight to stream unhindered into the room, and the windows opened to allow fresh, clean air inside.

  “James, please tell Miss Brent what you told me,” His Grace said, his voice much stronger than the previous night. Lucretia suspected he would not be bed-ridden for much longer. A man, both young and strong, he no doubt healed quickly.

  The steward nodded, and turned toward her. “Miss Brent, as you are aware, John Kelley is making subtle inquiries into the location and identity of the man you saw try to shoot Lady Henrietta.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I met with him just after dawn this morning,” he continued. “While makings discreet inquiries in Tewkesbury, he discovered that a man from your description had indeed been in the town. He also spoke with a London accent.”

  “Thus he is not a local, sir,” she said, uncertain of what they wanted from her.

  “That is exactly right. While that does not truly tell us much, it does inform us that persons unknown hired him to kill Lady Henrietta, and that he is still in the vicinity.”

  Lucretia glanced at the Duke. “Thus, he may try again.”

  “Indeed, yes, Miss Brent,” His Grace said. “And if, and when, we catch him, you will be needed to identify him positively. Can you do that?”

  “I would know him again, Your Grace.”

  “Most excellent. Now, since I cannot detail a formal bodyguard to Lady Henrietta without alarming the staff, I would ask you, as her governess and her friend, to guard her to the best of your ability.”

  “Of course, Your Grace,” she replied, bowing her head. “But I must inform Your Grace that Lady Henrietta is given to roaming the house at night when she cannot sleep.”

  The Duke frowned, glancing at Mr. Kirkwood and James, who shook his head. “Well, that must stop immediately,” he said. “I do not wish to post a servant at her door to prevent her from leaving, as that would let the staff know something is very wrong.”

  “I did extract a promise from her to not do it again, Your Grace,” Lucretia added. “However, she is but a child and her curiosity may overcome her oath.”

  “I must extract the same promise then,” the Duke said, his voice pensive. “She must remain in her rooms at night, and attended by you and Rosemary throughout. Miss Brent, I would ask that you take up residence in Henrietta’s chambers until this situation is resolved.”

  “Of course, Your Grace.”

  The Duke caught her gaze and held it. “As Charles is insistent that I have someone that I trust implicitly attend me one more night, I would ask that you, Miss Brent, be that person. After tomorrow, I should be strong enough that I need no more laudanum.”

  “I will be happy to, Your Grace.”

  Why me? If His Grace fears an attack while he is helpless, under the effects of the laudanum, then he should have a male servant guard him, not me. But even as she thought it, the answer struck her broadside – a male servant acting as a bodyguard would send ripples of gossip through the house when the secrecy regarding the attempts on the Duke’s life was crucial.

  Thomas arrived at the doorway. “The Baron of Gillinghamshire is here to see you, Your Grace.”

  Lucretia froze. That dreadful man. She had not encountered him since that day in the orchard, although she had seen him multiple times from a distance. Surely he would not make a scene in front of the Duke, Mr. Kirkwood and James. Arranging her face into careful neutrality, Lucretia gazed down at her folded hands.

  “Send him in, please.”

  Keeping her eyes lowered respectfully, Lucretia rose from her chair to offer the Baron a curtsey as he entered. From the corner of her eye, she observed him check his stride upon seeing her, then continue toward the Duke’s bed. Reseating herself, she glanced up, seeing his blue eyes on her, and a slight frown of puzzlement puckering his forehead. Yet, he ignored her as though she was not there, as he offered His Grace a quick bow.

  “I came to see how you fare, Sampson,” he said. “You are looking better than you did yesterday.”

  “Yes, I feel much better today,” His Grace replied, accepting the baron’s hand to shake. “I will be up by tomorrow.”

  “That is good news, indeed. While I would not trouble you this day to discuss a pair of horses James showed me this morning, I would like to negotiate their price. Of course, only after you have recovered.”

  The Baron smiled, lighting up his face, and if there had been no conflict between them, Lucretia might have found him delightfully good looking. Perhaps we got off to a bad start, and, over time, might improve the relationship. She knew he had no wife, and rumors said that he searched for one. Commoners could marry above their station, if the Baron liked her enough. Her eyes flicked to the Duke. But I feel so comfortable being with him…

  “I would not take advantage of my good friend,” George went on. “Thus, we can discuss it at a later date, when you have recovered.”

  “That is kind of you, George,” His Grace said, returning the smile. “I do fear that the laudanum Charles insists I take muddles my wits. Which horses interest you?”

  Lucretia discreetly watched and listened as His Grace and his friend discussed the merits of a pair of black horses the Baron admired. He certainly did not appear to be the same man she conflicted with that day, and told herself she had been too hasty in slapping his face for grabbing her arm. From what she had heard, the Baron increased his wealth yearly by r
aising quality cattle, selling young stock to the army, as well as a growing market in Wales.

  “I will return in a few days,” the Baron said, heading toward the door. “By then you should be recovered enough to have your scattered wits returned, my friend.”

  His Grace chuckled. “I look forward to arguing a fair price with you, George.”

  The Baron sketched a quick bow, and left the room, Thomas accompanying him to the main door of His Grace’s rooms. After he had gone, the Duke sighed and leaned his head against his pillows. He rubbed his torso restlessly, his smile fading into a grimace. Mr. Kirkwood leaned forward.

  “Are you in much pain, Your Grace?”

  “No – yes,” he replied, “I need to be up and about, conducting my affairs rather than lying here, an invalid.”

  “You must give yourself more time to heal, Your Grace,” the physician stated, his tone firm and brooked no argument. “Should you be up and about too soon, you may cause more damage to yourself.”

  “I know, damn it. I hate this feeling of helplessness.”

  Just then, a heavy pounding at the outer door heralded another visitor, and the Duke raised his head from the pillow, opening his eyes. “Who could that be?”

  Lucretia sensed the tension in the room rise as the three men glanced at one another, their expressions ranging from alarm on James’s to active concern on His Grace’s. Lucretia turned her head as Thomas walked to the door, and spoke with the person who banged on it so urgently. She knew something was wrong when the butler closed it, and hurried back to the bed chamber.

  “Your Grace,” he said, “one of the horses is colicking in the stable, and your presence is urgently needed.”

  “Which horse?”

  “Your stallion, Your Grace.”

  Chapter 15

  “No, no.”

  Sampson bit back a groan. Not The Iron Knight. Please, any other animal except him. Please. Unmindful of Miss Brent’s presence, he threw back the covers and made to climb out of bed. Under Charles’s protests, and a quick sight of Miss Brent rising from her chair and taking flight into the other room, Sampson bellowed for clothes. Pain stabbed through his chest, but he ignored it as best he could.

  “Your Grace,” Charles said, rising from his chair. “You must not move about.”

  “I will not remain here while my horse is ill,” he shot back, as Martin entered with his master’s breeches and shirt over his arm. With Miss Brent unable to observe him in just his drawers, Sampson stood with James’s hand under him to help him up. Grimacing against the fire in his ribs, he dressed as quickly as he could. Pain shortened his breath as he sat back down so Martin might insert his feet into his Hessian boots. But his worry overrode all of his discomfort, and he rose with James’s help once more.

  “Your Grace,” Charles protested. “I must insist you return to your bed.”

  “Insist all you want,” Sampson said, tucking his shirt into his breeches as he walked to the ante-room. “I am going to the stable, like it or not.”

  Barely acknowledging Miss Brent’s curtsey, Sampson hurried down the corridor and down the steps, James at his shoulder. Horses colic, he told himself. Surely it is a mild case and Knight will be fine within a few days. He is a strong horse. By the time he reached the stable, he had almost convinced himself that he had little to worry about. Until he caught sight of the grooms’ fear-filled expressions before they bowed and concealed their panic.

  “What happened?” he snapped, hoping his voice did not reveal his own anxiety and worry.

  The head groom, a man named Willard Jones, stepped forward and bowed low. “Your Grace,” he said, “the beast was fine last night, and this morning. Not an hour past, he suddenly took ill, and went down. It came on right quick, Your Grace. I have two trusted grooms walking him now, but I fear the outlook for him is not good.”

  “Where is he?” Sampson choked, knowing his fear could easily be heard in his voice.

  “Around back, Your Grace.”

  Following Willard with both James and Charles behind him, he caught a quick glimpse of Miss Brent standing behind the small crowd of grooms. He had not known she had accompanied him, yet that did not trouble him. In fact, he liked that she cared enough to do so. He forgot her a few moments later as he rounded the end of the stable, and stopped short.

  Clearly in pain, the bay stallion dripped sweat from his neck, chest and flanks, his ears and head drooping low. Though the grooms kept him walking, he stumbled often, emitting low groans of agony. Sampson’s heart dropped, he felt sick. “Lord have mercy,” he muttered, grief swamping him. He had seen too many horses in such a state to believe his beloved stallion could be saved. “No, no, no.”

  “I am so sorry, Your Grace,” James said, resting a comforting hand on his shoulder.

  Sampson flung it off, not wanting comfort. His throat closing, choking off his breath, he went to the stricken stallion. This cannot be happening, not this horse, not my beloved friend and companion. Yet, as much as he wanted to deny it, his heart knew there could only be one outcome for his favorite. The grooms halted as he approached, bowing, their own fears etched onto their faces. He knew they feared his wrath, that he might blame the animal’s condition on the care they took of him.

  “Yer – Yer Grace,” one stammered. “If we stops him, he goes down, and we nary gets him up again.”

  “Let him rest,” he ordered, his voice hoarse. “Send for my pistol.”

  Pushing the stallion’s lead rope into his hands, they ran off. Knight immediately folded his legs and all but fell to the ground. Kneeling beside him, Sampson stroked his sweaty face and ears, gazing into the huge anguished eyes. “I am sorry, old son,” he murmured, choking. “We must part company now. I shall never forget you, not even when I am old and grey and have forgotten my own name.”

  As he stroked the horse’s face, murmuring soothing words, he knew a small crowd had gathered to stare. At that moment, he did not care that his grief was evident for all to see, as all knew how much he loved the horse. Nor would he permit another to deliver the coup de grace, and end the stallion’s agony. It was his duty alone to kill his friend.

  James brought him his pistol, silent, his stern expression softened. “Sampson,” he began.

  Sampson took the blunderbuss from him. “No. I must do it. He is my friend.”

  James nodded. “Of course.”

  “I need to be alone with him, James,” Sampson went on, not looking up from his horse. “Please send everyone away.”

  James bowed, and left him. Within minutes, the yard behind the stable stood empty save himself and The Iron Knight. Still, he could not do it. He could not make himself do what he must, and put the barrel against the stallion’s head. “There must be a way to save him,” Sampson muttered. “There must be.”

  Deep in his heart, he knew there was not. By hoping for such, he prolonged the horse’s agony. Taking a few moments to caress the stallion’s fine head, Sampson finally stood. “Good bye, my old friend.”

  Pointing the pistol downward, he pulled the trigger.

  * * *

  He could not sleep.

  Despite Charles’s laudanum dose, Sampson dozed for a while, his light slumber chased by dark dreams. He could not get the image of his dead horse from his mind. How could a young and healthy horse get sick so fast and so terribly? He had no answers, nothing save the tearing grief in his heart. Not even the pain of his cracked ribs hurt as much as the death of The Iron Knight.

  Opening his eyes, he sensed the hour was quite late. The lamps had all been turned low save one. It cast its light on Miss Brent as she sat in the chair near his bed, reading a book. For a moment, he wondered why she was there, then remembered – he had asked her to. He opened his mouth to ask her to leave, to leave him in the privacy of his grief. Yet, he found comfort in her presence, and changed his mind.

  “Miss Brent,” he croaked.

  Instantly, she closed the book and rose from her chair. “Your Grace.” />
  She curtseyed, then closed the distance between them. “Can I get you anything, Your Grace?”

  He tried a smile, but knew it did not work well. “I would like my horse back, if you could arrange it.”

  She lowered her eyes. “I am so sorry for your loss, Your Grace. I know what it is to lose someone you cherish.”

  Interesting. She used ‘someone’ and not ‘something’, as though acknowledging my stallion was never a ‘thing’ to me.

  “Thank you.”

  Sampson made to sit up, and Miss Brent helped place pillows behind his back. “May I have some water?”

  “Certainly, Your Grace.”

  Walking to a sideboard, she poured fresh water from a ceramic jug into a cup and brought it to him. He drank it all down, not realizing until then how truly thirsty he was. Handing her the cup, he sighed. “Thank you. I am grateful.”