Dedication
For fellow writers Sophie Jordan and Jennifer Ryan, because this book would not exist without you. Many, many thanks.
Thanks also to Jacoby Smith for the help with Latin. It is much appreciated.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
About the Author
By Laura Lee Guhrke
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
London, 1893
“And she’s off.”
Ten-year-old Owen St. Clair moved to stand alongside his brother, propped his elbows on the windowsill, and rested his chin in his hands as he watched their now-former nanny, a stern, black-clad widow named Mrs. Hornsby, step into the hansom cab at the curb below. “We’re to blame, you know.”
“Stuff.” Colin, older than his brother by exactly eighteen minutes, shook his head, a decisive move that sent the unruly strands of his carrot-red hair into further disarray. “It’s not our fault the Hornsby doesn’t like frogs.”
“Well, we did put it in her hatbox.” Owen sighed as the cab containing Mrs. Hornsby turned at the corner and vanished from view. “Three nannies in six months. I think that’s torn it, Colin. Papa said one more nanny and he’d send us to Harrow.”
At the ghastly prospect of being sent off to school, the twins turned, sliding down to sit on the floor of the library, their backs to the wall beneath the window as they contemplated what could well be their immediate future.
“We can’t let Papa send us away,” Colin said at last. “He’d be lost without us. And what would happen to Oscar?”
Both boys looked up at the gray tabby cat that was sitting on the arm of a nearby chair, a cat they’d rescued from a tree in the park one and a half years earlier. Oscar was twitching his tail and blinking his green eyes sleepily, seeming unaware of the dire future that lay ahead for his two human friends.
“He’ll be lonely,” Owen said. “Papa’s away all the time, and the servants think he’s a nuisance because he doesn’t chase mice. They don’t like him. They might forget to feed him. They might give him away.”
“We’ve got to do something to stop it.”
“Maybe we could take him with us? It’s probably against the rules to have a cat at Harrow, but—”
“I’m not talking about Oscar.” Colin turned to his brother. “I’m talking about us and being sent away. Oscar has nothing to worry about if we can convince Papa to let us stay here.”
There was silence for a moment as both boys considered the problem.
“Maybe,” Owen said at last, “we could find our new nanny ourselves before Papa knows what’s happened. Someone we like. Someone fun. If we do that, it’s a fate . . . fate—what’s the word?”
“Fait-accompli,” Colin supplied in carefully enunciated, very British French.
“That’s it.” Owen’s nod was decisive. “And if we’ve already found someone, Papa can’t be too angry about Nanny Hornsby leaving, can he?”
“Maybe not, but the thing is . . .” Colin paused, his freckled face scrunching up with distaste, as if he’d just eaten a persimmon. “We don’t really want another nanny, do we?”
“No, but what other choice have we got?”
“Maybe we should find what we really want.”
“You mean . . .” Owen stared at his brother, his expression one of both excitement and doubt. “You don’t mean a new mum?”
“Why not? We’ve been talking about it for ages.”
“I know, but—”
“Another nanny would be tiresome. School would be worse.”
“That’s true, but—”
“Papa’s sure to marry again sometime,” Colin interrupted. “What if he picks someone who doesn’t like us?”
“We’d be off to Harrow like a shot. But still—”
“If we find Papa someone who likes us, she could convince him to let us give school a miss altogether.”
“Possibly,” Owen said, his voice making it clear he wasn’t optimistic about such a plan’s chances of success. “But Papa won’t ever marry again. He’s said so thousands of times.”
“We’ll have to find him a girl who’s smashing enough to make him change his mind. Someone pretty, of course.”
“Someone nice. Someone who won’t put pomade in our hair and lecture us when our trousers get torn.”
Colin nodded. “She’ll have to be brainy, too, like Mama was. And fond of cats.”
Oscar meowed, as if giving his endorsement of this plan.
“There’s just one problem,” Owen pointed out. “How do we find her?”
“That is the sticky wicket.”
Both boys fell silent again, thinking hard.
“We could put an ad in Auntie Clara’s paper,” Owen said after a moment. “Men are always advertising for wives in the papers.”
“Gentlemen don’t, and Papa’s a gentleman. Wait—I know!” Colin jumped to his feet and crossed the library to the writing desk. As his brother watched, he opened the center drawer, retrieved a sheet of notepaper, and closed the drawer again.
“What are you doing?” Owen asked curiously, standing up and moving toward the desk as his brother reached for the pen that was reposing in a silver holder on the inkstand. “Who are you writing to?”
“Who does everyone write to when they want to solve a problem?” Colin countered as he inked the nib of the pen. “I’m writing to Lady Truelove.”
Those who wanted to be polite would have deemed Amanda Leighton a woman of the world. Those not so inclined to civility would have called her something else, something much less romantic.
Either way, facts were facts, and though by the age of twenty-eight Amanda had lived in two different countries, earned a university education, found a profession, taken a lover, and lost her reputation, she had not gained the one experience society deemed worthwhile for those of her sex. Amanda had never managed to acquire a husband.
But then, she’d never really been in search of one. Her mother had died when she was a young girl, and she’d been raised by her father, a university professor who had scorned the traditional, marriage-minded, downright silly scope of a girl’s learning, and who had personally given Amanda a first-class education worthy of any boy. More important, he’d taught her to take charge of her own destiny, not by the use of feminine wiles, but by the employment of her intelligence.
She’d become a teacher, and for the seven years since then, she’d earned her living with her brain. Sadly, not every employer understood that the rest of Amanda’s body wasn’t for hire.
When Mr. Oswald Bartlett put his hand on her in a way no employer ever ought to do, Amanda had demonstrated her scientific knowledge of male anatomy with the use of one well-placed knee. She had also, unfortunately, lost her job.
Not that being governess to Mr. Bartlett’s four daughters had been a particularly exciting post. How exciting could it be to teach four girls how to speak French, waltz, and curtsy, especially when neither they nor their parent ever envisioned for them anything more? Still, her position with the widower had provided her with a roof over her head, two meals a day, and a minuscule, but steady wage.
Now she was unemployed, and t
hanks to the knee, she was facing the search for a new post with no letter of character.
Amanda leaned back in her chair, looked up from her now-cold tea, and realized that the waitress who had served her in such friendly fashion half an hour ago was now eyeing her with impatience. The goodwill she’d purchased at Mrs. Mott’s Tea Emporium with one cuppa and one Bath bun was clearly gone, but Amanda continued to linger. It was far too early to give up for the day and return to her tiny flat, but where could she go?
She’d spent the past month presenting herself at every employment agency in London, to no avail. Though all had been impressed by her university education, none had sent her to interview for any governess posts. Her baccalaureate from Girton College seemed breathtakingly impressive until each agency made the inevitable inquiries and learned what had happened to her after departing that lauded institution. Once they discovered she was the same Amanda Leighton who had once taught at Willowbank Academy, whose reputation had been tainted by scandal, their eagerness to find her employment went straight out the window, and who could blame them?
Willowbank was England’s most prestigious academic school for young ladies, but when one of its teachers took the son of the school’s most generous and influential patron as her lover, well, that was a scandal for the ages, especially when no wedding followed in its wake. Her days as a schoolteacher had come to an end, for who wanted to put their daughters in the care of a woman tainted by scandal? Only Mr. Bartlett had been so inclined, and his reasons for hiring her were now, in hindsight, dismally clear.
These days, she was down to tutoring a few people in her neighborhood, but that wasn’t enough to pay rent and buy food, and if her present state of unemployment continued much longer, her meager savings would be gone. Sadly, her prospects for respectable employment were dim, and growing dimmer by the day.
All her father’s efforts, four years of university education, Tripos honors, two published papers, and seven years of teaching at one of England’s most lauded schools, all obliterated by one stupid mistake, and though she was glad her father hadn’t lived long enough to see it, she knew it shamed his memory. She also knew that mistake was one she ought never to have made. Aware, educated, with plenty of common sense and worldly wisdom, and yet, she’d fallen in love with a man because he’d said her eyes were like sunlight caught in the embrace of a dark forest. She’d never dreamed any man, even an aristocrat, could be so poetic. Or that she could be such a fool.
Amanda swallowed the last of her tea and glanced out the window again. Having pawned her watch a few days ago, she didn’t know the time, but it looked as if it was late enough that the evening papers were out, and she decided to see if any governess positions had been posted. Reading the papers without paying for them was tricky, but Amanda couldn’t afford to pay for them. The twelve pence in her handbag and the fifteen shillings hidden away under her mattress were all she had left.
If she didn’t find a post soon, she’d have to sell Papa’s books and her mother’s cameos. That would keep her in funds through autumn, but what would happen to her when winter came?
Fear shivered through Amanda, bringing her to her feet. Shoving dire thoughts of the future out of her mind, she put on her cloak, then took up the Bath bun that would be her evening meal, wrapped it in her handkerchief, and tucked it into her pocket. She paid her bill and left Mrs. Mott’s to find a newspaper seller, but she’d barely gone a block before the sign painted on a plate-glass window caught her eye, and she paused.
Deverill Newspapers Limited, the gilt lettering read. Publishers of the London Daily Standard and the Weekly Gazette.
Perhaps she was going about her employment search the wrong way, she thought, staring at the sign. What if, instead of looking through the posts being advertised, she placed her own advertisement, noting her credentials and offering her services as a governess? Mentioning Girton would gain her some inquiries, perhaps even some interviews, and if she could gloss over her past sufficiently, she might gain a post.
Action appealed to her far more than passively waiting for a job to come along, but another look through the window caused her to doubt the soundness of her idea, at least as far as this particular newspaper was concerned, for it seemed to be either going out of business or moving to a new location. Packing crates were stacked against the far wall and most of the furnishings had been removed.
Nonetheless, there was at least one person still on the premises, she noted, spying a tall man with blond hair who was rummaging through one of the crates that lay on top of the room’s only desk. He might be able to assist her.
She opened the door, and the man looked up, revealing a startlingly handsome countenance, but Amanda felt no jump in the pace of her pulse. Her affair with Lord Halsbury and the resulting disgrace had cured her of any romantic notions about men, handsome or otherwise, and besides, she had other priorities.
“Yes, miss?” He circled the desk and came toward her. “May I help you?”
“I’m not certain. I wanted to see about placing an advertisement, but—” She broke off and glanced around. “Is this newspaper out of print?”
“No, no,” he assured her, “though I suppose it appears that way at present. We are moving to larger premises today.”
“We?” Amanda echoed, noting his finely tailored suit as he halted before her. “You don’t look like a clerk or journalist.”
That made him laugh. “I imagine not,” he agreed, and offered a bow. “I am Viscount Galbraith.”
Amanda’s surprise deepened, and perceiving it, he laughed again, gesturing to the sign on the window behind her. “My wife, Clara, was a Deverill before she married me. She and her sister, the Duchess of Torquil, own this publishing company.”
“A business owned by women?” Amanda murmured, impressed. “That’s unusual.”
“They have a staff, of course, but everyone’s at the new premises just now, trying to get things settled before my wife and I leave for the Continent on our honeymoon. I’m only here because I’ve lost my pocket watch, and my wife seemed to think she’d tossed it into one of these crates, so I’ve come in search.”
“Then I mustn’t keep you, my lord.” She gave a curtsy and moved to leave, but his voice stopped her.
“If you wish to place an advertisement, you can write it down, and I’d be happy to deliver it to a member of the staff.”
“I shouldn’t wish to give any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble. I’ll be going back to Fleet Street once I find my watch, and I can easily take your advertisement with me. I might even be able to supply you with writing materials.” He returned to the desk, rummaged through the crates, and pulled out a rumpled sheet of paper and a stubby lead pencil.
“Here we are,” he said, returning to her. “Not the best stationery, I fear, but it should serve the purpose.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, taking the offered paper and pencil from his outstretched hands. “You’re very kind. What is . . . the . . . ahem—” She broke off, her face heating, for she knew it was the height of vulgarity to discuss money matters of any sort with a peer, but she could see no other choice. “What is the rate for an advertisement?”
“The rate?” He gave her a blank stare for a moment, then he laughed, making it clear she hadn’t given offense. “Good Lord, I’ve no idea,” he confessed. “What do you think would be fair?”
“I don’t suppose free would be very fair, would it?” she quipped, but pride caused her to regret the half-joking words at once. “I wasn’t trying to cage,” she added at once. “I’m happy to pay the proper rate, of course.”
His keen blue eyes swept over her, surely noting the frayed hems of her cloak and skirt, but whatever he might be thinking, he didn’t express his thoughts aloud. “What if we say one halfpenny per word?” he asked. “With a three-day run?”
Even in her straitened circumstances, she could afford that, if she kept it short. Relieved, she gave a nod of agreement, and Lord Galbrai
th gestured to the long worktable beside the door, pulling out a swivel chair from underneath so that she could sit down.
“Now, if you will pardon me,” he said, pushing in the chair for her, “I must continue the hunt for my watch.”
He returned to the desk across the room, but he’d barely resumed rummaging through the crate before the door opened and another man came in, a man every bit as good-looking as the viscount, but as different from him as chalk from cheese.
Lord Galbraith had the countenance of a man who enjoyed life, a man of amiable temperament with an easy smile, a man whose fair coloring and flawless features seemed almost angelic.
There was nothing angelic, however, about the man who halted in the doorway. If this man had ever been an angel, he’d fallen a long time ago, and fallen hard.
Beneath the brim of a gray felt derby, his eyes were a clear, almost colorless green, the green of bottle glass—cool, translucent, and curiously devoid of any discernible emotion, softened into humanity only by the brown lashes that surrounded them, lashes that were long and thick and sinfully opulent.
There was nothing soft about the rest of his face, however. Its lean planes seemed to have been chiseled out of marble, as exquisitely sculpted and expressionless as any statue. There was a curious lethargy to his stance and an unmistakable weariness to the set of his wide shoulders, and to Amanda, it seemed a weariness of spirit rather than body. Though he was probably only a few years older than she, there were distinct lines etched into the edges of his mouth and the corners of his eyes, and though she couldn’t tell if those lines were borne of dissipation or suffering, they nonetheless told of a man who had seen it all and done it all and who wasn’t much interested in doing any of it again.
Those cool green eyes of his looked in her direction, then away at once, a glance devoid of any masculine interest. Most women would be insulted, she supposed with a hint of humor, but after Kenneth Halsbury and Mr. Bartlett, Amanda could only deem such indifference a relief.
“Ah, Jamie,” Lord Galbraith greeted the man in the doorway. “You received my note, I take it?”
Governess Gone Rogue Page 1
