Cecelia bloody Sanford, all deep, sparkling black eyes, dark brown curls, and vivid smile. The last person he ever expected to land on his doorstep and beg an interview as his governess. He shouldn’t accept her for several reasons, the first and foremost among them, his supposed friendship with her brother. That alone ought to drive him to send her packing.
Lind, however, could hardly say where he stood with her brother these days. Not after everything that had happened. Not after the stilted conversation in his carriage in that damnable village a few weeks ago, one where he nearly let on about his plans for Battencliffe. If he was at all perceptive, Sanford would have surmised something had gone patently wrong between his two old school mates. Perhaps he was curious enough to send his sister to fill a position and find out what she could.
Which brought him back to Cecelia and the matter of her lying. Not that he knew for certain she was, but she was definitely hiding something. Perhaps it was simply her brother’s instigation behind her presence in his home, but perhaps it was more than that.
He leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers on his desk. Since his return from the war, circumstances had put him at distinct odds with so-called polite society, enough that he ignored the doings of the ton as much as possible.
But, damn it all, a girl like Cecelia ought to have married long since. She drew attention to herself with her throaty laugh and hands she could never keep still. She draped herself in a certain air, one that proclaimed she loved life for the pleasures it brought her, one that attracted gentlemen’s attention. She’d certainly managed to reach out and capture his notice the instant she waltzed into his study.
He may have recalled hearing of her engagement to someone or other once upon a time, but that match clearly had not come to pass if she’d turned up on his doorstep begging employment.
What if what she was hiding turned out to be useful? It just might. He could let her stay on for now, and let the boy determine whether she actually kept her position. His refusal to progress had managed to run an entire succession of governesses off when they couldn’t satisfy Lind’s demands.
And since that situation was well enough in hand for now, he could concentrate on more important matters. Ignoring the twinge that shot down his left thigh as he stretched, he reached for the bell pull to summon his secretary. Before long, the older man, thin and balding, a pair of wire spectacles hovering at the top of a prominent nose, appeared on the threshold.
“Have there been any new developments with Battencliffe?” Lind asked without preamble.
Archibald Boff’s face remained immutable as ever. Whether he was sad or angry or elated, one could never tell from looking at the man. He always wore the same expression of mild discomfort. “Nothing particularly new, no. My sources say he has sought credit from at least three less-than-reputable sources, but they all refused him. And a few more of his creditors have demanded payment.”
Lind allowed the smile he’d denied himself all week. The pieces were finally falling into place. “Excellent. See if you can convince some of the others to call for reimbursement.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And what do you know of Sanford?”
“Battencliffe still refuses to see him.”
“Even better.” A relief, really, given Cecelia’s presence in his house.
As long as Alexander kept his nose out of the situation, Battencliffe was done for. He’d find himself in debtor’s prison before the year was out, where he’d hopefully remain until he died. God willing, the process would be slow and painful. The bastard deserved no less. But making certain Lind kept those two apart might still require an extra bit of insurance. “Extend an invitation to Mr. Alexander Sanford. For dinner.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And make sure Battencliffe gets wind of the meeting.”
Boff raised a pair of brows, the color as nondescript as the rest of him. “My lord?”
“If Battencliffe perceives Mr. Sanford and I have renewed our friendship, he will never turn to Sanford for help.”
“I was under the impression Sanford had financial difficulties of his own and thus could not help.”
“He does.” At least according to his sister, but then Cecelia had been playing fast and loose with the truth. Although Sanford’s debts couldn’t be too deep. He’d scraped together enough blunt support a wife. Sanford’s recent marriage was another oddity. He’d somehow renewed his relationship with his former betrothed and convinced the girl to wed him despite the fact that he’d thrown her over for another woman.
“Yes, my lord. Shall I include his wife in the invitation?”
“Yes, do.” Although that would mean finding another lady to fill out the places at the table, and Mrs. Sanford would require companionship after dinner while he and Alexander discussed trivialities over port. In their case, those trivialities would no doubt be confined to memories of their youth, unless Alexander wanted to expound on his experiences in India. God only knew, Lind couldn’t tell Sanford about his more recent troubles, not given Sanford’s annoying propensity to uphold the most honorable path wherever possible.
On the other hand, Cecelia must know the woman. Perhaps having Sanford’s sister about the place would not be such an inconvenience, after all.
Cecelia followed Lindenhurst’s housekeeper up three flights of stairs to the top floor, passing sitting rooms, parlors, bedchambers, all decorated with the same heavy touch. Deep, masculine colors dominated this house—blood reds, hunter greens, midnight blues set off darkly finished oak and walnut. How utterly gloomy.
On the threshold to the governess’s chamber, Mrs. Carstairs looked her up and down. “And how long will you last, I wonder?”
Cecelia paused in the middle of the tiny space under the eaves. Thank heavens the walls bore nothing more than a coat of whitewash, rather than the heavy colors of the more formal rooms.
“I intend to stay as long as I am required.” As long as it took to prove to her brother she could be responsible.
“Humph. The others all said the same.”
A finger of doubt intruded on Cecelia’s confidence. “Have there been so many?”
“Only enough that Lord Lindenhurst had to resort to advertising in the newspaper. All the London agencies refused to send any more candidates so far when they don’t last longer than a fortnight at best. And look what the paper’s brought us.” Beneath the white ruffle of her mobcap, the woman’s eyes narrowed. “Do you even have experience with children?”
Well. For a doughy lump of a housekeeper, Mrs. Carstairs was outspoken enough. Cecelia raised her chin. “Lord Lindenhurst has seen fit to interview me and offer me the position. I did not realize I must also meet your approval.”
“No, of course not.” Then Mrs. Carstairs’s gaze softened, and she brushed a hand along the polished wood of the doorjamb. “Do you know what you’re letting yourself in for?”
Cecelia dropped the edge of the coverlet she’d been fingering. Unbleached and serviceable, but if she was to be in service, she could expect no better. “If you are implying something about our employer, I am already acquainted with the man. He attended school with my brother. I know he can be difficult.” Heaven only knew he’d just proven that much.
“I wasn’t talking about Lord Lindenhurst. I meant his son. Have you met the boy?”
“Why, no.” She moved around the end of the narrow bed to advance on Mrs. Carstairs. “But I see no reason why we shouldn’t get on together.”
“Just as I suspected. Perhaps you ought to meet your charge before you go to the trouble of settling in.”
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Ashlyn Macnamara, What a Lady Craves
What a Lady Craves Page 30
