The Runaway Chaperone: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Alice Kirks

  He couldn’t forget the look in her eyes when she spoke to them – those big hazel depths were lonely and afraid, and they resonated with feelings he had never acknowledged before.

  Nonsense!

  What would anyone think of an earl – a Blackstone, no less – being lonely and afraid? He tensed his spine and resolved to feel only anger towards that upstart girl. She had touched on too many difficulties within him.

  “Clifford? There you are,” he greeted his friend, who had already arrived and who was waiting in the drawing-room. They had planned to have a drink together before dinner and discuss Clifford’s investments in the East-India company. As it was, he felt less enthusiastic about it then he had the day before.

  “You seem distracted,” Clifford commented as they sat in the drawing-room, the smell of leather and brandy redolent as Charles poured their drinks.

  “Distracted? No,” Charles said, leaning back in the big leather chair. “Well, maybe slightly. Nothing to it…just a tiring afternoon.”

  “I see,” Clifford said, setting the matter aside. “I do wonder about your opinion about rope-making? Albert said it was a terrific chance, since sales have doubled lately…”

  Charles tried to focus on the talk – Clifford had plenty of enthusiasm for the topic, he had to admit – but he couldn’t concentrate.

  The image of the girl in the bakery kept haunting him.

  He couldn’t forget those eyes, and the unspoken fear he had seen there. He felt he had to do something, however much he hated the questions she’d raised in him and the fool she’d made of him.

  It was only fair. And Charles Blackstone, fourth earl, was a fair man.

  As he was falling asleep that night, memories of her sweet body and lovely face, and her fine humor, kept haunting him.

  Chapter 3

  After a night of bad sleep Clara walked up the stairs to the bedroom, feeling her knees buckle. The faint morning light shone on the stairs from the windows, illuminating them so that she could see the edges of the stairs, the cavernous shadows beneath them black in the half-darkness. She was exhausted, her back was bent and aching and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had rest or real sleep.

  She had thought about the earl’s visit more than once the previous afternoon, but more immediate concerns had thrust it aside. She was annoyed that the image of those dark eyes kept coming to her mind unbidden sometimes, especially in quiet moments when she wasn’t focused on her father’s needs.

  She went up to her father’s room and opened the door swiftly. She didn’t want to risk waking him, but she needed to make sure he ate and drank.

  “Father?” she whispered.

  He opened his eyes. He sat up as she came over, taking his hand in hers. It felt cool, but not over-cold. She felt her legs weaken with relief.

  “Did you sleep last night?” she murmured. “I can give you some water. You need to drink…” she reached for the cup of water that stood on his bedsidetable, illuminated by the light that leaked from between curtains. She ignored how his bones were so prominent below the skin, the fever eating the flesh off him. He hadn’t eaten properly in weeks.

  He murmured as she held the cup to his lips, his eyes focused and then unfocused as she tipped a little water into his mouth. He swallowed, face tight with pain. She leaned back, trying to be encouraging.

  “Good,” she said softly. “That’s good. Will you eat? I can make a gruel or porridge? You might like porridge?”

  Her father grunted and she realised she was probably tiring him. His throat ached and was raw and she knew speech was difficult. He had been barely managing to speak to her for a while. She wished she could do something to reduce the pain. She wished she could do something.

  “I’ll put some gruel on to heat,” she said. She slipped downstairs.

  When she had finished feeding him, she went down to the parlor where she sat down, fingers twisting in her hair. The table was awash with books of tallies and she didn’t want to look: she didn’t care to know how the money was decreasing and how she could barely afford to pay the increasing bills and debt.

  “I need to do something.”

  She had no idea what. She shut her eyes a moment, trying to think of something.

  The money is running out. I need to find work.

  She considered her options. As a woman on her own, there were not too many options available for her – or, not many that she was actually willing to contemplate right now. She could spin wool, if she knew how to, or teach children, or sew shirts. Those were the only respectable options for her.

  And I can’t sew, not really, or teach. My only real skill is cooking.

  She stood and went to the window, looking out. It was raining outside, a slight rain that soaked the streets and made the sky pale gray. She felt as hopeless as the day looked. She saw Henriette leaving the house, an oilskin cloak wrapped around her to keep her dry, door banging shut behind her as she headed into the rain. She considered going to her, and begging her to help her find a teaching position somewhere. Then she remembered Henriette’s words.

  The Lord works in mysterious ways.

  She shut her eyes and sent out a silent prayer. She wasn’t usually much of a believer, but it was certainly worth a try.

  She felt a little better as she turned back from the window. She reached for the dirty dishes by the copper sink and started to wash them, planning what she would make her father. They had enough ingredients for gruel, but she had only baked one loaf of bread – trying to make the bag of flour in the cellar last as long as possible.

  She was just stirring the pot on the fire, the gruel bubbling and scenting the air, when the knock of a fist on wood sounded through the house.

  “Who could that be? It’s Tuesday.”

  Henriette would be at the Emery house all day, Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t be calling today, and Clara couldn’t imagine who else might visit.

  “I don’t want to see anyone.”

  Her reluctance was justifiable – she was exhausted, hungry and she hadn’t the strength to face even the smallest of threat. She tiptoed to the window and peered under the curtain.

  A man in a suit stood there.

  Dressed in black, with a plain white shirt below the coat, he didn’t look like a nobleman – there was something too restrained and plain about the clothing. He had grey hair that was finely combed, and a slim nose and a long oval face that was quite haughty, and she didn’t know who he was. Yet he stood there with a stiff, distasteful expression on his face. She could not guess who he might be.

  Something prompted her to open the door and, curious rather than afraid, she opened it.

  “Good morning?”

  “Miss Sedley, I assume?”

  Clara drew in a breath, surprised. It was not the politest greeting she’d ever heard, and besides, he knew her name. He was a stranger.

  “Good morning, sir. Who are you?” she said, deciding it was best to neither confirm nor deny her identity.

  “I am Mr. Wellford. I came to bring a message to a Miss Sedley, the daughter of the local baker. Are you she?”

  “I am,” Clara said cautiously. “What was the message? Will you come in?” she added, belatedly realising that he was standing on the thin step, barely out of the light rain.

  “No. Thank you. I must hasten away,” the man said, sniffing as if his discomfort in being here was unbearable. “I will deliver the message personally. Lord Dunham, the earl, requests you to present yourself at the manor to be interviewed for the role of cook.”

  “What?” Clara said, then hastily remembered her manners, and covered her mouth, embarrassed. “Beg pardon, Mr. Wellford? Why would he ask me?”

  The butler sniffed again. “He heard good news of your baking skills,” he said, as if complimenting anyone came as an unbearable hardship. “And he requested me to invite you. You will be interviewed, of course, to decide your suitability for the position. Will you come now?” he asked, already walking away as
though her assent was given.

  “Now?” Clara stared at him. She felt her stomach twist with a mix of excitement and fear. Was he speaking truly? The earl had asked for her? Personally? And there was work! She could earn money! She could have cried with relief.

  I needed work so badly.

  It was like a miracle.

  “Yes. Now. Or in ten minutes, if it suits you?” the butler said. “I need to fetch my horse from the inn. I will meet you here directly.”

  “I need to tend my father,” Clara said quickly. “Allow me ten minutes.”

  “Very well.”

  Clara felt the stiffness in her back suddenly give way and she sat down heavily on the chair in the parlor. She had work! Or, the possibility of it.

  “And I need to be there in ten minutes.”

  She ran to the kitchen to check on the gruel – it had stuck to the pot a little and burned, but it was still able to be eaten – and ladled out a few spoons into a bowl. She went swiftly upstairs and into her father’s bedroom. He was awake.

  “Father,” she said gently, sitting down slowly and reaching for his hand. “I have brought you gruel. I will need to be away for an hour – will you be safe?”

  He grinned. “Not…” he wheezed, “not…fall…off the bed.”

  She felt her heart twist with a mix of love and sadness – even now, he managed to make light of his affliction. She took his hand in hers and tried to hide the tears.

  After feeding him a few spoons of the gruel, she saw he was exhausted and tiptoed quietly from the room.

  She raced down the stairs and had just the time to dump the bowl of half-finished gruel by the sink and grab her cloak before the knock sounded at the door.

  “You’ll have to walk,” the butler said, as she walked down the steps into the rain.

  He was leading a black horse, the fur of his muzzle threaded with white. Clara could half-wish he would let her ride the horse, especially as her boots sank in a big puddle, but she knew she had no idea how to ride.

  All I can do is cook.

  Her mind went back to the earl and his mother. They had been there, a day ago. Had he asked for her, knowing of her situation? She felt her stomach twist in a way that had little to do with nerves.

  No. It wasn’t possible. He must have been looking for a cook and heard of her from the village – that was all. She knew their bakery was much appreciated – yes, that was it.

  She felt a tingle inside her as she thought of that. She knew she could cook! She had been working in the bakery since she was five years old. She could cook anything – her experience was not limited to bread and buns, but she also had experience with stews, soups and all manner of grills and fries. She could cook whatever they required.

  She looked up at Mr. Wellford, but all she could see was his back, stiff-set, as he walked through the slight rain beside his horse.

  They walked for half an hour, and then she found herself looking up at the gabled front of a house. The pebbles under her feet crunched and it was silent in the garden, the sound of rain dripping from the trees making the place seem bathed in an unnatural silence. She tiptoed forward and realised she had taken root by the steps, the butler already walking up.

  “Come on, you don’t want to keep them waiting,” he said. He didn’t turn around.

  Clara swallowed hard as she stared up at that huge house, the windows looking down at her like eyes – and ones that found her lacking. She took a deep breath and headed up the stairs behind him.

  She found herself in a hallway.

  The tiles under her feet were white, the stone streaked through with pale gray like the stones on the altar in the church. She took another deep breath. Her footsteps echoed on the floor.

  “Boots – off,” the butler said coolly as he stopped at the hat-stand in the doorway. He turned to look at her. “You’ll find indoor shoes in the rack there. There will be something that will suit.” He turned away.

  Clara looked at the rack of shoes, discreetly hidden around a turning in the wall. She looked down the corridor – it was dark and damp and she wondered at it being in this fine house. When she saw Mr. Wellford walking down the corridor before her, she guessed that this must be somehow restricted for the servants’ use.

  This is a strange place.

  She swallowed hard. She would have so much to tell Father! She felt the cold wooden floor through the thin soles of the shoes she’d chosen in haste, and followed the butler down the hallway to a door.

  “My Lord? Lady Dunham? I present the girl you sent me to fetch,” Mr. Wellford announced. Then he turned to her, “This is his lordship, the Earl of Dunham, and his mother, the dowager countess.”

  “Yes,” Clara whispered under her breath, “I know.”

  The room was dark, and lined with shelves on which stood all manner of books. The air smelled musty. A fire burned in a grate, crackling and warm.

  She looked up at the two of them and all her courage deserted. She saw those two faces – unsmiling, cold with distaste – and wondered what she had come for. They were looking at her with the same dismissal she had experienced when they called, apparently to offer their regrets. She didn’t think they looked regretful. Or kind.

  “Sit,” the earl said. He gestured at the seat across the table from them. Clara swallowed. She thought his eyes did not look unkind – rather, he was staring out of the window over her head, as if he was trying to avoid her gaze. They were brown eyes, very dark. It was difficult to guess his thoughts.

  Feeling uncomfortable beyond description, Clara drew her seat back and sat.

  “You were brought here to be interviewed for the position of cook,” the earl said. He still wasn’t looking at her. “It is a serious role, and my mother requires you to answer a few questions. I am here to assist.”

  Clara felt like she might faint. She was looking at him and his eyes moved to hold her gaze, and when his eyes held hers, she thought she saw a fleeting smile lift one lip. But it must have been her imagination, because he looked swiftly away.

  All the same, as she leaned back in the chair, preparing for the questions, Clara felt a rush of feeling that had very little to do with fear. He was handsome, but he was also frightening, and something in her wished to know him more.

  Chapter 4

  Charles looked at the wall and made himself breathe in, trying to get a grip on his racing emotions. He felt wonderfully light-hearted, seeing her here. He ignored the feeling.

  She is here to be interviewed as cook. I am pleased I can do a favour to one of our villagers. That is all.

  It wasn’t possible that the feeling he felt was attraction.

  “You came here alone. Are you wed?” his mother asked.

  Charles shot her a look. What sort of question was that? They were interviewing her as cook, not for any other reason! He could not imagine why she had asked such a thing.

  He glanced at the visitor, who looked shocked. He could understand why. He turned to his mother, about to make some sort of gesture of discouragement.

  “No,” the girl said.

  “No, My Lady,” his mother murmured.

  “No, My Lady.”

  “Good,” she said, sounding gratified. “Now. You are the daughter of Mr. Sedley, named…Clara? Is that correct?”