Jane Grey (The Brontë Brothers Book 1)

by Nina Mason

  “Miss Grey,” the viscount began, “this will not do! Here you sit with your drawing while my daughter is wandering the fields and lanes unchaperoned.”

  “I have no wish to be contrary, sir, but your daughter is reading her lessons in etiquette while enjoying some much-needed fresh air and exercise.”

  Soon after breakfast, Lady Cécile ventured forth to enjoy a quiet stroll with the promise of reading the chapter Jane had assigned in the book she’d borrowed from the library. Jane, meanwhile, remained behind to work on a drawing for this afternoon’s lesson.

  Lord Brousseau threw up his hands. “If you would make more of an effort to instruct her, she would not have to read her lessons in books while wandering the roads. Now, please…put away your pencils and go find Cécile before she gets into mischief.”

  Jane was puzzled by his concern. “What sort of mischief do you fear she’ll get into?”

  “The sort of mischief she gets up to with every man within scenting distance. How is it that they so often find her unaccompanied? She told me last week she walks with that scoundrel Lord L’Hiver in the gardens of Cœur Brisé after every drawing lesson. And I’m quite sure it was he I saw just now from the library window, walking briskly past the gates in the direction of the field where she often rambles. You must go at once and see if he is there with her. If he is, drive him off and remind her it is improper for a young lady of her caliber to be wandering about by herself, exposed to the attentions of any tomcat who presumes to address her—like some poor waif with no governess.”

  He blustered, red-faced, for another few moments before adding, “Really, Miss Grey. I do not pay you a generous wage so you can sit here drawing while she is out making a public spectacle of herself. If you—as her governess—kept a closer eye on her, I should be spared the trouble of pointing these things out.”

  Jane, reduced to the size of a mouse by his dressing-down, had put away her drawing materials and was now waiting in the doorway for the conclusion of his lecture.

  “Well, go—go,” he said, seeing this. “There’s no time to be lost! If that good-for-nothing ruins her before her ball, Lord Brontë will never have her.”

  Further Shaken by his reference to Matthew as a suitor for his daughter, Jane hurried out of the castle and up the carriage road toward Lady Cécile’s favorite field, which lay across the lane just beyond the gates of the château. Unfortunately, her father had been right to mistrust his daughter. She was not reading the etiquette book, as promised; she was strolling with Lord L’Hiver at her side, violating every good tenet of her lesson.

  This proved a predicament for Jane, who, though duty-bound to interrupt the tête-à-tête, couldn’t think how to go about it without being rude. Finally, she decided on the least impolite course available to her: walking slowly toward the pair in the hopes her approach would scare the marquis away.

  This she did and when she was within shouting distance and still undetected, she stopped to observe the two lovers, hoping one of them would see her. They certainly looked very friendly they sauntered arm-in-arm under the sycamores stretching their branches over the field. The soft breeze gently stirred the brassy ringlets escaping her pupil’s bonnet as her head tilted toward her suitor’s. Her cheeks were flushed, her smile was radiant, and her eyes saw nothing beyond her companion’s compliments and smiles.

  Thus, Lord L’Hiver noticed Jane first and, as hoped, said, “Now that your governess has come, I should take my leave—but not before I know when we might meet again.”

  “At my next drawing lesson, I suppose.” The devious girl glanced Jane’s way. “Unless the fates see fit to intersect our paths beforehand.” More loudly, she added, “How fortuitous it was that you happened to be passing at the precise moment I was here reading my etiquette lesson.”

  “I’ll tell you what.” An oily smile spread across the young man’s mouth. “I will pass by several times each day to improve the odds. Though, the chances of us running into each other again would vastly improve if I knew the hour I might find you here.”

  By this time, Jane now stood within a yard of them, impatiently awaiting his departure.

  “I would tell you if I could.” Lady Cécile turned back to her beau with a carefree smile. “But I’m far too spontaneous to plan where I shall be at any given moment.”

  “Then give me something to remember you by. A ribbon…or, better yet, one of the wildflowers you’ve pressed into your book.”

  Only then did Jane notice the flowers, which she must have picked while waiting for Lord L’Hiver to appear.

  “No, indeed, I shan’t,” said Lady Cécile coyly.

  “Do! Pray do! I shall be the most miserable of men if you deny me.” He pleaded with her as ardently as if his very life depended upon her bestowal of a few wilted blooms.

  With a peevish look, Lady Cécile released his arm, opened the book, and withdrew the flowers. “There then! Take them and be gone.”

  He scooped up the treasure, murmured something that made her laugh, and then withdrew without as much as a nod toward Jane. Lady Cécile then came over and, when the marquis was well out of earshot, said, “Thank goodness you came when you did. I thought I never should be rid of him; and I was so terribly afraid of Papa seeing us together.”

  “Has he been with you long?”

  “No, not long, but he’s so extremely brash: and he’s always lying in wait and pouncing like a tiger whenever I appear.”

  “Well, your father thinks you ought not to venture outside the gates without me as your chaperone,” Jane informed her. “He saw Lord L’Hiver hurrying past, and sent me out with orders to keep a closer eye on you—”

  “Oh, Papa is so exasperating! As if I can’t take care of myself. He troubled me before about Phillippe—because he has his heart set on gaining the vineyards of Cœur Brisé by marrying me off to Lord Brontë.” Pausing for a breath, she turned to Jane and set a reassuring hand on her arm. “Oh, but don’t be alarmed, dear friend. For I would never dream of stealing the man you admire. And as for his château, well, I told Papa he might trust me, because I know something he does not, but—oh, how he provokes me at times!”

  Jane could contain her curiosity no longer. She had to know the secret, even if asking was wrong of her. “What is it you know about Lord Brontë, Lady Cécile? I must know before I build my hopes too high.”

  “Ah-ha!” Lady Cécile beamed triumphantly. “So, you finally admit you have aspirations where Lord Brontë is concerned. I knew you were in love with him. Didn’t I tell you I had an uncanny sense when it comes to matters of the heart?”

  “Yes, you did.” Jane hoped the shadow cast by the brim of her bonnet hid her blush. “Now, will you please put me out of my misery and tell me what you know.”

  “If I told you my secret, I might lose my advantage.”

  “And if you keep it from me, you might break my heart.”

  “Oh, Miss Grey, dear thing.” Lady Cécile gave her a pacifying smile. “You judge me too harshly. If I thought for a moment what I knew would make the slightest difference to you, I would tell you this very instant. But I know you to be much too humble to put stock in such concerns.”

  Jane was ready to ring her neck. “What concerns? I must know what you’re keeping from me about Lord Brontë.”

  “Very well.” Lady Cécile looked and sounded put-out. “I know that he’s not what he pretends to be—and that’s all I’m willing to say on the subject.”

  As they walked back toward Vouvray, Jane chewed upon the tiny clue she’d been given. What did Lord Brontë pretend to be that he wasn’t? An artist? No, that couldn’t be it, for she’d seen his self-portrait at the inn in Tours. On the other hand, she hadn’t seen any paintings he’d done since, as his works in progress were always covered and his completed canvases always turned toward the wall.

  “Does he no longer paint?” she asked Lady Cécile, unable to think of anything else.

  “Of course he still paints, you ninny. And wh
y would anyone care if he stopped?”

  True enough. Jane could not see how hiding the knowledge that Matthew Brontë had given up painting could benefit Lady Cécile in the least. So, what else might it be? Only one thing came to mind.

  “Is he not wealthy?”

  Lady Cécile stopped short and turned to Jane, her expression cross. “No more questions, Miss Grey. For I’ve already disclosed all I intend to…and far more than was prudent at this stage in the game.”

  Although angered by Lady Cécile’s reference to this as a game, Jane let the subject drop. They walked several paces in awkward silence until, hoping to ease the tension, Jane said, “Are you in love with Phillippe L’Hiver?—or merely sporting with his affections?”

  Lady Cécile laughed as heartily as if Jane had just told her a very good joke. “Oh, Miss Grey. How amusing you are. As if I could ever be foolish enough to fall in love! It’s quite beneath my dignity to do such a thing. A slight preference I might admit to, but nothing more. I like talking to Phillippe, because he amuses and flatters me. Besides, now that you’ve set your cap at Lord Brontë, I must have someone to flirt with, mustn’t I?”

  “Must you? For I think it cruel to encourage the affections of men you care little for. Not to mention, dangerous.”

  Lady Cécile slowed her pace. “Dangerous? In what way does my flirting imperil anyone?”

  “You might hurt someone—or someone might lash out in anger at you when they learn you’ve only been trifling with them.”

  The chit put her nose in the air and said in a tone of haughty indifference, “I cannot be blamed if they are presumptuous enough to believe I care for them more than I do.”

  “But you encourage the belief,” Jane persisted. “Some might say with malicious intent. Don’t you see how wrong that is?”

  “Flirting amuses me. And it’s not as if I take no trouble to let them know I’m not serious. If they are arrogant enough to assume they can win my affections when I’ve made it clear they have no chance, they deserve whatever disappointments they might suffer.”

  Jane wanted to shake her—not that it would do any good. The girl seemed hopeless. On the subject of beaus, she fancied herself an expert and turned a deaf ear to all advice that ran counter to her egotistical opinions. How was Jane ever going to curb her imprudent ways before her debut?

  Chapter Ten

  When the commotion of the approaching carriage reached Matthew’s ears, he put down his quill and rose from his chair, leaving the ink on the half-finished letter to dry without benefit of ponce or blotter. He’d been writing to an art dealer he knew from his days in Paris. In the past few weeks, he’d completed several canvases he deemed worthy of exhibition, and was eager to show them to Monsieur Claremont as soon as he could arrange a visit to Cœur Brisé.

  Crossing to the window, Matthew watched through the pouring rain as his pupils disembarking from their carriage. Both ladies wore hooded capes to protect their bonnets and silk day frocks from the rain. Too busy painting to engage a new model, he’d planned to give them their first taste of working en plein air this afternoon.

  In place of sketching him again, they could try their hands at water-color studies of the grounds. The bad weather, unfortunately, had dampened that scheme. Worse, the rain had made the subsequent turn in the garden with Miss Grey impossible, which disappointed him even more than having to alter the lesson plan. Their edifying little chats had become the highlight of his week.

  Now, thanks to the rain, they would be forced to remain indoors—and in the irksome company of Lady Cécile, whose conversation rarely encompassed more than who attended the latest party and the unforgivable fashion faux pas each had committed. Her belittling pronouncements reminded him so much of Mathilde it took all the restraint he could summon not to wring her neck. To add to his vexation on those occasions, Miss Grey rarely said a word when her charge dominated the discourse—not that he could get a word in edgewise, either. The only thing Lady Cécile loved more than her high-handed opinions, it seemed, was the sound of her own self-aggrandizing voice.

  Sadly, he couldn’t even fob the jabbering nuisance off on Phillippe, as his nephew had gone off on yet another of his clandestine errands. Something involving wagering or whoring, no doubt. Not that he wanted for the young man’s company—except perhaps as a buffer from Lady Cécile’s tiresome soliloquies. The two, in his estimation, deserved one another in the least charitable sense of the phrase.

  Matthew waited until the butler, equipped with a large umbrella, had escorted the ladies inside before turning from the window. It looked as though he would be posing shirtless for them again. Not that he minded overmuch. While Lady Cécile’s portrayals of him as a man past his prime did nothing to flatter his ego, he couldn’t say the same for Miss Grey’s complimentary depictions of his physique.

  How often he’d imagined basking in her desirous blue-gray gaze as she sketched him in the nude. How often he’d wondered how she might react if he grew hard while she drew that most intimate part of his body.

  Yes, yes, they were shamefully indecent thoughts—but also only fantasies that could hurt none but himself.

  He cleared his mind when the ladies came in and, for the next two hours, he reveled in Miss Grey’s admiration while Lady Cécile decried his insufficiencies as both model and teacher.

  “We have already drawn you twice,” she complained. “Why can’t we make a study of someone younger and suppler? Plus, you refuse to remove your trousers, which is doing nothing to further my knowledge of anatomy.”

  He found it at once mystifying and diverting that she found him insufficient as a subject, and yet still campaigned to see what he kept in his trousers.

  When the lesson was over, he rang for the butler and instructed Jon-Luc to serve tea forthwith in the morning room. He then escorted his pupils to the appointed parlor, dreading the trials Lady Cécile would once again inflict upon his forbearance.

  No sooner were all three seated with their full teacups in hand than something of an unexpected and alarming nature occurred. A terrible crash on the floor above in the vicinity of Mathilde’s old room. He’d heard it once before and feared some sort of vermin had taken up residence in the unoccupied chamber. He’d meant to speak the servants about it, but had forgotten all about it until this moment.

  Setting down his teacup with a clink, he began to rise from his chair. “If you will excuse me for a few moments, ladies, I will speak to my butler about the noise we’ve just heard—before it slips my mind again.”

  “Wait,” Lady Cécile cried before he’d gained his footing. “I’m sure it’s only the ghost of the countess.”

  All the blood drained from Matthew’s face. The notion that Mathilde’s spirit might haunt the place seemed ludicrous, but also terrifying. He laughed, making light of the girl’s unsettling claim. “What would possess you to make such an outrageous assertion, Lady Cécile?”

  “It isn’t outrageous; it’s true,” she returned, looking distressingly sincere. “And I know because I saw her with my own two eyes.”

  Egad. Was the chit to be believed? Well, he’d know when he called her bluff. With an arched eyebrow and all due drollness, he said, “Someone has obviously read too many gothic romance novels.”

  Lady Cécile regarded him with a defiant glare. “If you don’t believe me, go see for yourself.”

  “I think I shall.”

  Forthwith, he rose from his chair and, teeth on edge, made his way toward the stairs, hoping with all of his heart Lady Cécile was only playing a prank on him. He stopped at the foot of the stairs to gather his courage. His pulse was racing, his palms were damp, and he was sweating under his clothes.

  He gripped the ball capping the newel post and, with heart in throat, started to climb. Just as he reached the landing, a door closed somewhere above. Then, a figure stepped from the shadows into view, filling Matthew with fear. He swallowed hard and clutched his heart, which pounded rapidly inside his ribcage. A potent mix
ture of relief and rage swept through him when he beheld at the top of the stairs not the ghost of his deceased patroness, but the flesh-and-blood specter of her nephew.

  “Phillippe! What the devil are you doing sneaking around up there? You nearly gave me a bloody heart attack.”

  “I heard a noise and came up to investigate the cause.” Phillippe looked pale and shaken, which did nothing to put Matthew at ease.

  “What did you find?”

  “Nothing at first…but then, in my aunt’s bedchamber, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. As I stared into the shadows, a figure began to take form. Little by little, she solidified until she was as dense as you or I.”

  Matthew gulped. “She?”

  “Oui, uncle. My own Aunt Mathilde. I couldn’t believe it, either…but there was no denying it was her. Standing there, plain as day, looking just as she had when alive.”

  Feeling weak-limbed and lightheaded, Matthew tightened his grip on the bannister. He wanted to rush past the marquis and see the apparition for himself—if indeed Phillipe was in earnest—but he was glued to the spot where he stood. “Did she speak to you?”

  “She did.” Phillippe’s washed-out pallor and quaking voice almost had Matthew convinced he was telling the truth. “She said she regretted the terms of her will—and begged me to do right by you in the event you married Miss Grey.”

  The chains of doubt rattled inside Matthew’s brain. That Mathilde’s ghost had endorsed Phillippe’s scheme to deprive him of his inheritance seemed just a little too convenient. Finding his strength again, Matthew bounded up the stairs and pushed past his nephew. “If your aunt does indeed haunt the castle, as you claim, let her show herself to me. Only then will I put stock in your outrageous story.”

  Phillippe followed him down the hall and into Mathilde’s bedchamber. Someone—one of the servants, no doubt—had opened the drapes and windows to air out the room. Sunlight beamed in, throwing light across the walls and furnishings.