“Well, he can hardly hold you responsible when he himself made the task impossible.”
“No. He would not do that. But why in blazes did he suddenly take to locking up everything in here? He keeps sensitive material locked in his own chamber in this house.”
“Perhaps it was an oversight.”
“Perhaps. Well, it leaves me free for the evening. Could I interest you in a game of piquet, Miss Palmer?”
“Imaginary stakes only.”
“As you wish.”
When Trenville returned around midnight, he found the two of them still happily engaged in winning and losing thousands of imaginary pounds. Drawn by their laughter, he entered the drawing room quietly, but with no attempt at stealth or slyness.
Elinor and Huntington sat at a small table enthusiastically tossing their cards down. Bending over a tally sheet, she made a quick calculation and gave a carefree laugh.
“You win this one, Thomas, but you still owe me two thousand three hundred forty-two pounds. Oh! Good evening, my lord,” she said, catching sight of Adrian in the doorway.
“You two seem in high spirits.” He noted her use of Huntington’s first name and the comfortable atmosphere between them. His immediate reaction was suspicious resentment, but he refused to allow it to show.
“Miss Palmer has a wicked way with the cards,” Huntington said genially. “She has just won a fortune from me.”
“I am sure you meant to say ‘won her fortune back,’ ” Elinor said. “You do remember that I lost for the entire first hour of play.”
So, the two of them had been playing for some time. Was there more between them than harmlessly passing time? Had the secretary had access to those sweet lips? He mentally shook himself.
What was this? Jealous of the favors of an unscrupulous spy?
You cannot be sure she is guilty. There may be an innocent explanation for what she did.
Hah! And maybe pigs fly.
“Well, carry on,” he said aloud, turning reluctantly to leave the room. He paused. “Did you copy those things I wanted, Thomas?”
“No, sir. They were not on the desk as you said and the drawers were locked.”
“Blast!” Adrian pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Sorry. I forgot. They must be done first thing in the morning, though.”
“Yes, sir.”
As Adrian proceeded down the hall to the library, he heard Elinor bid a good night first to her fellow player, and then to the footman in the hall as she ascended the stairs. He waited until he was sure she could not hear, then ordered the footman into the library.
“Anything yet, Graham?” he asked, motioning the man to a chair and taking another himself.
“No, my lord. She’s taken the children to a museum and to the park. Went shopping on her off afternoon. Took a maid with her and bought stockings and ribbons. Browsed in one of those lending libraries. Didn’t speak to anybody but shopkeepers, the museum curator, and the maid.”
“Did anyone approach her?”
“No, sir, not that I saw.”
“No chance for her to have passed information? What about the maid?”
“Nothing. The maid was with her the whole time—nor have either of them left this house alone.”
“What about Jones—has he observed anything suspicious?”
“She hasn’t been near the stables, my lord.”
“Damn! She must make contact somehow. Inform your superiors at Bow Street that we need two or three more men to hang around the street discreetly and follow anyone who leaves this house other than her ladyship or me. Can’t risk your being recognized, you know.”
“Yes, sir. What if they don’t leave afoot?”
“Arrange to have some sort of conveyance available. Something unobtrusive. A peddler’s cart, perhaps.”
“ ’Twill be done on the morrow, my lord.”
“You mean today,” Adrian said with a rueful glance at the ormolu clock on the mantel. “Thank you, Graham. Oh! Have Jones find out where John Coachman delivered her and picked her up after her interview for the governess job.”
“Yes, sir.”
When Graham left, Adrian sat musing. Everything seemed so innocent in “Miss Palmer’s” behavior. Yet she had lied about her identity and her documents had been falsified. A closer inspection of them on his return from Belgium revealed very subtle alterations in otherwise authentic documents. How had this impostor obtained the real Miss Palmer’s credentials?
This impostor? Was that how he really thought of her? She is still Elinor. Elinor—of the laughing gray-green eyes. Elinor—whose loving care had nursed Bess and Geoffrey, who had perceived a young girl’s loneliness in Anne. Elinor—whose passionate response to his kiss had ignited such desire in him. Even now, he fought the impulse to charge up to her room and demand the truth from her; to tell her it was all right, whatever she was involved in, he could handle.
He shook his head. How gullible could he be? So she liked children. So she responded to a kiss. He had no business falling in love with someone who had deliberately misrepresented herself to him.
Falling in love? My God. Was that it? Had he come so close to allowing his own emotions to get in the way of sworn duty? A spy worms her way into his personal world and what is his response? He—the cool diplomat, dedicated protector of his country—he wants to take her in his arms, comfort her, protect her, bury himself in her.
But who was she?
He could not just confront her; that might jeopardize efforts to apprehend the entire spy ring. Hmm. The real Miss Palmer might provide a clue. But where was she to be found? What if she were dead? Spenser had said she was an old woman when she left his employ.
He would set Bow Street on this, too.
The Marquis of Trenville’s town house boasted not only its own private stable and carriage house, but a large, well-tended garden in the rear. Access to the stables by carriage was on a back street and a footpath extended through the garden to the rear entrance of the residence.
The garden was a favorite sanctuary for Elinor. In late February, the afternoon sun valiantly extended warming rays. Colorful tulips and daffodils complemented the perfume of hyacinths. She drank in the sensual beauty, sharply aware of the contrast between nature’s cheerful renewal and her own despair.
Prior to his return, she had thought seriously of telling Adrian the truth and asking his help. Surely, those kisses bespoke some fondness, some caring on his part, though she was not so foolish as to think he loved her. Still, the beginnings of a true friendship seemed to have permeated the strictures of the employer-employee relationship.
This had been her thinking. Now, she was not so sure. He seemed more aloof. Several times she had caught him looking at her questioningly, even suspiciously. If her eyes chanced to meet his, he would look away or smile a bland say-nothing smile with little warmth in his gaze.
It was probably only a matter of time until her uncle found her. Had he not said he had some new leads? Pure chance had kept Lady Barbara from recognizing her. She might not be so lucky the next time. If Brompton found her in the Trenville household, what would stop him from stirring up mischief harmful to these people—one, in particular, whom she had grown to love? She had to leave. And she had to get word to Peter.
She sat in the garden penning a note to her brother which she would herself deliver to Miss Palmer, who, in turn, would have Henderson see it delivered to the young earl at the Ostwick town house. She held the writing paper against a book she also thought to read as she labored over the wording. After three false starts, she thought she had the right tone of confidence and determination. Lord knew what Peter would do if he sensed her despair and, indeed, her danger.
She felt so utterly helpless. Lady Elinor Richards had never been one of those fluttery, helpless females. She was a take-charge type of person. Determined. Efficient. Decisive. Now she knew not where to turn. Taking a position as governess had seemed such a perfect solution to her proble
ms.
It was, for you, she admonished herself, but you did not consider the consequences, did you?
Well, how could I know then, she answered herself, that I would fall in love with him—that his children would become as dear to me as Peter?
You could not, but you might have given a thought to the welfare of others when you were exposed. If you were exposed.
I simply have to leave before that happens.
Running away again, eh?
What choice do I have? If I am discovered here, the resulting scandal would probably force Adrian into offering for me. I will not have Pennington and I will not, she told herself fiercely, have a man who has been coerced into having me, no matter how much I want him.
She thought the tears were only inward, but now she felt them well and slip onto her cheeks. She swiped at them impatiently with her fingertips and dropped her book and papers in the process just as she heard the crunch of footsteps on the graveled path from the stables. Maybe whoever it was would not see her.
But he did.
Adrian stopped before her and bent to pick up the book and papers, but she hastily retrieved them herself, carefully placing the papers inside the book.
“Miss Palmer? Elinor, has something upset you?”
Was she upset? Of course not. Her whole life was disintegrating, but the intrepid Elinor Richards was not upset
“No, my lord.” She managed to keep her voice calm. “I was merely indulging in a moment of self-pity.”
“Somehow that does not seem in character for you.” Without invitation, he sat next to her and put an arm around her shoulder in a friendly gesture. “If there is anything I can do, you’ve only to ask, you know.”
“Th—thank you, my lord.” She wanted to nestle into the warmth of his encircling arm, but steeled herself against doing so. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand in a childlike gesture. “I’ll be all right. You must not concern yourself.”
“I thought we agreed on ‘Elinor’ and ‘Adrian’ in private,” he said softly. He lifted her chin and forced her to look at him. The expression in his eyes deepened with compassion—and something else. “Please let me help,” he whispered.
He held her gaze for a long moment. Sympathy, questioning, a degree of pain shone in his eyes. Then with a soft groan, he lowered his mouth to hers. His lips were insistent, demanding, but firm and tender, offering comfort and refuge. For an instant she gave herself up to the haven he offered, wanting the perfection of this moment to go on forever. She kissed him back without thinking to restrain the longing and heartache of recent weeks.
Abruptly, she twisted away.
“I ... you can’t.” She tried to stifle the sob in her voice. She looked into his eyes, willing him to see her love, knowing he would despise her when he learned the truth of her deception. “Oh, Adrian. I am so sorry.”
Clutching the book, she nearly ran into the house.
Adrian sat stunned for a moment. He certainly had not intended to kiss her again, but he could not help himself. The instant he had seen her silently weeping, all his resolve to catch a spy had simply disappeared. Elinor—his Elinor—was hurting and needed comforting. Nothing else mattered.
But she had rejected his help. Reluctantly, perhaps, but rejected all the same. He rose and ran his hand through his hair in frustrated resignation.
Bloody hell! Now, what?
Then he spied the paper under the bench. There were splotches and cross-outs and it was unfinished. Reading it was an invasion of another’s privacy, but was he not supposed to be investigating a spy ring?
He was totally unprepared for the sheer pain the unfinished missive brought him.
Dearest Peter,
I love you and I miss you fearfully, but you must not try to contact me. It is too dangerous. They monitor every move. Be patient. We will be together soon. A few more weeks and I . . .
Twelve
Still frightened by her near encounter with her uncle, Elinor set out to visit Miss Palmer on her next free half day. Eventually, Peter would remember how close she had been to the governess and that Miss Palmer now lived in London. If Peter worried about his sister—and she had no doubt that he did—he would surely pursue that line of inquiry. She must try to forestall his doing so.
Melton, Trenville’s London butler, was in the foyer as she came down the stairs in her bonnet and pelisse. He glanced up.
“Are you going out, Miss Palmer?”
“Yes, I am. I shall be gone quite some time.”
“I will send Aggie with you—or a footman.”
“Please do not trouble yourself. I shall only walk in the park and I will return by tea time.”
“His lordship will not countenance your going out alone,” the butler warned.
“You are probably right, but it will be on my head, not yours, will it not?” She smiled to take the sting out of this rebuff as she pulled on her gloves and swept through the door.
The lies come “trippingly on the tongue,” don’t they? she asked herself as she made her way down the street. Despite this twinge of conscience, she quite enjoyed being out in the fresh air with no worry of a child dashing into danger. The sheer freedom of the moment was exhilarating.
She walked a few blocks before feeling secure from any eyes belonging to Trenville House. Then, trying to act as though she hired public conveyances as a matter of habit, she hailed a hackney cab.
“Be ye sure yuh’ve the blunt to go that far?” the driver asked suspiciously, taking in her plain apparel.
“I assure you that I have,” she said in her most officious schoolroom tone.
“Aw right. Keep yer lid on.” He clambered down to help her into the carriage. “Man’s got to look out for hisself,” he muttered.
Elinor made no reply. She noted the bustle on the streets as the cab wove through the busy traffic which submitted only to such control as various drivers could exert in pursuing their own ends. Shouts and curses of drivers mingled with occasional jeers from the sidelines. Iron wheels and horses’ hooves on cobblestones, along with jingling harnesses, added to the din. Riding in an open carriage provided no protection from the assault to one’s ears—or one’s nose. In the better neighborhoods, civic efforts had worked to clean the streets somewhat, but where commerce flourished and in the poorer sections, the blended smells of rotting vegetation, sewage, cooking, animals—along with others unidentifiable—overwhelmed the occasional fragrance of spring flowers. So much for fresh air, Elinor thought ruefully.
Miss Palmer greeted her one-time charge warmly, but with surprise and concern. After initial greetings, she called for Henderson to serve refreshments.
“Are you sure it is all right for you to be here?” she asked in a worried tone.
“Not absolutely sure,” Elinor admitted, “but I must have this note delivered to Peter. Here in London, I cannot be certain he will receive it if I post it. I am sure my uncle controls the staff in London as he does at Ostwick.”
“I will have Henderson deliver it into no other hands but your brother’s.” Miss Palmer laid the letter on a side table. “Now,” she said, busying herself with the tray, “how are you faring otherwise? Is the disguise working?”
“Oh, Miss Palmer, I have made such a terrible mistake!” Overcome by the enormity of her situation and being at last able to let her guard down fully, Elinor burst into tears.
Immediately, Miss Palmer moved to the settee and put her arms around the younger woman. “There, there, my lady. It cannot be so very bad.”
“But ... it ... is,” Elinor said between sobs. She cried into Miss Palmer’s comforting shoulder for a few moments. Then she straightened and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief her friend offered. “I never lose control this way.”
“I know.” Miss Palmer patted Elinor’s shoulder and waited for her to continue.
“I did not realize ... All I wanted was to escape Uncle Brompton’s plotting. And now if it ever gets out—oh, Miss Palmer, what have I do
ne?”
“I think you must begin at the beginning and tell me all.”
Through occasional sniffs, Elinor told her of life at the Abbey, of the Christmas visit, and of the children. She told Miss Palmer of nursing Bess through her illness and Geoffrey through his injury and of Anne’s development from a bossy little know-all to a more caring person with confidence in her achievements. She also related her near encounters with her former school friend and her uncle.
“You have developed a deep fondness for these children, have you not?”
“Yes. Is that so surprising?”
“Not at all.” Miss Palmer gave her a quick, but intense hug. “You were ever wont to strong attachments.” She paused. “And what of the marquis? Have you developed an attachment for him, too?”
There was no reproach in the question, but Elinor could feel the warmth flooding her cheeks.
“I never could keep anything from you, could I? Yes, I fear I have. And therein lies much of the problem. I would not have Adrian, Lord Trenville, harmed by my actions.”
“How might he be harmed?”
“Think how the ton would feast at the trough of scandal should my identity become known!”
“That, of course, was always a danger, was it not?”
“Yes, but it is different now.”
“I see.” Miss Palmer looked at her thoughtfully. “And Lord Trenville? Are his affections engaged?”
“I—I am not sure.” She blushed again, remembering his kisses. “I—I think he is not totally indifferent to me, but—oh, can you not see? It does not signify!”
“I should think his feelings would signify very much indeed.” Miss Palmer’s tone was gentle, but wry.
“Under ordinary circumstances ... if we had met in a ballroom ... but as it is, his position in society—indeed, his mission with the government—might be endangered. And once he learns how I have deceived him . . .” Her voice trailed off in despair.
My Lady Governess (Zebra Regency Romance) Page 14
