“Perhaps you underestimate his lordship.”
“No, I think not. He takes his responsibilities, his sense of honor, very seriously.”
“What if you confided in him?”
“I cannot do that.”
“Why?”
“I could not bear to see his disgust of me. Nor can I burden him with my problems.”
“Pride?”
“Perhaps a little.” Then she added in a more vehement tone, “But I refuse to be an instrument society can use against him. Nor would I have him approach me out of a sense of obligation. There is some degree of pride in that, I suppose.”
“So what do you plan to do?”
“I simply do not know. But I must do something—and soon. Here in the city there is too much danger of my being recognized eventually. Had that been Elizabeth Wentworth rather than Barbara Harrington visiting the marchioness, you can be sure it would be all over now.”
“I suppose there is no question of Trenville’s returning to the country?”
“Not until the season is over.”
“And it is only just beginning.”
“I fear I shall have to give notice and leave.”
“Where will you go?”
“My father had an aunt in Northern Scotland. Mary Kincannon MacGregor. I have never met her—she was estranged from the family. Perhaps she can be persuaded to take me in, assuming she is still alive. It would be for only a few more weeks.”
“The Highlands?” Clearly, Miss Palmer equated that part of her native island with the moon or the wilderness of the Colonies.
“The Highlands.” Elinor smiled for the first time. “I shall write her immediately and hope for the best. I could have a response in about a month, could I not?”
“I suppose so.” Miss Palmer still sounded dubious.
Elinor patted her hand. “Now don’t you worry. I shall come about. I feel better for having talked with you. I must go. I promised to be back by tea time.”
Late that evening, after the rest of the household had long since retired, Adrian sat in the library listening to Graham’s report.
“You say she went to the same address John Coachman took her to?”
“Musta been. ‘Twas the same street. Respectable neighborhood. House has four apartments. Two of ’em let by tradesmen’s families and two by widows of tradesmen.”
“Hmm. Find out who those people are—and the names of any adult living with them. Those widows may have companions.”
“Yes, sir. I’ve the names of the persons who actually rent the establishments, but they ain’t very helpful, I’m thinkin’. Benton, Neville, Garrison, and Baker.”
“None rings a bell. Neville could be French, though. Keep on it. We’ve not much to go on. Anything else?”
“Well, I’m not sure, my lord. There was a feller seemed mighty interested in that house. Just loitering about.”
“Did Miss Palmer make contact with him?”
“No, sir. Not that I could see anyways. She come out with what seemed to be a manservant who hailed a hackney for her. This other feller followed the hack, but as I told you, I lost ’em in the traffic near Piccadilly.”
“Damn! He may be the contact.”
“I’m sorry, my lord.”
“Never mind. You did well. Just keep at it—all of you.”
Adrian sat there long after the servant-investigator had left. With whom had she actually met? If the man on the street was her contact, why had she visited the house alone? Something did not add up here.
Had she gone to meet her lover—this mysterious Peter? But hadn’t that fragment of a note said it was “too dangerous” for them to meet? Was Peter the man on the street? Was he the contact?
Peter. Pierre. Was there a connection somehow with the spy they had already unearthed?
Oh, Adrian. I am so sorry. Her words echoed in the caverns of his mind. He knew the regret was genuine. Her response to his kiss was genuine, too. How could she react with such passion to him when she had just been penning a note to a lover?
I am so sorry.
Sorry about what? Sorry she could not love him? Sorry about her deception? If she were indeed “sorry,” why did she continue to spy for a foreign power? Who had such a hold on her?
I am so sorry.
Well, lady, I am sorry, too. You and I might have had something pretty wonderful.
He heaved an inward sigh of regret and, straightening his shoulders, made his way up the stairs to check on the children before he retired. As he reached the landing of the floor on which family and guest bedchambers were located, including his own, he observed the figure of his secretary near the room assigned to him at the far end of the hallway. Huntington saw him, hesitated momentarily, then, with a wave of his hand, entered his own room and closed the door.
Adrian frowned. What was Huntington doing out and about at such an ungodly hour? He was not dressed to have just come in from a social engagement. Or had he had a “social engagement” with a member of the Trenville staff? The governess, perhaps?
Good God. You are ready to suspect her at every turn, aren’t you? Besides, Huntington knows very well the rules regarding Whitson employees. It is not likely he would risk his position to carry on a clandestine affair right under your nose.
He shrugged and continued climbing the stairs to the next floor which featured the children’s rooms—their bedrooms, playroom, schoolroom, and chambers for the nurse and governess. He found Elinor seated on the edge of his daughter’s bed holding the sobbing child tightly to her. A lamp, its wick turned low, shed a dim light.
“It’s all right, darling,” he heard Elinor murmur. “It’s all right. It was only a dream.”
Instantly he took in the scene and recalled the earlier time when Elinor had herself needed the sort of comforting she now extended to Bess. And he recalled how she had felt in his arms then, too. Bess had begun to quiet and pull back from Elinor when she spied her father.
“Oh, Papa. I had a bad dream.” She reached for him and quickly wrapped her arms and legs around him as he held her.
“Did you now?” He felt the fierce surge of tender protectiveness that engulfed him at times like this. “We won’t allow anything to harm our Bess, will we, Miss Palmer?” He patted Bess on the back and looked at the governess.
“Certainly not,” she said, obviously for the child’s benefit. Elinor had apparently donned her dressing gown hastily. She now belted it more firmly about her and drew it closer at the neck. Her actions made him aware of the unconfined form beneath. Turning his attention back to his daughter, he kissed Bess and lowered her to the bed.
“Go back to sleep, now, Puss,” he said, touching her cheek with the back of his hand.
“Miss Palmer, too,” Bess said, lifting her arms toward Elinor.
Adrian stepped back as Elinor bent over the little girl and kissed her on the forehead.
“Sleep tight, my dear,” Elinor said in an audible whisper.
Bess snuggled into the covers and the two adults watched as she quickly succumbed to the innocent sleep of children. They quietly left her room. The hall was lit by a single sconce several feet away.
“Does this happen often?” he asked outside the door.
“No. Once in a while only. I heard her cry out.”
She was standing very close to him. He could smell a faint trace of the scent she so often wore. He instinctively leaned a little closer, felt the warmth of her body, then caught himself. He took her hand and lifted it to his lips.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
“Of course, my lord.” She extricated her hand, but it seemed to him that she did so reluctantly. For a moment it appeared she would say something else. Her eyes were deep pools of mossy green. Was that longing he saw? Regret? She turned toward her own room.
A short while later, he lay staring at the underside of the canopy over his bed, the fire across the room affording dim light. His hands were tucked behind his head, his elbows jut
ting out like flutterby wings.
It just does not make sense, he told himself for the thousandth time. Here was a loving, caring woman whose pronounced political views and intellectual interests so precisely paralleled his own it was uncanny. There had to be some factor he was not fitting into this equation.
That shared moment outside his daughter’s room had been a revelation for the Marquis of Trenville. Whatever it was, Elinor—his Elinor—was essentially innocent. And he would use every means in his power to protect her.
Adrian was still mulling the situation over the next morning when Miss Palmer asked for a private interview with her employer.
“Yes, Miss Palmer?” He gestured for her to take a seat then leaned against his desk, his arms crossed in front of his chest and his legs crossed casually at the ankles. She remained standing.
“I regret to say that I have come to tender my resignation,” she said in a formal, businesslike tone.
“Your what?” She had caught him completely off guard.
“My resignation. I—I find family obligations making certain demands on me.”
“What sort of ‘family obligations,’ may I ask?” His tone was suspicious.
“An aged aunt of my father’s is in serious need of a companion to aid her and I am the only one available.” She twisted her hands together in front of her and refused to meet his gaze.
“I see.” He stalled, knowing full well she was lying. Had he not monitored every bit of correspondence entering or leaving this house? Wait. Perhaps her visit the other day had been to a relative. “And just when did you learn of this obligation?”
“Only recently, my lord.” She looked up him, her expression unreadable. “I shall, of course, stay on until you can find a replacement.”
“How very generous of you. Tell me, Miss Palmer,” he said biting out the name sarcastically, “have you no sense of obligation to my family? To children who have grown fond of you?” To an employer who loves you, he added silently and angrily to himself.
“Indeed I have.” She seemed taken aback by his vehemence. “This decision has not been easy for me. I am extremely fond of the children and I shall miss them fiercely.”
“But not enough to reconsider your apparently hasty decision to leave.” He straightened, took a step toward her, and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Now—look me in the eye and tell me you truly want to leave.”
She twisted away from him, refusing again to meet his intense gaze. She drew a ragged breath. “It is not a matter of ‘want.’ Please believe me when I tell you this is in your best interest, my lord.”
“In my best interest? Allow me to doubt that most sincerely.” Fueled by her turning away from him, his anger was barely in check now. “I would have an explanation for that very singular idea.”
“I’m sorry. I cannot give you one.”
“Cannot? or will not?”
“Please. Just take my word for it. And, please, Adrian . . .” There was a distinct catch in her voice. “Please don’t make this more difficult than it already is.”
He was profoundly moved by her obvious distress. His anger melted into concern.
“Elinor,” he said gently, “I am sure there is more to this than an aged aunt. She must have existed before you took this position. If you are in some kind of trouble, perhaps I can help.”
“No!” Then her voice softened. “I mean—no, there is no trouble. I simply must leave, though.”
He lifted his hands in a gesture of resignation. “Have it your way, then. I shall advertise the position immediately. I have your word you will stay until we find a replacement?”
“Of course.”
“Good.”
Yes, good, he thought as she left the room. That at least gives me some time to try to solve this dilemma. He turned the conversation over and over in his mind. He dismissed that business about an aunt.
She was resigning because it was in his best interest, was she? Did that mean she regretted her spying activities? She must think they would reflect on him. And that could only mean she cared for him. This thought came as a delightful discovery.
Are you so sure of that? What about this “Peter?” Well, whoever he was, Peter could damn well look out for himself. Adrian Whitson, Marquis of Trenville, had no intention of allowing this woman to walk out of his life without a fight. At the very least, he would know the full story.
Thirteen
The next day brought answers to some of Adrian’s questions. When he returned in mid-morning from a ride in the park, he found a highly agitated Graham anxious to speak with him.
“The widow Garrison has a sister living with her.” Graham paused for dramatic effect. “The sister is one Harriet E. Palmer.”
Adrian’s heart sank. Despite clear evidence of altered documents and testimony from the Spensers, he had hoped against hope for some reasonable explanation of his Miss Palmer’s identity.
“Did you speak with either woman?”
“No, sir. Didn’t know as yuh’d want me tippin’ your hand in that regard.”
“Quite right. The element of surprise may help when I visit this Miss Palmer who is, I assume, the genuine article.”
That very afternoon he presented himself at lodgings let to Mrs. Garrison.
“Lord Trenville to see Miss Harriet Palmer,” he announced to the manservant who responded to his knock. He heard clearly the man’s repeating his announcement and a muffled yelp before a cultured female voice said, “Please show him in.”
“Miss Palmer?” he asked, for there were two women in the room.
“Yes.” It was apparently the older of two elderly women who responded. “This is my sister, Mrs. Garrison.” She invited him to have a seat.
“Miss Harriet E. Palmer?”
“Yes. I am she.”
He noted that she offered no further information, nor did she ask his business. Not going to make this easy for me, are you? he thought. Aloud, he said, “You were once employed by Sir Cecil Spenser, were you not?”
“Yes, I was.”
Did she sound somewhat reluctant in admitting this? He decided to be blunt. “Just who is the woman who used your credentials to gain a position as governess to my children?”
“I beg your pardon?” Miss Palmer’s voice was startled, but he thought he could fairly hear the wheels turning in her mind. Mrs. Garrison gave a strangled little cry.
“Miss Palmer,” he said firmly, “let us not play cat-and-mouse games here. Who is the woman in charge of my children? She was followed to this address only a few days ago.”
“I am truly sorry, my lord, but I am not at liberty to say.” She did sound sorry, he thought, but he also noted there was no denial.
“Apparently, madam, you do not fully appreciate the gravity of the situation. You have allowed yourself to be party to deception. You may be held liable for your role in this fraud.”
At this, Mrs. Garrison said weakly, “Oh, dear. Perhaps you had better tell him, sister.”
“No, Lucinda. I cannot reveal a secret that is not mine to reveal.”
Adrian found himself admiring the woman’s loyalty even as she frustrated his efforts to learn the identity of the woman she protected.
“I understand your reluctance to break a trust,” he said, “but I have reason to believe Elinor—if that is, indeed, her name—may be in some kind of trouble. I want to help her.”
Miss Palmer seemed genuinely torn. She started to say something, then changed her mind. Finally, she said, “Yes, her name is Elinor.”
“That much is true, then,” he said.
“Yes. Please believe me, my lord, there was never any fraud aimed at you. Elinor is an honorable lady.”
“You will forgive me if I question that, will you not? People of honor do not gain employment under false pretenses.” Nor do they spy for enemy powers, he might have added. He did not say this, though, for who knew how deeply involved this Miss Palmer and her sister were? His instincts told him these two were wha
t they seemed, but he must be cautious.
“I have known her for many years, sir. She is a truly good person.”
“I am inclined to agree with you despite—” Something clicked. “Many years? Was she perhaps one of your own charges then?”
Miss Palmer looked at him in alarm and put her hand to her mouth as though to keep the words in.
“That is it, is it not?” he demanded. “You were her governess and she turned to you for help?”
“Please, my lord. I cannot betray a confidence. You must take this up with La—with Elinor.”
“All right,” he said grimly, “but know this, Miss Harriet E. Palmer. If there are any legal consequences of her actions, you, too, will be prosecuted. Good day, ladies.”
He arose and left the room, not waiting for the servant to show him out. He was furious at having achieved so little. Perhaps the men from Bow Street could ferret out information on the real Miss Palmer’s former employers, other than the Spensers.
The morning after she informed Trenville she would be leaving, Elinor descended the stairs to breakfast still caught in an emotional storm.
Never in her life had she been so torn in her feelings. She knew full well Trenville would not welcome her resignation, but the vehemence of his objection surprised her. If he only knew the truth, she thought, he would be eager for her departure.
She had stoically dealt with his initial distrust and sarcasm. By not looking at him directly, she had thought herself safe from his penetrating gaze. But then he had become solicitous, genuinely concerned for her welfare. Only the knowledge of how much he would be hurt by the truth had kept her from throwing herself in his arms and blurting out her story.
And he would be hurt.
A scandal might well prove a nine days’ wonder in social circles, but how might it play in the delicate balance of political and diplomatic circles? Beyond these considerations was a deeper level of possible hurt. His personal sense of honor was such that he would undoubtedly find her deception not only painful, but disgusting. That, she could not bear to see.
My Lady Governess (Zebra Regency Romance) Page 15
